Page 52 of The Accident

He turns, and there’s nothing gentle in his face. His eyes are blue and bright, and his mouth is curved in a smile that isn’t a smile at all—it’s more like the slow opening of a knife.

“You have a debt to pay off,” he says idly, perfectly relaxed.

I stare at him, uncomprehending, my fingers still hovering above the sofa. “What are you talking about?”

He laughs once, low in his throat. “I didn’t just spend a million dollars for a rerun, sweetheart. You know what happens next.”

My brain tries to make sense of this, and for a second I wonder if he’s joking, or if this is some twisted new way of reminding me that he owns every situation. But the look on his face says he means it, every word.

He walks toward me, unhurried, every step measured. When he reaches me, he lifts my chin with two fingers and looks down, his gaze hot and careful.

“You owe me, Kayleigh. You knew that when you bid.”

I want to say something clever, or at least defiant, but all that comes out is a thin, high “What do you mean?”

He doesn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he slips his hand down to my elbow, holds it in a grip that’s gentle but absolute, and steers me away from the living room. We walk past the bar, past the kitchen—polished stone, all chrome and blue under the lights—into a hallway I’ve never noticed before. I glance back over my shoulder and see the city through the glass, all lights and motion, but it looks like a different planet now.

He stops at a door at the end of the hallway. It’s plain, unmarked, nothing like the rest of the apartment.

He lets go of my arm and looks at me for a second, like he’s deciding whether to say something else. Then he opens the door and stands aside, gesturing for me to go in first.

I hesitate, just for a second, then step inside.

The room is nothing like what I expect.

It’s small—barely the size of my childhood bedroom—and almost entirely white. There is a single narrow bed, made up with a crisp white coverlet. There’s a wooden desk, plain and old-fashioned, and a lamp with a small, severe shade. On the desk is an alarm clock and nothing else. The floor is bare concrete, waxed to a shine, and the air smells faintly of lemon and something else—maybe soap, maybe bleach.

There’s a bathroom attached, visible through an open door: pedestal sink, a toilet, and a shower with a glass door so thin it could shatter if you looked at it too hard.

I turn back to Trevor, my pulse so loud I can barely hear myself think.

He’s leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, the top button of his shirt undone. He looks relaxed, but there’s something in his eyes that isn’t relaxed at all.

“I don’t understand,” I say, and my voice comes out breathy, almost girlish. “What is this place?”

He smiles again, slow and precise. “Your room. You’re going to stay here until your debt is paid.”

He watches my face as I process this unbelievable statement. “What, like a prisoner?”

“Not a prisoner,” he says, and the word is softer than I expect. “More like an indentured servant. I figured you’d appreciate the irony, seeing that you’ve done jail time in the past.”

I sputter a little.

“That was just one night!”

Trevor shrugs, uncrosses his arms and walks into the room, crowding me back until my knees hit the side of the bed.

“And if I remember, I paid your bail too. So you owe me twice. But I’ll let you acclimate to your new environment. Give you some time to settle in. For tonight, you can get comfortable, and adjust to the fact that this is your new life.” He pauses, then leans down so his handsome features are level with mine. “Tomorrow, you’ll start earning your keep.”

I flush, a hot rush from my toes to my scalp. I want to say something—object, refuse, bargain—but all I can do is open my mouth and then close it again, like a gaping fish.

Trevor smirks, straightens up, takes one last look at me, and walks out of the room. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Then, he strides to the door before pausing.

“Oh yes. I forgot.”

Instead of leaving, Trevor heads back to the desk and fishes out a pair of steel handcuffs from the drawer.