I hear him shift in his seat, and then his fingers are under my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. I don't know when he moved to kneel in front of me, but the proximity makes my breath catch. His eyes search mine with an intensity that feels like it could burn.
"Because you're real," he says, and for the first time, there's something almost soft in his voice. "Because you have fire despite your circumstances. Because when I look at you, I see something worth possessing completely."
His thumb brushes my lower lip, and electric heat shoots through me. "The women out there are commodities," he continues, his voice lowering. "They've already been bought and sold so many times there's nothing left but the transaction. But you—" His grip tightens slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to command my complete attention. "You still believe you're worth more than your price tag."
I should be offended by the crude assessment, but there's a terrible honesty in it that resonates. "And that appeals to you?" I whisper.
"It intrigues me," he corrects. "Breaking something that's already broken holds no challenge. But earning the surrenderof something strong and whole—" His eyes darken with hunger. "That's worth any price."
The word "breaking" sends a chill through me, but I can't seem to move away from his touch. "I won't be broken," I say, finding a thread of defiance.
His smile is slow and predatory. "No. You'll be transformed."
He releases my chin and stands, creating distance between us again. I exhale shakily, only now realizing I'd been holding my breath.
"The offer stands for the next sixty seconds," he says, all business again. "After that, we both walk away, and you find your own solution to your problems."
The abrupt ultimatum snaps me back to reality. "Sixty seconds? You expect me to decide my entire future in a minute?"
"I expect you to recognize an opportunity when it's presented," he says coldly. "Forty-five seconds."
My mind races. This is madness. I can't seriously be considering this. But what are my alternatives? Eviction, withdrawal from school, financial ruin. Everything I've worked for, everything my parents sacrificed for—gone.
"Thirty seconds."
"What happens after the month?" I ask desperately. "What if—what if you don't want to let me go?"
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "That would be a bridge to cross if we reach it. Fifteen seconds."
"Wait—I need more time to think?—"
"Ten seconds." His voice is implacable. "Nine. Eight."
I stand, my legs trembling. "This isn't fair."
"Life isn't fair, Delilah. Five. Four."
"Yes," I blurt out, the word torn from me. "Yes, fine. I accept."
Roman goes still, his gaze locking with mine. For a moment, I see something like triumph flash across his face, quickly masked by cool satisfaction.
"Say it properly," he commands softly. "Say 'I agree to be yours for one month, Roman.'"
My throat tightens with humiliation and a strange, unwelcome excitement. "I agree to be yours for one month, Roman," I repeat, the words feeling like a spell that can't be undone.
"Good girl," he says, and the praise sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. He reaches into his jacket and removes a slim silver card case. From it, he extracts a business card, which he holds out to me. "Be at this address tomorrow at noon. Bring only your essential documents—passport, birth certificate, social security card. Leave everything else behind."
I take the card, noting the embossed address in midtown—the most expensive part of the city. "Leave everything behind? But my clothes, my books?—"
"Will be replaced," he cuts me off. "I provide everything you need from now on."
The implications hit me fully for the first time. I'm agreeing to surrender not just my body but my independence, my identity, my entire life. For a month. To a man I met less than an hour ago.
"I have classes," I say weakly. "My jobs?—"
"Your tuition will be paid in full by morning," he says dismissively. "You can continue your studies remotely when necessary. As for your jobs, you'll contact them tomorrow to resign."
"But—"
