Chapter 5: Price Tag

Isla Pov

A week had passed since the nightmare at the bar.

I’d shoved the memory into a locked box in the back of my brain—the kind of memory you bury and hope doesn’t claw its way out at 3 a.m.

Luckily, I had distractions. Or one, at least.

The coffee shop.

The pay was crap. Barely enough for rent and groceries if I skipped the nice things like… breakfast. And toilet paper that didn’t feel like sandpaper.

But it was a job. And Jules, my boss, didn’t ask too many questions. She liked that I showed up early, kept my head down, and didn’t complain when the espresso machine coughed out its soul mid-shift.

It was peaceful in a dull, survival-mode kind of way.

Until that Thursday night.

I’d just gotten back from work. My shoes were soaked—thanks, moody stormclouds—and my hoodie clung to me like a second skin. I was debating whether to heat up leftover rice or just go to bed angry at the universe when I heard shouting.

No, not shouting.

Screaming.

I froze on the sidewalk outside our building. Something told me not to go in.

But I did. Of course I did.

The hallway stank of old beer and something sourer. My stomach sank before I even reached our door.

And then I saw it.

Three men. Built like freight trains. One had brass knuckles smeared with blood. The other two had my dad and stepmother pinned like rag dolls. 

My father’s nose looked broken. My stepmother had a cut on her lip and mascara dripping down her face like a horror movie extra.

“What the hell—” I gasped, running forward before a hand shoved me back.

“Stay out of this, girl,” one of them growled.

“She lives here,” my dad wheezed through blood. “She’s got nothing to do with this—”

“Actually,” the tallest one said with a wicked grin, “she’s got everything to do with it now.”

I blinked. “What?”

My stepmother, through sobs, suddenly snapped her head up and screamed

“Take her!”

Silence.

My ears rang.

“I—I said take her!” she shrieked again, pointing at me like I was a coat she didn’t want anymore. “She’s young. She’s pretty. You want something in return for the debt? Take her!”

I laughed.

Not because it was funny. But because sometimes your brain short-circuits when betrayal slices too deep.

“Are you serious?” I whispered.

She didn’t answer.

Because she didn’t have to.

My father groaned, didn’t even look at me. Didn’t say no. Didn’t scream at her for offering up his only daughter like a lamb to the slaughter.

He just looked down. Like a coward.

“What debt?” I asked, my voice cracking.

The man with the knuckles smirked. “Mommy racked up five grand at some fancy fashion store downtown. Daddy owes triple that from gambling.”

“And they thought we’d just let it slide,” the second man added with a sneer.

I looked at them, then at my parents.

I wasn’t scared.

I was numb.

For years, I’d worked odd jobs. Saved scraps. Skipped meals. Dealt with their fighting, their stealing, their drinking—and still tried to believe maybe, just maybe, they’d give a damn.

But now?

Now I was a bargaining chip.

A price tag with legs.

“Well?” the tallest one asked, turning to his goons. “Should we take her?”

He grinned. “Enough to make you look like a decent trade.”

“You can’t be serious,” I whispered, voice hollow.

“Oh, they’re serious.” Another guy snorted. “Your stepmom signed off the deal like she was ordering takeout.”

I backed away toward the door. 

My brain scrambled for options. Police? No way. My record would just say “delusional broke girl” and a report would sit in a file for five years. I didn’t have any family. No friends nearby. No escape plan.

Then the tall guy’s phone buzzed.

He looked at the screen, raised an eyebrow, and chuckled.

What?? I asked 

But he ignored me then signalled for the other two men

The men grabbed my arms 

 The grip was firm. Cold. Final.

The kind of grip that says, don’t try to run. It’ll be worse.

I didn’t fight. Not because I was weak. I just knew better.

Sometimes survival means keeping your head down until you figure out where the hell they’re taking you.

---

They cuff me and throw me in the backseat alongside with them.

The one with knuckles sat in the front, the other tow sar beside me in the back.

None of them spoke. The silence inside the black SUV was thick, only interrupted by the hum of tires on asphalt.

I kept sneaking glances out the window.

We were heading out of town.

Not toward the city. Not to a public place

Into the hills.

Where the roads got longer, and the houses got richer.

Great. Just great.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

The man beside me finally spoke. “To the estate.”

Like that was supposed to clarify things.

I squinted at him. “Do you guys rehearse this whole vibes routine or is it just natural?”

No answer.

I leaned back, trying to remember how my life got here.

I was supposed to be finishing a semester. Getting a decent job. Not being driven off like some black market bride.

—

The estate was… not what I expected. Tall iron gates. Ivy-covered walls. A mansion that looked like it belonged in one of those murder documentaries about rich people with too many secrets.

The car stopped.

One of the guys stepped out and opened my door like I was a guest. I didn’t move.

“Get out!" he said, and dragged me out of the car

Then made way into the house...

My sneakers hit the marble floor with a squeak as they led me through massive double doors.

Inside? It was all dark wood, glass, steel. Cold, sleek, expensive.

And there he was.

Standing by a grand fireplace.

Tall. Broad. Dressed in black. Sharp jawline, like he could cut diamonds with it. And his eyes—

Wait.

Those eyes.

Piercing. Hawklike. Familiar.

I froze.

No way.

No freaking way.

The guy from the club.

The one who saved me. Who drove me home???

He was here?

“You,” I breathed.

He turned slowly, like he’d known I was staring.

His cold eyes stare deep into my soul

And somehow it made me shiver…..