CHAPTER TWO: The Contract
1094 Words
"What do you mean, the arrangement is me?"
My voice sounds distant, like it's coming from someone else's body. Someone calmer. Someone not currently having an out-of-body experience in an Italian restaurant while opera music plays and other diners eat pasta like the world isn't ending.
Marcus slides the contract toward me. The leather portfolio whispers against the tablecloth.
"Read it," he says. "I believe in transparency."
My hands shake as I pull the document closer. The first page is dense legal text, the kind that requires a law degree to parse. But certain phrases jump out, bold and horrible.
Transfer of guardianship.
Exclusive residence.
Full financial obligation satisfied upon acceptance of terms.
"This is insane." I flip through pages, searching for the punchline. The part where this becomes a joke. "This isn't legal. You can't—"
"It's perfectly legal." Marcus's voice is gentle, like he's explaining something to a child. "Your father is of sound mind. He signed willingly. The contract has been notarized and filed."
I look at Dad. "Tell me you didn't."
He won't meet my eyes. His hands are wrapped around his water glass like it's the only thing keeping him upright.
"Dad!"
"It's already done, baby girl." His voice breaks. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but it's done."
The restaurant tilts. The candle flame in the wine bottle blurs. I grip the edge of the table because if I don't hold onto something, I might float away entirely.
"When?" I manage.
"Three days ago," Marcus answers. "After Dante's creditors made it clear they were out of patience."
Three days. My father has known for three days that he sold me, and he still showed up tonight. Still sat across from me making small talk about my classes.
Still let me order the chicken marsala.
"This says..." I scan the page again, trying to make the words mean something different. "Guardian. You're listed as my legal guardian."
"You're twenty, Isabella. Technically an adult. But your father's debts put you at risk." Marcus folds his hands on the table, perfectly calm. "This arrangement protects you while satisfying his obligations."
"Protects me?" My laugh sounds hysterical. "You bought me!"
"I settled a debt," he corrects. "The terms happen to include your residence and care transferring to me."
"That's the same thing!"
"Is it?" His gray eyes are steady. "You'll continue your education. Live in comfort. Want for nothing. The only difference is your address."
And my freedom. And my choice. And every single thing that makes me a person instead of property.
"I won't do it." I shove the contract back at him. "I don't care what he signed. I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Bella, please." Dad finally looks at me, and his eyes are red. "These people, the ones I owe—they don't negotiate. They were going to hurt you to get to me. Marcus is keeping you safe."
"By making me his prisoner?"
"By bringing you under my protection." Marcus's patience is terrifying. He should be angry, defensive, something. Instead, he's calm. Like he expected this reaction and planned for it. "You'll live in my home. Under my care. Until the debt is satisfied."
"How long?" My fingernails dig into my palms. "How long until this 'debt' is satisfied?"
"That depends entirely on you."
The implication in those words makes my skin crawl.
"You're insane." I stand up so fast my chair scrapes against the floor. A few nearby diners glance over, then quickly away. "Both of you are insane. I'm leaving."
Marcus doesn't move. "Where will you go?"
"Anywhere. My dorm. Lily's place. Literally anywhere that isn't with you."
"Your dorm room was cleared out this afternoon," he says. "Your belongings are already at my penthouse. And I'm afraid involving your friends would be unwise. Dante's creditors are watching you, Isabella. They know you exist. They know you matter to him."
The casual way he says it. The certainty.
"You can't just..." I look around the restaurant wildly, searching for help. For someone to intervene. To call the police. To do something.
But everyone is carefully not looking. The couple two tables over study their menus. The waiter who usually jokes with us is suddenly fascinated by his order pad. Even the hostess has disappeared.
Marcus's influence. Even here, in our family spot, he controls everything.
"People can't just buy other people," I say, but it sounds weak now. Desperate.
"They can't," Marcus agrees. "But they can settle debts. They can offer protection. They can make arrangements that benefit all parties."
"This doesn't benefit me!"
"Doesn't it?" He tilts his head slightly. "Your father's debt is cleared. You're alive and unharmed. You'll finish your degree. Live in luxury. Have everything you could want."
"Except freedom."
"Freedom is overrated when the alternative is a bullet."
The bluntness of it steals my breath. Marcus has never talked like this before. Never been anything but kind, gentle Uncle Marcus who brought books and made sure I was okay.
This man is a stranger.
"Bella, sweetheart." Dad reaches for my hand. I jerk away. "Marcus is right. These people, they would've taken you anyway. At least this way, you're safe. He'll take care of you."
"He's forty years old!" The words explode out of me. "You sold your twenty-year-old daughter to your forty-year-old friend!"
"I saved your life," Dad says, and he actually sounds like he believes it.
The betrayal is complete. Total. He's not just allowing this. He's convinced himself it's noble.
Marcus stands, and his height makes me step back instinctively. He's always been tall, but I never felt small around him before. Never felt the weight of the space he takes up.
He extends his hand like a gentleman asking for a dance.
"We're leaving now, dolcezza." The Italian endearment sounds wrong in his mouth now. Possessive. "You can walk out with dignity, or Viktor will carry you. Your choice."
I follow his gaze through the restaurant window.
A man stands beside a black SUV at the curb. He's massive—easily six-four, built like he eats CrossFitters for breakfast. Shaved head. Cold eyes. The kind of man you see in movies about the Russian mob.
Viktor, apparently.
"You have thirty seconds to decide," Marcus says quietly.
The restaurant is too hot. Too loud. The opera has switched to something frantic, all violins and doom.
I look at my father one last time. "I'll never forgive you for this."
He flinches but doesn't argue.
Marcus's hand is still extended. Waiting.
I don't take it.
But I walk.
- Writer
