CHAPTER THREE
1372 Words
POV: Ria Vasquez (FMC)
Everything.
The word hangs between us like smoke.
I should laugh. Should turn around. Should walk out that rotting door and never look back.
But my feet are nailed to the stone floor.
“You don't know me,” I say.
“I know you better than you know yourself.”
He walks toward a wooden desk in the corner. Old. Dusty. A single lamp casts yellow light.
On the desk: a document.
Pages thick. Legal. Waiting.
“Sit,” he says.
“No.”
He looks at me. Not angry. Not impatient.
Certain.
Like my refusal is just a delay. Like he's already seen the ending of this conversation.
“Your father is in room 417,” he says quietly. “St. Catherine's. Bed by the window. He likes to watch the birds in the morning. He calls you every night at 8 PM but you've been too tired to answer the last three nights.”
My throat closes.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I've been watching over him. Over you. For a very long time.”
He pulls out the chair.
This time, I sat.
Not because he asked. Because my legs won't hold me anymore.
He takes the seat across from me. Close. Too close. His knees almost touch mine.
“Read it,” he says, pushing the document toward me.
My hands are shaking as I pick it up.
Contract of Services Between Killian Blackwood and Ria Vasquez.
I skim the first page.
Duration: One year.
Compensation: All medical debts of Mr. Daniel Vasquez, past and future, paid in full. Housing provided at Blackwood Tower. Monthly stipend of $5,000.
Obligations of the Second Party (Ria Vasquez):
My eyes drop to the bullet points.
Reside at the primary residence of the First Party.
Be available to the First Party at all hours.
Accompany the First Party to social, business, and private functions as requested.
Standard. Control disguised as convenience.
Then I see it.
Page three. Section 7. Subsection C.
The Second Party agrees to be available at all hours, for any purpose the First Party deems necessary, without limitation or prior notice.
Any purpose.
My blood turns to ice water.
I look up at him.
“What does that mean?”
“What do you think it means?”
“I think you're telling me I have to sleep with you.”
His jaw tightens. Something flickers in his eyes. Offense? Anger? No.
Pain.
“If that's what I wanted,” he says slowly, “I would have written it plainly. I don't hide my intentions, Ria.”
“Then what does any purpose mean?”
He leans back. Study me.
“It means if I need you at 3 AM to sit in a room while I work, you sit. If I need you to wear a specific dress to a gala, you wear it. If I need you to lie to my enemies and tell them you're my fiancée, you lie.”
“That's still control.”
“Yes.”
No denial. No apology.
“That's the deal,” he continues. “One year. Your father lives. His bills disappear. And you give me your time. Your presence. Your obedience.”
The word lands like a slap.
I stand up.
The chair scrapes the stone floor.
“I'm not a dog.”
“I never said you were.”
“You're buying me.”
“I'm offering to save your father's life.”
He stands too. Towering over me. But he doesn't touch me. Don't crowd me.
He just waits.
“There's always a cost,” I whisper.
“Yes. There is.”
“What's the real cost, Killian? Not the contract. The truth.”
He's silent for a long moment.
The waves crash below. The wind moans through the broken windows.
“The real cost,” he says finally, “is that you'll see me. The real me. The monster behind the ice.”
“And if I don't want to see that?”
“Then don't sign.”
He gestures to the door.
“Leave. Go back to your apartment. Watch your father die in a room that smells like bleach and failure. Keep serving drinks to men who grab your ass and leave you pennies.”
His voice doesn't rise. That's what makes it cruel.
The calm.
The certainty.
“Or,” he says, “stay. Sign. And let me give you a year you won't forget.”
I look at the door.
Then at the contract.
Then at him.
“If I sign, I'm not your property.”
“You're under my protection.”
“Same thing.”
“No,” he says softly. “Property gets replaced. You wouldn't be replaceable.”
My heart cracks.
Not because I believe him. Because I want to believe him.
And wanting makes me dangerous to myself.
“I need to think.”
“You have five minutes.”
“That's not enough.”
“That's all I'm giving you.”
I walk to the window.
The ocean is gray. Angry. The sky matches his eyes.
My father's face floats behind my lids. His thin hands. His yellowed skin. The way he used to lift me onto his shoulders when I was small.
I'm sorry, Papi. I'm so sorry.
I think about the sketches on the walls. My face at sixteen. My hands at nineteen.
He's been watching me for a decade.
That's not protection. That's an obsession.
But obsession pays bills. Obsession keeps fathers alive.
And I am so tired of being poor. So tired of choosing between rent and medicine. So tired of smiling at men who see me as meat.
I turn around.
“I'll sign.”
Killian doesn't smile. Don't celebrate.
He just nods.
Like he knew. Like he always knew.
He places a pen on the desk.
Silver. Heavy. Expensive.
“Page ten,” he says. “Your signature at the bottom.”
I flip through the pages. Legalese. Fine print. Paragraphs designed to trap.
Then I see it.
Page ten. Section 14. Subsection A.
The Second Party agrees that any violation of this contract will result in immediate termination of all financial obligations paid on behalf of her father, retroactive to the date of signing.
Retroactive.
If I break the rules, they take the money back.
All of it.
$212,000 plus whatever comes next.
I would owe him everything I don't have.
“You're trapping me.”
“I'm ensuring you keep your word.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Not to you,” he says. “Not yet.”
The pen feels like a weapon in my hand.
I look at the dotted line.
One signature. One year.
My father lives. I survived.
But something in me dies. Something I'll never get back.
I press the pen to the paper.
And the door slams shut behind me.
I whip around.
Killian hasn't moved. But his hand is in his pocket. A key. He locks the door without looking.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure you finish.”
“I haven't signed yet.”
“You will.”
He's right.
I hate him for it.
I signed.
Ria Vasquez.
My name looks small on the page. Insignificant. Like a drop of rain in an ocean.
He takes the contract from me. Read my signature. Then folds the pages and places them inside his jacket.
“Welcome home,” he says.
“This isn't home.”
“It will be.”
He unlocks the door. Open it. Gestures for me to walk first.
I don't move.
“One more thing,” I say. “If you ever touch me without my permission, I'll kill you. Contract or no contract.”
Something shifts in his eyes. Respect.
Hunger.
Recognition.
“I would expect nothing less,” he says.
I walk past him into the wind.
The car is waiting. The driver holds the door.
I climb inside and don't look back.
But I feel his eyes on me.
And I know, deep in my bones, that I just sold myself to a man who will never let me go.
- Writer
