THE ARRANGEMENT

The letter had no return address.

Just a black envelope with her name, handwritten in gold ink—Calla Raines. Thick paper, luxurious and wrong in all the ways that made her fingers tremble as she held it.

She opened it at the kitchen counter, beside a chipped coffee mug and a flickering overhead light that buzzed like a dying bee. Her heart sank as her eyes scanned the words.

"You are summoned to Voss House.

Your mother’s debt is due. You will repay it.

Wear black.

Midnight."

No signature. No number. No threats. But it didn’t need any.

Everyone in the city knew what Voss House meant.

And Damien Voss—he didn’t need to threaten. He was the kind of man who could break someone with silence.

Calla swallowed, the air thick and metallic. Her mother had vanished four years ago with a trail of addiction and lies. She’d left behind a stack of unpaid bills, a locked drawer Calla never dared open, and a warning whispered by a man who’d come to their door once:

“If she disappears… you belong to him now.”

Calla had thought it was a scare tactic. A ghost story.

She hadn’t expected the debt to come due. Not like this.

Not… with him.

---

The gates to Voss House were black wrought iron, spiraled like thorns. When she arrived in the night, a town car she'd never seen had been waiting at the corner. No driver spoke to her. No one told her what to expect.

The estate beyond the gate rose like a shadow. Three stories of stone and secrets, perched on the edge of the cliffs that overlooked the city. The mansion wasn’t just wealthy—it was brutal. Made to keep people in as much as keep them out.

She stood in her simple black dress and heels, gripping the hem as the cold wind kissed her bare legs. The house didn’t have lights in the windows—just a single door that opened by itself.

Inside was darker.

And he was waiting.

---

Damien Voss didn’t sit. He didn’t speak at first either.

He simply stood beside the fireplace in a black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, dark slacks, and a silver watch that reflected the flames.

He was taller than she remembered.

Not that they’d met before. Not formally. She’d only seen him once, from the sidewalk, in a glossy black car next to her mother, who’d looked terrified. Calla had been seventeen then.

Now she was twenty-one.

And she was here to take her mother’s place.

"You came," Damien finally said. His voice was quiet. Smooth. Like someone who didn’t ask for things—only expected them.

"I didn’t have a choice," she replied. Her voice sounded small in the massive space. She hated that.

His gaze didn’t leave her. “Everyone has a choice, Calla.”

“Not when it’s you on the other end of the letter.”

He smiled faintly. Not a warm smile. The kind that said he knew things she didn’t. The kind that pulled the breath from her lungs.

"Then let me give you a new one."

He stepped toward her, slow, deliberate, predatory.

"You can walk out now," he said. "No debt. No punishment. No consequences."

Her heart skipped. She blinked.

"What’s the catch?"

"You’ll never know why your mother vanished. You’ll never know what she left behind in my vault. And you’ll never know what you were born into."

She stared at him.

And that’s when she knew—this wasn’t just about money.

This was about her.

"What’s the other option?"

His eyes swept down her body once. Not lewd. Not obvious. Just… calculated. Like he was reading her.

"You stay here. For ninety days. My house. My rules. No leaving. No lying. You do as I say. You obey—softly."

“Softly?”

“It means willingly.”

Her breath caught.

Damien stepped closer. Close enough that she could smell his cologne—sandalwood and something darker. His hand lifted—not touching her, but hovering near her chin.

"If you stay, you’re mine for ninety days. In every way I demand."

She didn’t back away.

She wasn’t sure she could.

"Why me?" she asked, quietly.

"Because your mother owed me everything," he said. "And I don’t collect in pieces."

Upstairs, her room was nothing like she expected. No locked doors. No chains. Just soft silk sheets, a balcony view of the city, and a note folded on her pillow.

You’re not a prisoner.

You’re a promise.

She sat on the bed and tried to breathe.

What had she just agreed to?

And why did a part of her—the part that was tired of scraping by, tired of being forgotten—feel strangely seen?

---

Meanwhile, downstairs, Damien poured a drink.

"She came," a voice said from behind him. Julian Cade, leaning against the bar with a slow smirk.

"Of course she did," Damien said.

Julian raised an eyebrow. “Still think this is about her mother?”

Damien didn’t answer.

Because it wasn’t.

This was about Calla.

It always had been.