Owned by the Don

Jasmine POV: “Clubbing, Riley? I have midterms in three weeks, and you want to go clubbing?” I asked with a groan as I zipped up my jeans and pulled on my jacket over my red striped halter top. “Come on, it’s a fabulous nightclub. I’ve been there tons of times. There will be drinking, dancing, and hot guys,” Riley said, her voice dripping with mischief. “Besides, you said midterms are three weeks away. You have plenty of time to study.” “Riley, you know how badly I want to get my bachelor’s degree so I can fulfill my dream of becoming an interior designer. If I don’t pass my exams, that’ll be a whole year wasted,” I explained patiently, though my shoulders tensed with frustration. “But why interior design? Couldn’t you work for an insurance company? Or a law firm? Or even real estate?” she inquired, her tone light but dismissive. “Sorry, Riley, but I can’t talk right now. I have to leave soon, and I have the afternoon shift at the clothing store. Can I talk to you later?” I asked, reaching over to close my window. “Sure, no problem. Take care, Jasmine,” she said cheerfully before hanging up. I sighed heavily and dropped onto my bed so I could tie my shoelaces. Riley’s words about working in insurance lingered in my mind. To be honest, the thought had crossed my mind before, but as always, I pushed it away. Designing was what I wanted. It was what I’d always wanted. My father, Ivan, worked at an insurance company in Medellín, Colombia, where he, my mother Selena, and my little brother Adrian lived with the rest of our extended family. I also had a big sister named Adriana, but she had moved away from home some years ago. After I graduated high school, I moved to New York to attend college. Graduates were usually seventeen or eighteen, but I had been the exception. I was intelligent and never struggled in school. I got straight A’s and passed all my subjects with flying colors. Well, besides Math—that was my most hated subject. I was fluent in Spanish, it being my mother's tongue, and Biology was my favorite subject. My teachers had always said I was a genius, and it showed in everything I did. By the time I was sixteen, I was already a senior. After I graduated, I left Colombia and moved to New York, where I worked at a clothing store to save some extra money. With my scholarship, I got admitted into St. Francis College, where I was currently pursuing my bachelor’s to become an interior designer. It had been my dream ever since I was a little girl. My father wanted me to join the family business, but I had no interest in sitting behind a desk working for someone else. I wanted to be my own boss, to become independent, to carve out my own path. That was why I chose to work instead of accepting money from my family. My father and grandmother had highly disapproved of me—a sixteen-year-old girl—migrating to one of the biggest cities in the world alone just to attend college. They didn’t think it was necessary to go so far away when there were colleges right in Colombia. My mother and grandfather didn’t share their opinion and gladly supported me. Now I was seventeen and about to finish my second semester. The only stumbling block was my land lady, Mrs. Elena Vargas, who was constantly sticking her nose into my business. She figured seventeen was too young an age for me to be living in New York by myself. All her tenants were in their mid-twenties and over, with me being the youngest to ever rent from her. Maybe she thought I was an irresponsible teenager who couldn’t be taken seriously and needed to be kept under close surveillance. Ugh, she was such a pain in my ass. Now fully dressed for the day, I carefully brushed my waist-length honey-blonde hair and put it in a ponytail, smoothing the top to keep the unruly strands down. Hopefully it would stay put. After applying a bit of eyeliner and mascara, I grabbed my school bag and laptop and left my apartment. Just as I stepped onto the pavement, I saw Mrs. Elena Vargas coming toward me, wearing her usual deep frown of disapproval. I forced a polite smile, hoping to God she would spare me one of her lectures on dress code. “Mrs. Vargas, how nice to see you,” I said with forced cheerfulness, my voice a little too bright. Grumbling under her breath, she searched through the stack of letters in her hand and pulled one out, thrusting it toward me. “You’re behind on your rent, Miss Petrova,” she stated curtly, her lips pressed into a thin line. “What’s this?” I asked, inspecting the crisp white envelope, my stomach already twisting. “You’ve been behind for two weeks now. There are bills to pay. You aren’t paying on time and I have been more than lenient with you.” “Mrs. Vargas, you know I’m trying my best. I go to school five days a week, and three of those days I spend working at the clothing store,” I pleaded, my voice cracking slightly as I clutched the envelope tighter. “I didn’t