Chapter 2
1038 Words
The city changed once they crossed the bridge.
The cracked pavements and blinking streetlights of her neighborhood gave way to polished glass towers, well-maintained roads, and the kind of silence money could afford. Xochi sat in the back seat of the sleek black car, her hands folded in her lap, trembling beneath her coat. She hadn’t said a word since the door shut behind her. No one in the car had.
Her driver wore dark sunglasses, despite the fog and rain. He hadn’t so much as glanced at her. Just turned the key, shifted into drive, and pulled away from the only life she’d ever known. Her old world disappeared behind the misted rear window, swallowed by rain and regret.
She didn’t ask where they were going.
She already knew.
The Moreau Estate sat at the edge of the city—a large, gated monument to wealth and legacy. Xochi had seen it once, years ago, from behind a newsstand. Her uncle had pointed to the photo in the paper and scoffed, “Old money. They bleed gold, spit pride.”
And now she was being delivered there like a package with no return address.
As the car turned onto the long private drive, iron gates parted soundlessly ahead of them. A row of stone-faced guards flanked the entrance, weapons holstered at their sides. Cameras blinked in the rain. Every inch of the place screamed control.
Xochi breathed out and closed her eyes.
There was no going back.
The mansion sat in the distance—tall, cold, and intimidating, like something ripped from a darker fairy tale. Its windows glowed faintly, gold against gray, but there was no warmth in the light. Just a quiet promise of what waited inside. Something final. Something irreversible.
The car slowed to a stop in front of wide, marble steps. The driver stepped out and opened her door without a word.
Xochi hesitated only for a second.
She stepped into the rain.
Her boots met the cold stone, slick with water. She blinked as droplets kissed her skin, curling strands of hair against her face. Her breath rose in small clouds. The front doors opened before she could knock.
And there he was.
Chris Moreau.
He stood in the doorway, black-on-black—shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, as if the rain didn’t dare touch him. His presence filled the space, broad-shouldered, composed, impossibly still. His eyes were a storm she wasn’t ready for—dark, sharp, and unblinking, like he’d been waiting for her. Like he already owned her.
“Xochi,” he said.
Not a question. Not even a greeting. Just her name. Like he’d known it his whole life.
She nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. “Mr. Moreau.”
He smirked. “I think we’re past formalities, don’t you?”
She didn’t answer.
Chris stepped aside, one hand gesturing into the house. “Come in.”
Inside was worse.
The house was beautiful, yes—but hollow. Not a picture out of place, not a cushion out of line. It felt like a gallery, not a home. Everything was white, beige, or black. Clean to the point of being sterile. Even the air smelled expensive—like polished floors, dry roses, and secrets.
Chris didn’t speak as he led her down a hallway lined with massive, soulless art pieces and shadows that stretched too long. She followed him, every step echoing louder than the last, like the house was listening.
They reached a wide room with floor-to-ceiling windows. Rain traced slow rivers down the glass, painting shadows across the pristine marble floor.
“This is where you’ll stay,” Chris said.
He wasn’t looking at her.
He walked over to a low table, poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter, and finally turned.
Xochi stood by the doorway, arms still wrapped around herself, like her coat was the last bit of armor she had left.
“I didn’t expect you to look so...” He trailed off, eyes dragging over her. “...small.”
She lifted her chin. “I didn’t expect to be here at all.”
Chris smiled, but there was no warmth in it.
“You signed, didn’t you?”
The words landed hard.
She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
Chris took a slow sip, then set the glass down with a soft clink.
“You’ll be moved to the upper wing tomorrow. The staff has been instructed to treat you as my wife. In every way.”
The room seemed to drop ten degrees.
“And what does that mean?” Xochi asked, voice steady despite the pressure in her chest.
He walked toward her slowly, each step deliberate.
“It means,” he said, stopping just in front of her, “you belong to me now.”
She stiffened. “I’m not a thing to own.”
Chris leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek.
“No,” he said softly. “But you were bought.”
She flinched, the words slicing cleanly through whatever resistance she had left.
His hand brushed a strand of damp hair from her face, his touch soft, deliberate. “Don’t worry. I won’t touch what’s mine until you ask me to.”
Her heart thundered.
“I won’t,” she whispered.
Chris’s smile widened. “You will.”
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the long corridor of flickering wall sconces and hushed footsteps.
The silence returned.
Xochi stood in the center of the grand room, soaked and shaking, the scent of his cologne still clinging to the air like a curse.
She didn’t cry.
Not yet.
Instead, she walked to the tall windows and pressed her palm to the cold glass. The rain continued to fall outside, steady and unforgiving, matching the turmoil inside her.
Somewhere far away, her sisters were waking to find her gone.
Sold.
Promised.
Gone.
Xochi let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and whispered to the storm outside, “Don’t forget me.”
Behind her, the house remained still. But she could feel it watching.
Waiting.
Chris had said she belonged to him.
But she wasn’t his.
Not yet.
- Writer
