I was still trapped in his contract, still bound to spend a year in his bed, still owned in every way that mattered.But the hotel was free.Whatever happened to me, The Hughes would survive.
That made all the sacrifice worth it.
“This is what I mean,” Clara said, her voice gentling.“This is the transaction.He pays his debts.You pay yours.Keep it clean.Keep it simple.Don’t let it become anything more.”
I nodded, tucking my phone away.She was right.This was proof that the arrangement worked.He got what he wanted.I got what I needed.A business deal with an expiration date.
If I kept reminding myself of that, maybe I could survive the year with my heart intact.
I wanted to argue.To tell her she didn’t understand, that something about last night hadn’t felt like predation, that there had been moments when he’d looked at me like I was something precious rather than something purchased.
But that was ridiculous.I’d been drunk.He’d been manipulating me.Clara, with her clear eyes and her strategic mind, saw the situation far more accurately than I could from inside it.
“I will,” I said.“I know exactly what this is.A business transaction with an expiration date.He gets what he wants, I get the hotel, and in twelve months we both walk away unchanged.”
“Promise me.”Her grip on my hands tightened.“Promise me you won’t fall for him.”
“I promise.”
She studied my face for a long moment, searching for something.Whatever she found must have satisfied her, because she finally nodded and released me.
We finished brunch talking about lighter things.Her latest board meeting and the idiot who’d tried to mansplain derivatives to her.A man she’d met at a finance conference in Singapore who had potential but lived on the wrong continent.Her upcoming trip to Paris, where she’d be keynoting a summit on sustainable banking practices.
Normal things.Things from a life I would never have.
By the time we hugged goodbye on the sidewalk outside the café, I almost felt human again.The hangover had faded to a dull, manageable ache behind my eyes.The shame had receded to a quiet hum in the back of my mind.Clara’s advice played on repeat in my head: use him like he’s using you.
My phone buzzed before Clara’s car had even pulled away from the curb.
Unknown number:Your cousin gives interesting advice.“Guard your heart.Guard your womb.”She’s not wrong about the second part.I have no interest in breeding you.
The world tilted.
He’d heard our conversation.Every word.The booth in the café, the whispered warnings, Clara’s fierce grip on my hands.All of it, monitored and recorded and delivered back to me like a slap.
Another message:But she’s very wrong about the first part.Your heart isn’t yours to guard anymore, Lena.It belongs to me too.You just don’t know it yet.
I stood frozen on the sidewalk, the January wind cutting through my coat, and felt the last illusion of freedom crumble to dust.
It was good advice.Smart advice.The kind of strategic thinking that had made her family’s fortune.
So why did it sit so wrong in my chest?And why, underneath the horror of being watched, was there a dark thrill I couldn’t quite name?
Parsons was waiting in the café’s parking lot, leaning against the black sedan with his arms crossed like he’d never left.I wondered if Raphael had ordered him to follow me, to keep tabs on my movements, to make sure his investment didn’t try to run.
Where would I run to?He owned everything.Even my freedom had a price tag now.
The drive back toward the hotel was quiet, the mountain roads winding through pine forests dusted with fresh snow.I needed to check on things at work, make sure Michael had handled whatever crises had erupted in my absence.Then tonight, I would return to the manor.Return to him.Return to whatever new game he had planned for me.
But as I watched the familiar landscape blur past my window, I found my thoughts drifting somewhere unexpected.Not to Clara’s warnings or my own brittle resolve, but to a moment I couldn’t quite remember.The sensation of being lifted, cradled against a broad chest.Strong arms holding me secure.Gentle hands removing my shoes, pulling blankets over my body, brushing hair away from my face.
Had that actually happened?Or had I dreamed it in my whisky-soaked sleep, conjuring tenderness from nothing because some pathetic part of me wanted it to be real?
I couldn’t have imagined the care in those gestures.That wasn’t something my brain would manufacture about him, not about the cold predator who’d made me strip naked and kneel at his feet.
Unless it hadn’t been tender at all.Unless I was reading meaning into a blank space, filling the gap with what I desperately wanted instead of what had actually happened.Maybe he’d just dumped me in bed like a sack of laundry, annoyed at having to deal with a drunk girl who couldn’t hold her liquor.
That made more sense.That fit the man I’d met.