ask for an excuse, Miss Petrova. I need my money. Pay me what you owe or you’ll be out on the streets!” she snapped, her eyes narrowing. “The employees at Imax Fashions are on strike. I’m one of the few who stayed. You have to understand, Mrs. Vargas, please,” I said desperately, my hands trembling as I tried to reason with the uptight woman. But she refused to listen. “I’ll give you till the end of the day, Miss Petrova. And if you don’t have my money by then, you’re evicted!” she declared as she pushed past me and went inside. Groaning, I stuffed the letter into my bag and waited for a taxi. I checked my phone—7:35 a.m. That was five minutes wasted arguing with Mrs. Vargas. Five minutes I’d be behind schedule. I frantically waved my hand for a taxi. After two minutes, one pulled up. Climbing in, I told the driver my destination and the car pulled away. Just then, my stomach growled loudly. I wished I had eaten breakfast before I left. On the drive to school, I took out my phone to check my w******p. I saw four messages: two from my friend Brooke, who ran a beauty salon in Manhattan, and one from my friend Kayla, who was asking to borrow my English Literature book. The last one was from my boyfriend, Marcus. My heart fluttered as I read his message. "Hey babe, when can I see you? We need to talk about some things. I was thinking we could have dinner tonight at my place. Are you free around 7?" With a smile tugging at my lips, I texted him back. Sure, baby. Classes end at 2 and I have the 3–6 shift at the clothing store, so I’ll swing by your place at 7:30 Marcus and I had been together since high school. He was seventeen when I moved to New York, and he came with me. He had a family condo in Greenpoint and had practically begged me to move in with him. But I didn’t want to live with him because I wanted to experience this taste of freedom for as long as it lasted. Also, I had kind of promised my mom I wouldn’t sleep around until I got married. The women in my family were… considerably different when it came to such things. After answering the rest of my messages, I emailed my professor my article on the book he had asked us to read. By the time I finished, the taxi pulled up to St. Francis College. I paid the driver and stepped out, adjusting my sunglasses to shield my eyes against the morning sun’s glare. The campus was packed, and I had a hard time maneuvering my way around the hundreds of students walking around. St. Francis College was, after all, one of the most prominent colleges in New York. Wealthy parents sent their kids here every year, and they always came out as the brightest, most qualified graduates, ready to take on the world. This morning I had Biochemistry with Professor Lang, followed by Math with Professor Hale, then Economics with Miss Harrington, and lastly Computer Science with Miss Patel. My day was so full I’d be lucky to make it through my second class. Deciding not to waste time procrastinating, I headed to classroom A-3 for Biochemistry. On the way, I caught sight of the college “it” girls: Chloe Bennett, Lila Quinn, and Zara Ellis. Ever since I enrolled, they had looked for every opportunity to make my life miserable. All three regularly hung out after school and, to my knowledge, came from affluent families. They were rich, snobby, and self-absorbed. I lowered my head and tried not to be noticed as I made my way to class. Thank God they were too busy gawking at Ryan—the captain of the football team—to pay me any attention. Walking into the classroom, I saw it was half full. Thankfully, the fourth row had only a few people, and the far corner seat was empty. I quickly took my spot. While waiting for Professor Lang, I pulled out my books, laptop, and writing materials, arranging everything into a neat pile. My stomach growled again. I mentally slapped myself. In my haste to get to class, I had forgotten to grab something from the cafeteria—a yogurt, a coffee, or even a pack of crackers. Oh well, I thought, I can always grab lunch after third period. “Good morning, class. I hope everyone did their homework,” Professor Lang said as he walked in with several papers in his hand and headed to his desk. “Midterms are in two weeks, and I’d like for all of you to pass with an A this time around.” Hearing this, several students began to mumble uneasily. Some were new to the class, others were repeating the semester due to poor grades last year. Fortunately, I had studied hard and done my work to the best of my ability. Hopefully I wouldn’t have to repeat any classes. That would totally suck. “This class we will be delving deeper into nucleic acids. Take out your handouts from Wednesday’s session and let’s take a look. The thirty questions I gave you—I hope they’re gift-wrapped and ready to be opened by me,” Professor Lang chuckled as he went to the whiteboard and began writing down the basic information: date, headings, etc.