ISLA'S POV
The stranger's eyes locked on mine, and I couldn't breathe.
He was beautiful in a dangerous way. Like a knife blade catching light. Tall, maybe six-foot-two. Dark hair styled perfectly. A suit that probably cost more than a year of my rent. Sharp jawline. High cheekbones.
But his eyes—cold, calculating, absolutely merciless—those eyes saw right through me.
Get out, Daddy said, his voice weak but firm. We don't want whatever you're selling.
The stranger's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. I'm not selling anything, Mr. Chen. I'm here to solve your daughter's problem.
What problem? Daddy looked at me, confused. Isla, what's he talking about?
My mouth opened but no words came out.
The stranger pulled a thick manila envelope from inside his jacket. He handed it to Daddy, not to me. Your debt portfolio. Fifty million dollars owed to various creditors. Or should I say, previously owed.
Daddy's hands shook taking the envelope. He pulled out page after page of documents, his face going from pale to gray.
How did you... He looked up at the stranger. Who are you?
Damien Cross. He said his name like it should mean something. CEO of Cross Enterprises. And as of yesterday, I'm the sole owner of your debt.
The room tilted.
You bought our debt? I whispered.
Damien's dark eyes shifted to me. Every cent. From Mr. Zhao and his associates. From the banks. From every creditor who had a claim on your father's failed business. He paused. Which means you don't owe them anymore. You owe me.
Daddy tried to sit up straighter, wincing in pain. We can't pay you. The business is gone. We have nothing—
I know exactly what you have. Damien's voice was silk over steel. Which is why I'm here to make a different arrangement.
What kind of arrangement? I asked, even though part of me didn't want to know.
Damien walked closer to my father's hospital bed. Not threatening, but his presence filled the room like a storm cloud.
Your medical bills are substantial, Mr. Chen. This surgery alone cost a quarter million dollars. The medication keeping you alive? Fifty thousand a month. You'll need at least six months of treatment before you're strong enough to leave the hospital.
The numbers hit like punches.
The hospital is being... patient, Damien continued. But patience has limits. I estimate you have four days before they transfer you to county care. And we both know what happens to heart patients in those facilities.
They die. He didn't say it, but the words hung in the air anyway.
What do you want? Daddy's voice cracked. Just tell us what you want.
Damien's eyes found mine again. I want to hire your daughter.
The silence was deafening.
Hire her for what? Daddy asked suspiciously.
As my companion. Live-in assistant. Public escort to business events. