Chapter Two:

The penthouse is silent. I stand in the entrance hall with my suitcase at my feet and Alexander three steps behind me, and I try to catalogue what I am seeing. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Grey walls. Charcoal furniture. Everything clean and expensive and impersonal except for a single photograph on the console table by the door. A woman with dark hair and a smile that looks like his.

"Your mother?" I ask. "Yes." I turn to look at him. He is watching me with the same unreadable expression he had at the bar. Patient. Controlled. Waiting for me to finish processing whatever I need to process before he tells me what comes next. "She is beautiful," I say. "She was."

Was. Past tense. I do not ask. It feels too intrusive. I look back at the windows. The city spreads below us in every direction. Manhattan. I am in Manhattan. I am standing in a billionaire's penthouse, and I have just signed a contract that gives him ownership of my life for a year, and I do not know what I am supposed to do now.

Alexander moves past me toward the kitchen. "Are you hungry?" "No." "When did you last eat?" I try to remember. Yesterday? The day before? "I do not know." He opens the refrigerator and pulls out a container. Sets it on the counter. "You will eat."

It is not a question. I should argue. Tell him I am fine. I am not fine. I am exhausted and hollow, and I can still feel the imprint of Derek's face when he asked where I was going with what money. I walk over to the counter and sit on one of the barstools and watch Alexander pull out plates and silverware with the efficient movements of someone who knows his own kitchen.

He sets a plate in front of me. Pasta. Something with tomatoes and basil. It smells good. My stomach growls loud enough that he hears it. The corner of his mouth twitches. "Eat," he says.

I pick up the fork. Take a bite. It is good. Better than good. I take another bite, and then I am eating like I have not eaten in days because I have not. Alexander leans against the counter across from me and watches without commenting, and I should feel self-conscious, but I am too hungry to care.

When I finish, he takes the plate and rinses it in the sink. Then he turns back to me and says, "We need to discuss the rules." My stomach drops. "Now?" "You signed the contract." The rules are part of it." "I know."

"Then you know they are not negotiable." I nod. He crosses to the other side of the kitchen and opens a drawer. Pulls out a folder. Sets it on the counter between us. I open it. Inside is a printed list. Twelve rules. Single-spaced. Very specific. I read the first one out loud. "You will not leave the penthouse without notifying security of your location and expected return time." "Correct."

I look up at him. "Why?" "Because I need to know where you are." "That is not a reason." "It is the only reason that matters."

I look back at the list. Read the second rule silently. You will attend all required events and maintain appropriate behavior. The third. You will wear clothing selected from the provided wardrobe. The fourth. You will not discuss the nature of this arrangement with anyone outside of this residence. I close the folder. "This is a lot." "Yes." "What if I break one?"

He looks at me for a long moment. Then he says, "Do not." It should sound like a threat. It does not. It sounds like advice. Like he is trying to warn me about something he does not want to have to enforce. I set the folder down and fold my hands in my lap so he cannot see them shaking.

"What if I want to leave?" I ask. "Leave the penthouse?"

"Leave the contract." He is very still. "You signed it."

"I know. But what if I change my mind?"

"Then we will discuss it. But not today. You are exhausted, and you are processing and you are looking for an exit because that is what you do when you are scared. I am not going to give you one while you are still running."

I open my mouth to argue. To tell him I am not running. But he is right. I have been running since yesterday afternoon. Since I walked into that bedroom and saw Chloe and Derek and felt my entire life collapse. I am still running. I do not know how to stop. "I am not scared of you," I say. "I did not say you were."

"Then what am I scared of?" He leans forward and puts both hands flat on the counter. "Yourself."

The word hangs in the air between us. I want to deny it, but I cannot. He is right. I am scared of what I just did. Of what it means. Of the fact that I signed away a year of my life to a man I do not know because I had nowhere else to go and nothing else left. Of the fact that some part of me wanted this. Wanted him. Still wants him even though I should not.

I look away first. "Can I see my room?"

"Of course." He straightens. "This way."

He leads me through the living room and down a hallway and up a set of stairs. The penthouse has multiple levels. I lose count after three. He stops at a door on the fourth floor and pushes it open.

"This is yours." I walk inside. The room is twice the size of my bedroom in Chicago. King bed. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A sitting area with a couch and bookshelves. A door that leads to a bathroom with a tub deep enough to drown in. I set my suitcase down by the bed and turn in a slow circle.

"The closet is through there," Alexander says, gesturing to another door. I open it. The closet is the size of my old bedroom. Racks of clothes. Shelves of shoes. Drawers full of things I did not pack and did not ask for. I pull out a dress. Black. Simple. My size exactly.

"How did you know?" I ask.

"I had someone pull your measurements from the tailor your family uses."

I turn to look at him. He is standing in the doorway of the closet, watching me with that same patient expression. Like he has been preparing for this moment and is waiting to see how I react. I should be angry. I should tell him this is invasive and controlling and exactly the kind of thing I was afraid of when I signed the contract. But I am too tired to be angry. And the dress is beautiful. And every single item in this closet is something I would have chosen for myself if I had the money and the confidence.

I hang the dress back up. "Thank you." "You do not have to thank me." "I do not know what else to say." He steps into the closet. Closer. Close enough that I can smell cedar and something sharp underneath. Cologne probably. Expensive. He reaches past me and adjusts the dress so it hangs straight. His arm brushes mine. The touch is so light I almost miss it. Almost.

