Her hands shook when she picked up the contract.
I watched her read. Watched her eyes move over every clause. Every stipulation. Every carefully worded condition that spelled out exactly what six months in my home, in my bed, under my control would mean.
No ambiguity.
No room for misinterpretation.
Just cold, precise language that turned flesh into transaction.
"This is—" She swallowed hard. Kept reading. "You can't be serious about some of these?—"
"Every word."
Her gaze lifted. Met mine.
For one long moment we just stared at each other.
Two people on opposite sides of a chasm neither could cross.
She looked back at the check. The contract.
I knew what she was seeing. Her father's face. The hospital room. The numbers that didn't add up no matter how many times she'd tried to make them. The impossibility of her situation crystallizing into one terrible, unavoidable truth. This was the only way out.
Her hand moved. Trembling. Reaching for the pen I'd already placed beside the papers.
She hesitated. Looked at me one last time. Hate and something rawer burning in her eyes.
"I will make you regret this."
"Probably."
She signed.
The pen scratched across paper—too loud in the silent bookstore, each stroke a small death.
I watched her hand move through the letters of her name. Watched her destroy herself to save someone else. Exactly as I'd known she would.
When she finished, she dropped the pen like it burned.
I picked up the contract. Folded it. Slid it back into my jacket.
Then I took the check. Placed it in her shaking hand. Our fingers didn't touch.
"Pack what you need," I said quietly. "I'll send someone for the rest tomorrow."
Her eyes went wide. "Tomorrow? You expect me to?—"
"Tonight, Belle." I headed for the door. Unlocked it. "You have two hours."
I stepped outside. Didn't look back. Didn't need to. She was already mine.
Chapter 7
Belle
The door clicked shut behind him, and the bookstore settled into a quiet that felt engineered rather than natural. I stayed rooted to the spot where my signature still hovered in the air like a bruise, the pen resting on the counter as if waiting for me to take it back. Ink glistened along the curve of my name. The check lay beside it, edges crisp, confidence stamped across every printed number.
I stared at both like they might rearrange themselves if I focused hard enough. Nothing moved. Not the dust in the window light. Not the paper. Not me.
