His Forbidden Debt

Chapter Three- The Possession

Tristan

She was supposed to be forgettable.

A baker’s daughter—quiet, plain, poor. Collateral. That’s what I was promised.

And yet, when she stood before me—shaking, silent, yet unyielding—I didn’t see a frightened girl. I saw something burning beneath the surface. A storm wrapped in stillness.

And I couldn’t look away.

I didn’t bring her here to admire her. She was a message. A warning to anyone else who thought they could cross me.

But as I watched her being led out of the hall, something cold and unfamiliar settled in my chest.

A feeling I didn’t like.

“Are you serious right now?”

The voice that snapped me back belonged to no one but Isadora.

She stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed, eyes blazing with fury beneath her perfectly styled hair. Her red dress clung to her like a threat.

“You brought that girl into our home?” she seethed. “This is not some damn shelter, Tristan.”

I didn’t answer immediately. I poured myself a drink. Calm. Deliberate. Unbothered.

“She’s debt payment,” I said coolly. “Nothing more.”

Isadora stepped closer. “Nothing more?” She scoffed. “You’ve never let a slave sleep in the east wing.”

“She’s different.”

The words came out before I meant them to.

Isadora’s eyes narrowed. “You’re playing with fire.”

I looked her dead in the eye. “I am the fire.”

Lilith

I didn’t touch the food for a long time.

The plate sat untouched on the tray where the maid had left it, its contents steaming in the golden light that bled through the tall window.

I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t anything.

Just... numb.

I’d bathed, washed the dirt and blood from my skin, scrubbed my hands until they were raw. But no amount of soap could remove the truth: I was a prisoner.

This room was soft and warm—too warm for what it was.

A cage.

I stood barefoot on the cold marble floor, staring at the elegant vanity across the room. My reflection stared back at me, hollow-eyed and pale.

This wasn’t me.

This wasn’t the girl who kneaded dough beside her father, who sang softly under her breath while arranging biscotti in rows. That girl had been buried in the flour and glass left behind on the bakery floor.

Now, there was only this: silence, shadows, and the promise of something worse.

The sun sank slowly behind the trees outside the window. Golden turned to gray. Then to black.

No one came. No one spoke.

The only sounds were the ticking of the antique clock on the wall and the soft rattle of leaves in the wind.

I sat on the edge of the bed, the dress they’d given me brushing over my knees. The sheets were too clean. The mattress, too soft. My body, too tense to relax.

I was waiting. Not for sleep. But for something to go wrong.

And it would.

I didn’t know how or when. But I felt it—looming just beyond the locked door.

The sun shone brightly on me to say it was morning. The night was so long. I hadn’t slept. I kept wondering what happened to my father, hoping he was okay. I really miss him.

He has been there for me ever since my mother died when I was eight, he made sure I never had to worry about anything, he took care of me and called me His Little Princess, but now he was hurt and I couldn't do anything about it.

I wasn't there to take care of his wounds.

I heard footsteps before they reached the door. Calm. Heavy. Certain.

Then a knock.

A pause.

Then the click of a key in the lock.

A man stepped inside, tall and dressed in black. His face was blank, unreadable.

“Mr. De Luca wants to see you.”

“Take this, put this on after you've taken your bath”. He said holding a dress which I took.

My mouth went dry.

I couldn’t even ask the many questions that flooded my mind like…

Why does he want to see me?

When can I go home?

Why was I given this seductive dress just to see him? I wouldn't even wear this in my room back at home.

When he said “collateral” does that mean I was his maid or—worse—his slave?

I rose slowly, my heartbeat echoing in my ears. Every step toward the door felt like a descent. I wasn’t being led to a conversation. I wasn’t being summoned for a greeting.

I was being called to a man who had already told me—plain and simple—that he owned me.

The hallway was colder than my room. Longer. I could feel the eyes of unseen guards watching me as I passed.

The guard stopped before a large door and knocked twice.

A voice from within answered. Calm. Smooth. I recognized it instantly.

“Let her in.”

The guard opened the door and stepped aside.

I hesitated. Just for a second.

Then I stepped into Tristan De Luca’s private chambers.

The door shut behind me.