"Say nothing," he says. "Unpack. Rest. We will talk more at dinner." "What time?" "Seven."

He leaves. I stand in the closet for another minute, trying to steady my breathing. Then I go back to the bedroom and unpack my suitcase. It takes ten minutes. Everything I own fits in two drawers. I set the sketchbooks on the desk. The charcoal was set beside them. The photograph of my mother on the nightstand.

Then I lie down on the bed and close my eyes, and I do not sleep, but I stop moving for the first time in twenty-four hours, and that is close enough.

Dinner is at seven in the formal dining room. Alexander is already seated when I come downstairs in the black dress I pulled from the closet. He looks up, and his eyes move over me once, quick and assessing, and then he stands and pulls out the chair beside him.

"You did not have to dress for dinner," he says.

"The rules say I wear clothing from the wardrobe."

"The rules say appropriate clothing." This is your home now. You can wear what you want here."

I sit down. He pushes the chair in and returns to his seat at the head of the table. There is food already laid out. Roasted chicken. Vegetables. Bread. A bottle of wine. I reach for the water instead.

Alexander serves me without asking. Fills my plate. Pours wine into my glass even though I did not ask for it. I watch him move through the ritual of serving me, and I realize this is part of it. The control. The precision. He needs to know where I am and what I am eating and whether I am taking care of myself because that is how he operates. Everything in its place. Everything managed.

I pick up my fork. "How long have you known Derek?" He cuts into his chicken. "Ten years. Since he was fifteen." "His godfather." "In name only. I have no children of my own, and his father thought the association would be useful." "Was it?" "For him. Not for me."

I take a bite of chicken. It is perfect. Of course it is. Everything here is perfect. The food. The view. The clothes. The man is sitting at the head of the table, watching me with ice-blue eyes like I am a puzzle he is trying to solve. "Why did you kiss me?" I ask. He sets down his fork. Looks at me. "Because I wanted to." "That is not an answer." "It is the only one I have."

I meet his eyes. "You have been paying my mother's bills for three years. You knew about Vivienne stealing from the estate. You had a lawyer draw up a contract the same night I walked into that bar. You did not kiss me because you wanted to. You kissed me because you had already decided I was going to be here."

He is quiet for a long moment. Then he says, "Yes." The word lands between us like a stone. I set down my fork. "So this was always the plan." "No. The plan was to wait until you were old enough to ask for help. The bar accelerated the timeline." "Old enough. I am twenty-two." "Exactly."

I do not know what to do with that. With the implication that he has been watching me for years. Waiting. Deciding when the right moment would be to step in and offer me a way out that was also a way in. To him. To this. To a year of my life spent in his penthouse under his rules doing whatever he requires.

"What do you want from me?" I ask.

He picks up his wine glass. Takes a drink. Sets it down with the same controlled precision he does everything else. "I want you to stop performing."

"I am not performing."

"You have been performing since you walked through the door. Polite. Careful. Saying the right things and asking the right questions and making yourself as small as possible so I do not regret bringing you here. I do not need that. I need you."

"You do not know me."

"I know enough."

"You know what you saw at family dinners. You know what Derek told you. That is not the same thing."

He leans back in his chair. "Then tell me what I am missing."

I open my mouth. Close it. I do not know how to answer that. I do not know what I would say if I could. That I am angry? That I am tired? That I spent four years folding myself smaller and smaller until I disappeared, and I do not know how to unfold? That I signed his contract because I had nowhere else to go but also because some part of me wanted to be chosen, even if the choosing came with terms and conditions? "I do not know," I say.

"Then we will figure it out together." He stands. Picks up his plate. Walks it to the kitchen. I sit at the table alone and try to decide if I am supposed to follow him or stay here or go back to my room. I have spent my entire life trying to figure out what people want from me so I can give it to them before they ask. Alexander is the first person who has ever told me he wants me to stop doing that. I do not know how.

I pick up my plate and carry it to the kitchen. He is rinsing dishes in the sink. I set mine on the counter beside him. "Thank you for dinner," I say. He glances at me. "You are welcome." "I am going to go to bed." "Sleep well, Sophia." I turn to leave. Then I stop. Turn back. "Alexander?" He looks up. "Yes?"

"Why me?" He sets down the dish he was rinsing. Dries his hands on a towel. Crosses the kitchen until he is standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Because you needed help," he says. "And I was in a position to provide it." "That is not a reason."

"It is the one you are ready to hear." He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers are warm against my temple. His thumb brushes my cheekbone. It is the first time he has touched me deliberately since the bar, and the contact makes my breath catch.

"Go to bed," he says quietly. "We will talk more tomorrow."

I nod. I do not trust my voice. I turn and walk out of the kitchen and up the stairs to my room, and I close the door and lean against it and try to steady my breathing. My face is still warm where he touched me. I can still feel the pressure of his thumb against my skin.

I get ready for bed on autopilot. Wash my face. Brush my teeth. Pull on the silk pajamas that were in the closet. Climb into bed. Lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling and replay the last five minutes in my head because you needed help. And I was in a position to provide it.

That is not a reason. That is an excuse.

But I am too tired to push. Too overwhelmed. I am too aware of the fact that I am in his house now and under his rules, and I do not have anywhere else to go. I close my eyes and try to sleep, and eventually I do, but my dreams are full of ice-blue eyes and warm hands and questions I do not know how to answer.