Owned by the Heir

Prologue Calystria's POV The eviction notice sat on the table like a gravestone, a small, crumpled rectangle of paper that held the power to end my current life. It was the third one this month, but this one felt different. This one had a stamp on it, red and official, screaming FINAL in a way that made my ears ring. I stared at it under the flickering yellow light of my apartment, the bulb humming a tired, erratic rhythm that matched the headache throbbing behind my eyes. "This is what rock bottom looks like," I thought, tracing the edge of the paper with a finger that refused to stop trembling. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't a movie scene with swelling violins. It was just quiet, dusty, and suffocating. The air in the room was stale, heavy with the humidity of a city that didn't care if you were drowning. Paint peeled off the walls in long, curling strips, mocking the idea that this place was ever a home. It was just a box I was renting, and now, the box was being taken back. My phone buzzed against the scarred wooden tabletop, the vibration harsh and loud in the silence. I didn't need to look to know who it was. The screen lit up with a number I had memorized out of dread. Garcia Collections. Or maybe the landlord, though he usually just shouted through the door. I watched the screen flash, my heart doing a lazy, exhausted thud against my ribs. I didn't answer it. I just watched it ring until the screen went black again, plunging the room back into the dim, flickering gloom. Panic was too expensive an emotion; I couldn't afford it anymore. All I had left was a dull, aching exhaustion. I stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor, and walked to the refrigerator. I opened it, hoping for a miracle, or at least a mirage. The light inside didn't work—hadn't for months—so I squinted into the shadows. A half-empty bottle of water, a jar of mayonnaise with a crusty rim, and a single apple that looked like it had given up on existence. I grabbed the water bottle, twisting the cap. "Three sips left," I noted clinically. "That’s breakfast sorted." Closing the fridge door, I leaned my forehead against the cool metal. For a second, I let myself drift. A memory flashed behind my eyelids: bright sunlight, a picnic blanket, my dad laughing as my mom tried to shoo away a bee. The smell of fresh strawberries and the feeling of safety, of doors that locked properly and a fridge that hummed with abundance. It was a vivid, Technicolor burst of warmth that vanished as quickly as it came, leaving the grey reality of my apartment feeling even colder. "That life feels like it belonged to someone else," I thought, pushing off the fridge. I walked to the window, my socks catching on the rough floorboards. I tensed, my muscles locking up, expecting the heavy, impatient pounding of a fist on my door. I braced for the shouting, the demands, the threats of police involvement. But there was nothing. The silence stretched, thin and tight, until it felt like the air pressure had dropped. The paranoia was creeping in, wrapping around my throat. "Why is it so quiet?" I moved the curtain aside slightly. The street below was its usual self—potholes filled with murky water, a stray dog barking at a passing tricycle. But then, something caught my eye. A car. Not just any car. A sleek, black luxury sedan that looked like it had been carved from a block of obsidian. It was parked directly in front of the building, engine idling with a low, predatory purr. It looked alien here, like a shark swimming in a puddle. I narrowed my eyes. No one in my world owns something like that. Even the local politicians drove white SUVs with tinted tape peeling off the windows. This was factory-grade, bulletproof, expensive silence on wheels. As I watched, the driver’s door opened. A man stepped out. He was dressed in a suit that probably cost more than my entire debt, the fabric crisp and dark. He adjusted his cuffs with a precise, mechanical movement, then looked up. Not at the building generally, but at my window. I flinched back, dropping the curtain. My heart hammered against my ribs. He saw me. I knew it. He didn't look like a cop. He didn't look like a thug. He looked... administrative. Which was somehow worse. I held my breath. Five seconds. Ten. Then came the knock. It wasn't frantic. It wasn't the landlord’s aggressive banging. It was slow. Deliberate. Three heavy raps against the thin wood. My throat went dry. I considered hiding, pretending I wasn't home, but the car outside suggested resources I couldn't outrun. I walked to the door on legs that felt like jelly, unlocked the latch, and