The contract begins with fairly standard legal language—names, dates, duration of the arrangement. It confirms the financial terms: full payment of all my debts, a monthly allowance of twenty thousand dollars, and a "completion bonus" of fifty thousand dollars at the end of the thirty days.
But then it gets... specific.
"For the duration of this agreement, the Beneficiary (Delilah Monroe) agrees to surrender complete control of her person, time, and activities to the Benefactor (Roman Wolfe)..."
"The Beneficiary shall reside exclusively in the Benefactor's dwelling and shall not leave said dwelling without express permission..."
"The Beneficiary agrees to accept without question any and all decisions made by the Benefactor regarding her appearance, clothing, diet, exercise, sleep schedule, and daily activities..."
"The Beneficiary agrees to make her body available to the Benefactor for his pleasure at any time of his choosing, without reservation or limitation..."
"The Beneficiary shall not communicate with any outside parties without the Benefactor's knowledge and consent..."
Each clause feels more restrictive than the last, spinning a web of control so complete it makes me dizzy. This isn't just a sugar daddy arrangement—it's indentured servitude with a sexual component. It's ownership, plain and simple.
"This isn't legal," I say finally, turning to face Roman. "You can't own another person."
"I'm not purchasing you," he says smoothly. "I'm compensating you very generously for your willing participation in an exclusive arrangement. Everything in that contract is between consenting adults and falls well within legal parameters."
"But it basically says I have no rights for the next month."
"No," he corrects, "it says you're voluntarily surrendering certain freedoms in exchange for significant compensation. There's a difference." His eyes narrow slightly. "If the terms are unacceptable, you're free to leave. The money already deposited is yours to keep as a gesture of good faith."
It's a test. He's seeing if I'll walk away, if my pride is worth more than my desperation. We both know the answer.
"What about my classes?" I ask, grasping at practical concerns to mask my deeper unease.
"Page three, clause twelve," he says without having to check. "You'll be permitted to attend essential academic functions and complete required coursework, provided it doesn't interfere with my requirements."
I flip back to that section, confirming his words. "And my privacy? This gives you the right to access all my communications."
"Privacy is a privilege you're trading for financial security," he says bluntly. "For one month."
I swallow hard. "And after the month?"
For the first time, something like amusement flickers in his eyes. "Getting ahead of yourself, Delilah? Let's focus on surviving the next thirty days before we discuss extensions."
The way he says it sends a chill down my spine—not entirely unpleasant. I turn back to the contract, scanning the final pages.
"Wait, there's a non-disclosure agreement here."
"Of course there is," Roman says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Everything that happens between us stays between us. Permanently."
I frown. "What exactly are you planning to do that requires this level of secrecy?"
He steps closer, and this time he does touch me—one finger tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. "Sign the contract, and you'll find out."
His touch is electric, awakening nerves I didn't know existed. My breath catches, and for a moment I forget all the red flags, all the warning bells. I just want to know what it would be like to be desired by this man, possessed by him completely.
My mind floods with all I'll sacrifice by signing—my freedom, my autonomy, my dignity perhaps. But against that, I weigh what I'll gain—financial security, the continuation of my education, a future beyond constant struggle.
"Do you have any other questions?" Roman asks, his finger still under my chin, his eyes locked on mine.
I have a thousand questions, but they all distill down to one: "Why me?"
Something shifts in his expression—a softening so subtle I might be imagining it. "Because from the moment I saw you, I knew no one else would satisfy me."
It's not an answer, not really, but it sends a flood of heat through my body nonetheless. I turn back to the contract, pick up the fountain pen—heavy and expensive in my hand—and before I can reconsider, I sign my name on each indicated line.
