The Debt

Chapter 4 – The Rules

~ Mara ~

By the end of the first week, I understood exactly what Julian Vesper wanted from me.

It wasn't about scheduling his meetings or organizing his files or answering his emails. Any competent assistant could do those things, and he had Sofia for years before I came along. No, what Julian wanted was something else entirely, something that had nothing to do with work and everything to do with the way his hand found my knee under every conference table, the way his fingers lingered on my lower back when he guided me through doorways, the way he watched me when he thought I wasn't paying attention.

He was testing me. Pushing boundaries to see how far I would let him go before I broke.

I didn't break. Not on the first day when his hand stayed on my knee for an entire forty-minute meeting. Not on the second day when he leaned over my shoulder to look at something on my computer and his breath was warm against my neck. Not on the third day when he called me into his office after everyone else had gone home and made me sit beside him on the leather couch while he reviewed documents, his thigh pressed against mine the entire time.

I didn't break because I couldn't afford to break. Ethan was safe in our old apartment, going to school, living his life without the threat of foster care hanging over his head. That was worth any amount of discomfort. That was worth anything.

But by Friday afternoon, I was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the long hours.

We were in another meeting, this one with investors from overseas who spoke in rapid English and laughed at jokes I didn't understand. Julian sat at the head of the table looking completely at ease, commanding the room without raising his voice, and I sat beside him taking notes and trying to ignore the hand that had crept from my knee to my thigh sometime in the last ten minutes.

His fingers traced slow circles on my skin through the fabric of my skirt. Higher than before. More deliberate than before.

My pen stopped moving. The words on my notepad blurred and I couldn't remember what the last person had said, couldn't focus on anything except the heat of his palm and the casual way he touched me while discussing quarterly projections with a room full of people who had no idea what was happening beneath the table.

The meeting ended. People stood up and shook hands and filed out of the conference room, and Julian's hand finally lifted from my thigh as he rose to walk them to the door. I stayed in my seat, gripping my pen so hard my knuckles went white.

When the last investor left, Julian closed the door and turned to face me.

"You stopped taking notes," he said.

"I got distracted."

"By what?"

He knew exactly by what. The slight curve at the corner of his mouth told me he knew, and he wanted me to say it out loud, wanted me to acknowledge what he had been doing to me all week.

I stood up from my chair and faced him. My legs were unsteady but my voice was not.

"You can't keep doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Touching me. During meetings, in your office, in front of other people. It's inappropriate and it needs to stop."

Julian walked toward me, slow and unhurried, until he was standing right in front of me. I held my ground even though everything inside me wanted to step back.

"Did you read your contract before you signed it?" he asked.

"I read enough."

"Then you know that you agreed to be available for whatever I need." He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my cheek. "This is what I need, Mara. Your presence. Your proximity. You, within arm's reach, whenever I want you there."

"That's not what the contract meant."

"The contract meant exactly what I intended it to mean." His hand dropped from my face but he didn't step back. "You're not just my assistant. You're mine. For the next five years, you belong to me, and I will touch you whenever and however I please. If that's a problem, you're welcome to leave. But we both know what happens to your brother if you do."

My stomach turned. The threat was casual, almost gentle, delivered in the same tone he used to discuss business deals and profit margins. He wasn't angry. He wasn't even particularly invested. He was simply stating facts, laying out the terms of my captivity in clear and simple language.

"I won't sleep with you," I said.

"I haven't asked you to."

"But you will."

Julian studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

"When I take you to bed," he said quietly, "it won't be because I asked. It will be because you begged."

He turned and walked back to his desk, sitting down and opening his laptop as if the conversation was over, as if he hadn't just told me exactly what he planned to do with me.

I stood there, my heart pounding, my face hot, trying to figure out how to respond. But there was nothing to say. He held all the cards. He had Ethan's safety in his hands, and he knew I would endure anything to protect my brother.

"We have dinner with the Morrison group at eight," Julian said without looking up. "Go home and change into something appropriate. The car will pick you up at seven thirty."

I walked out of his office on shaking legs. Sofia was at her desk outside, and she looked up as I passed, her expression curious. I didn't stop to explain. I just kept walking until I reached the elevator, and then I stood inside watching the doors close and wondering how I was going to survive four years and fifty-one weeks more of this.

The car took me back to my apartment. I showered and stood in front of my closet, staring at the handful of nice clothes I owned, trying to figure out what "appropriate" meant for a dinner with investors when I was apparently supposed to be arm candy for a man who thought he owned me.

My phone buzzed. A text from Ethan.

"How's work going? Miss you."

I typed back a lie. "It's fine. Miss you too. I'll call you tomorrow."

I put on an emerald dress I had worn to a job interview two years ago, the nicest thing I owned, and waited for the car to arrive.

Whatever happened at this dinner, I would survive it. I had survived worse.

At least that's what I kept telling myself.