pulled it open just a c***k. The man stood there, filling the frame. He was older than I expected, maybe late thirties, with a clean-shaven face and eyes that held absolutely zero warmth. He didn't smile. He didn't threaten. He just looked at me with a terrifying sort of neutrality. "Calystria Santelario," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a confirmation of inventory. My grip tightened on the door handle. "Who's asking?" He ignored the question. "My employer has a proposal for you." His English was clipped, precise, devoid of any accent I could place. It was the voice of someone who delivered bad news for a living. "I'm not buying anything," I said, my voice raspy. "And I don't have time for surveys." "You’re not buying, Ms. Santelario," he said smoothly. "You are being offered a transaction." I started to close the door. "Look, I don't know who you are, but I'm busy. I have... things." It was a pathetic lie. My schedule was wide open, mostly filled with panic and rationing water. He didn't move to stop the door. He didn't need to. He simply spoke again, his voice cutting through the humid air. "You have an outstanding debt of four hundred and thirty thousand pesos with your landlord. Your electricity is due to be cut in forty-eight hours. Your younger sister’s tuition fee for the coming semester is unpaid." I froze. The blood drained from my face so fast I got dizzy. I opened the door fully, staring at him. "How do you know that?" I whispered. "Who are you?" "We know many things," he said, his expression unchanging. "May I come in? Or would you prefer to discuss your financial insolvency in the hallway?" The nerve. The absolute, unadulterated audacity of this guy. I almost laughed, but it came out as a choked sound. "You’re not coming in. Just tell me what this is." He tilted his head slightly. "There is a car waiting. We would like you to come with us. You will be paid for your time, regardless of the outcome." "Paid?" I scoffed, crossing my arms over my chest, trying to look bigger than I felt. "You think I’m just going to get into a car with a stranger? I’ve seen the news. I know how this ends. I’m not an idiot." "No," the man said, his eyes flicking over my shoulder to the sparse, sad room behind me. "You are simply desperate. There is a difference. An i***t would slam the door. A desperate person asks how much." He had me. He knew he had me. I hated him for it, but I hated my hunger more. "Who is your employer?" I demanded. "The name Valerian Iskorel means nothing to you?" I paused. The name rang a distant bell, like a news report heard in another room. Iskorel. Shipping? Tech? Something massive and untouchable. "I... I’ve heard the name. He’s rich." "That is an understatement," the man said. "He is currently in need of a... solution to a problem. And you, Ms. Santelario, fit a specific criteria." "What criteria? Being broke?" "Being invisible," he corrected. "Now. The car is air-conditioned. The drive is short. You have my word you will not be harmed." I looked back at my room. The eviction notice. The dark fridge. The silence that felt like it was crushing me. Then I looked at the man in the suit. "Fine," I muttered. "But if you try anything weird, I will scream so loud the neighbors will actually look up from their phones." "Understood," he said, stepping back. "After you." I locked the door behind me, feeling like I was locking away the last shred of my normal life. I walked down the stairs, my sneakers slapping against the concrete, the man following silently a few steps behind. The car was a different world. The interior smelled like expensive leather and cold air. I slid onto the seat, the cool leather sticking to my legs. The driver didn't speak. The man who had fetched me sat opposite me, typing on a tablet, ignoring me completely. We drove through the city, the streets I knew so well blurring past. The potholes, the street vendors, the tangled wires—none of it touched us inside this bubble of silence. I watched my reflection in the tinted window. My hair was a mess, my shirt was faded, and my eyes looked too big for my face. "Who are you?" I asked my reflection. "Are you the girl who gets in cars with strangers now?" "Survival," I told myself. "This is just survival." The car turned into a district I rarely visited—the Financial District. Glass towers pierced the sky, blocking out the sun. We stopped in front of a building that looked like a giant shard of ice. Security guards saluted as the car rolled into an underground parking area. It was terrifyingly efficient. We took a private elevator. I watched the numbers climb, my stomach dropping with every floor. When the doors opened, it wasn't to an office. It was to a penthouse. It was minimalist, cold, and disturbingly quiet. Everything was white, grey, and glass. It felt less like a home and more like a museum where I was the unwanted exhibit. Staff moved around—cleaners, people in suits—but nobody looked at me. It was as if I was a ghost drifting through their meticulously arranged reality. The man led me to a room at the end of a long hallway. He opened the door and gestured for me to enter. It was a conference room. A long glass table sat in the center, and on it lay a single folder, thick with paper. A pen rested perfectly parallel to it. "Please," the man said, pulling out a chair. "Sit." I sat. The chair was uncomfortable, designed to keep you alert. He sat opposite me, sliding the folder toward me but keeping his hand on it for a second. "Before you open this," he said, his voice dropping an octave, "you must understand. What is discussed here stays here. If you walk out that door without signing, you forget this address, this car, and my face. Do you understand?" "Is this a spy movie now?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Am I being recruited to assassinate someone? Because I have a list, but it’s mostly just my landlord and the guy who invented property tax." The man didn't blink. He didn't find me funny. Tough crowd. "No assassination. Just a contract." He lifted his hand. I opened the folder. The first page was a contract. Dense, legal text that made my eyes cross. I scanned it, catching words like Confidentiality, Duration, Public Appearance. "Okay, hold on," I said, flipping the page. "It says here, 'The Party of the First Part agrees to maintain a public persona consistent with the requests of the Party of the Second Part.' What does that mean? Do I have to dress like a clown? Because I don't have the shoes for it." "It means," the man said, leaning forward, "that you will be expected to attend events, dinners, and public gatherings as a partner. You will smile. You will nod. You will not speak unless spoken to regarding specific topics." I flipped further. Marriage. I stopped. I read the word again. Marriage. I looked up at him, my mouth slightly open. "This is a marriage contract?" "An arrangement," he corrected smoothly. "A contractual obligation. A merger, if you will." "Who... who am I marrying?" I asked, though I felt the answer in the pit of my stomach. "Valerian Iskorel." The name hung in the air between us. I leaned back in the chair, letting out a short, hysterical breath. "Valerian Iskorel. The billionaire. The guy on the cover of business magazines. Him." I laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "You’re crazy. You’re absolutely out of your mind. He doesn't know me. Why would he want to marry me? I can’t even afford a shampoo that doesn’t make my hair fall out." "He requires a spouse for specific legal reasons concerning his inheritance and public image," the man explained, his tone bored, as if he were explaining the weather. "He requires someone with no deep family ties, no complicated history, and significant financial motivation to remain compliant." "So, I’m a prop," I said flatly. "A living, breathing prop." "A well-compensated prop," he said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small card. He slid it across the glass table. I picked it up. It was a bank deposit slip. Or a promise of one. I looked at the number. I blinked. I looked again. I counted the zeros. Then I counted them again. My brain stuttered. "This... this is a joke." My voice was a whisper. "This is a typo. You missed a decimal point." "It is correct," the man said. "That is the initial signing bonus. The monthly allowance is separate. Upon the dissolution of the marriage after the agreed term, the final payout is double that." I stared at the number. It was more money than my parents had made in their entire lives. It was enough to pay the debt, fix the house, save my sister’s future, and never, ever have to look at an eviction notice again. The silence in the room was heavy. I looked at the contract, then at the money, then at the man. "There's a catch," I said, my voice trembling. "There’s always a catch. Is he... is he abusive? Is he going to hurt me?" "Mr. Iskorel is a man of business," the man said carefully. "He is not known for violence. He is known for efficiency. You will not be harmed. You will simply be... occupied." I looked back at the contract. Clause 14: The First Party waives the right to inquire into the private affairs of the Second Party. "He wants a wife who doesn't ask questions," I murmured. "He wants a silent partner." "Precisely." I