The Price of Being His

On the edge

Chapter Four

Andrea’s POV

“Welcome, Miss Vale. We’ve been expecting you.”

The duplex penthouse at Tristan Hale’s estate is even more imposing than I imagined. The long drive out of the city had been two hours of nerves and anticipation, every mile counting down to this moment. I had tried to focus on anything other than my racing heartbeat, but it didn’t work. Nothing could distract me from the knowledge that I was walking into a life I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

His housekeeper meets me at the entrance. She moves with sharp efficiency, and something in the way she carries herself suggests Tristan’s standards run deep.

“I’m Claire,” she says with a small, polite smile. “I’ll be taking care of you while you’re here.” Without waiting for a response, she takes my box and instructs me to leave it with the maids downstairs. No arguments allowed.

The elevator opens directly into the penthouse. I step out and pause, unsure whether to breathe or collapse. The space is enormous, grand, and extravagant in a way that makes everything I have ever known feel small. High ceilings, crystal chandeliers that catch the light like frozen fire, walls lined with modern art I can’t identify, furniture so sleek and expensive it seems almost untouchable.

“Your room is this way,” Claire says, already walking ahead. I follow her down a hallway wide enough to host a small gathering, my shoes silent against the polished floors.

The door opens into a room that makes my own bedroom at home feel like a closet. A king-sized bed dominates the center, the wardrobe is already stocked, and the attached bathroom gleams like a spa. I just stand there, staring at it, unsure whether to be awed or terrified.

“Mr. Hale had it prepared based on your size,” Claire adds. The thought makes my stomach twist. He arranged all of this before I even called him, before I even agreed, as if he had already known I would.

“He’ll be with you shortly,” she says, and without another word, she leaves me alone. I sit on the edge of the bed and press my hand over my bag, hiding the photograph inside. I close my eyes and try to breathe.

Twenty minutes later, there is a knock. He enters without waiting for an answer, and I stand instinctively. He moves into the room with an authority that makes my legs feel heavy, as if simply remaining seated would be disrespectful.

He sets a folder and a small white box on the table, nodding toward the chair across from him. “Sit,” he says.

I sit, hands fidgeting slightly, and he opens the folder, arms folded, eyes never leaving mine. “Read it carefully before you sign. All of it. I do not want you coming back later claiming you didn’t understand something.”

I open the folder.

One year, private and legally binding. Every debt under the Vale name cleared. Ethan’s full treatment covered, monthly allowance, wardrobe, residence in his penthouse, protection from anyone currently making my family’s life difficult. In return: I live under his roof, remain exclusive to him physically, take the birth control he provides, attend events beside him when required, and make no emotional demands. One year. Then it ends cleanly.

I read it twice, my eyes tracing the words. When I look up, he is watching me like he did on the balcony, as if he already knows the ending and is waiting for me to arrive there.

My thoughts race. This is not a job, it’s a cage with very expensive walls. But then I think about the invoices with the red stamps, Ethan’s treatment being paused, and the men at our door. I pick up the pen and sign.

He countersigns, closes the folder, and slides the white box toward me without a word.

Inside is a full strip of birth control, complete with a printed schedule. I take one out and swallow it dry, refusing to ask for water. I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me beg. He watches and nods once, like I have passed some unseen test.

Then he slides another sheet across the table. “The rules. Read them.”

The rules are strict. It says I must inform him of every movement, every plan, every person I intend to see. I do not go anywhere or do anything without his knowledge.

I am not to bring anyone into this house without notice, be it friends or family. I am to live in his space as a guest, even though I technically reside here.

I am to be available when he requires it; no prior engagements override his schedule.

Public appearances are mandatory. I must present myself exactly as he decides, with no complaints, no questions about why.

I must not discuss this arrangement with anyone outside these walls, not the arrangement itself, not what happens here, not who he is to me. My life will bend around his.

I set the sheet down.

“Any further questions?” he asks. His voice allows questions but does not tolerate pushback.

“What do I tell people?” I ask. “About who I am to you?”

“That you work with me,” he says simply. “Nothing more.”

“And if they ask more?”

“They won’t.” he replies in a way that ends the conversation.

He picks up the folder and begins to leave, then pauses. His voice softens, quiet but still certain.

“I want to be clear about something. You are here because I brought you here. This works the way I say it works, not because of what is written in that folder. You follow my lead, respect my time, and you do not make demands of any kind.” He holds my gaze. “Are we clear?”

“Yes,” I say.

He studies me for a moment, then says, “Dinner is at eight. I expect you at the table. Welcome home.” The door clicks shut behind him.