When he looks back up at my eyes, his expression is unreadable. "I don't need to leverage women into my bed, Audrey. You will have your own room. Your privacy will be respected."
He says it with such absolute, arrogant certainty that I want to throw the glass of water at him. Instead, I grip the pen tighter.
"Fine."
I flip to the last page. My hand is shaking again, but this time, it’s not from the hangover. It’s from the terrifying realization that I am actually going to do this. I am going to sell my soul to get my life back.
I press the pen to the paper and sign my name on the dotted line.
The moment the ink sets, the atmosphere in the room shifts. The hypothetical game is over. We are bound.
I toss the pen onto the table and push the contract toward him. "There. We have a deal."
Malcolm doesn't take the contract immediately. He reaches out and picks up the plastic pen I just used. His large fingers turn it over once, deliberately slow.
"A car will be downstairs at four o'clock this afternoon," he says, his tone shifting from negotiator to commander. "My security team will handle your luggage. Do not bring the Honda. We will have it moved to a secure garage."
"I can drive myself," I argue, hating the feeling of my independence being stripped away piece by piece.
"You are the fiancée of Malcolm Vance now," he says, standing up. He towers over me, blocking out the sunlight from the window. "You do not drive a ten-year-old Civic with a dented bumper. You travel with security."
I cross my arms, refusing to look intimidated. "Are you always this controlling?"
Malcolm looks down at me. For a moment, the cold, calculating mask slips, and I see the raw, dangerous intensity underneath. It’s the same look he had in the bar right before he told me to keep my money.
"You haven't seen me controlling yet, Audrey," he murmurs.
He turns and walks toward the door. He doesn't look back. He just opens it, steps out into the hallway, and closes it quietly behind him.
The click of the lock echoes in the small apartment.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, my entire body sagging against the sofa cushions.
The bedroom door creaks open. Vivian pokes her head out, looking from the empty doorway to the contract sitting on the coffee table.
"Did you just sell your soul to the mafia?" Vivian asks, her voice pitched high with panic.
I look down at the black business card, then at the signature on the legal document. My heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"No," I whisper, pressing my thumb against the edge of the paper. "I think I just sold it to the devil. And I have to pack."
CHAPTER 4
MALCOLM
My penthouse is engineered for silence.
The glass in the floor-to-ceiling windows is triple-paned to block out the sirens and the wind coming off Lake Michigan. The HVAC system operates on a frequency that is virtually undetectable to the human ear. The floors are poured concrete layered beneath imported hardwood, designed so that footsteps simply vanish.
For the last four years, this silence has been my armor.
At four-fifteen in the afternoon, the private elevator chimes, and the armor cracks.
I don’t turn around immediately. I stand by the kitchen island, resting my hands flat against the cold marble countertop. I listen to the heavy, metallic slide of the elevator doors opening, followed by the distinct sound of Grant clearing his throat.
Then, the uneven squeak of a suitcase wheel dragging across the floor.
"Put it anywhere, Grant," a voice says. It’s slightly raspy, lacking the alcohol-induced bravado from last night, but still carrying a heavy dose of defensive sarcasm. "I don’t want to ruin the aesthetic of the museum."