took a deep breath. The air in the room felt thin. I felt light-headed. I thought about the eviction notice. I thought about the empty fridge. I thought about the shame of asking neighbors for rice. "Can I... can I think about it?" I asked, though I knew I couldn't. The man checked his watch. "Mr. Iskorel is waiting. He values time above all else. The offer expires in five minutes." "Five minutes to decide the rest of my life?" I glared at him. "You guys really know how to romance a girl." "We value decisiveness," he replied. I looked at the pen. It was a heavy, silver thing. I looked at the line at the bottom of the page. Signature of the First Party. "I sign this, I get the money?" I asked. "Guaranteed?" "The transfer is instantaneous upon signing." I tapped the pen against the paper. My hand was shaking. "Don't do it," a voice in my head whispered. "This is a trap." But then another voice, the one that had been hungry for three days, spoke up louder. "It’s a trap with food in it." "Okay," I said, my voice barely steady. "I have one condition." The man raised an eyebrow. "You are not in a position to negotiate." "I’m not negotiating. I’m clarifying." I pointed a finger at him. "If I’m doing this... acting wife thing... I need an advance. Tonight. I have... expenses. Urgent ones." "The signing bonus is available immediately," he said. "That is the advance." "Good." I swallowed hard. "And one more thing. Does he have a dog?" The man looked confused for the first time. "I beg your pardon?" "A dog. Or a cat. Or a goldfish. If I’m going to live in a museum, I need something alive to talk to. You’re not great company, no offense." "Mr. Iskorel does not keep pets," the man said stiffly. "Figures," I muttered. "Fine. Just checking." I stared at the line. Survival doesn’t ask for permission. It just takes what it needs to keep breathing. I pressed the pen to the paper. The ink flowed, scratching my signature into existence. Calystria Santelario. It looked jagged, messy, and terrified. I capped the pen and pushed the folder back toward him. I felt like I’d just sold my soul, but at least the price was right. The man took the folder, opened it to verify the signature, and nodded. He stood up and smoothed his jacket. "Welcome to the family, Ms. Santelario," he said, though his tone suggested I was joining a corporation, not a family. "Or should I say, Mrs. Iskorel." "Not yet," I said, my voice gaining a sliver of steel. "I haven't met the groom." "You will," he said, walking to the door. "He is waiting in the study." I stood up, my knees weak. "Wait. He’s here? Now?" "Of course. He likes to inspect new acquisitions." The word acquisitions hit me like a slap, but I swallowed the insult. I was a millionaire now. Or I would be, once the banks opened. I could afford to swallow a few insults. I followed him out of the room and down the hall. We stopped in front of a large double door made of dark wood. The man knocked twice, then opened it without waiting for an answer. The room inside was dimly lit, walls lined with books. It smelled of old paper and expensive tobacco. In the center, sitting behind a massive desk, was a man. He was younger than I expected. Maybe late twenties. Dark hair, cut short. Sharp jawline that looked like it could cut glass. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that were surprisingly defined. He didn't look up as we entered; he was reading a document, a pen moving swiftly across it. The man who brought me here stepped aside. "Sir," he said. "The contract is signed." The man at the desk finished writing whatever he was writing. He capped his pen with a slow, deliberate click. Then, he looked up. His eyes were dark. Not warm brown, but cold, impenetrable black. They landed on me, scanning me from my messy hair to my worn-out sneakers. He didn’t smile. He didn't frown. He simply assessed me, calculating my worth like an accountant balancing a ledger. I felt a shiver run down my spine, but I forced myself to stand straight. I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze. If I was going to be a prop, I wasn’t going to be a trembling one. "So," I said, breaking the suffocating silence. I figured if I was going to be sold, I might as well know the price of my dignity. I looked him dead in the eye, trying to channel the confidence of a woman who hadn't just eaten a three-day-old apple for dinner. "What exactly do I have to do?" Valerian Iskorel leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. His expression was unreadable, a mask of stone. "All you have to do," he said, his voice low and smooth, vibrating with a quiet authority that filled the room, "is marry me."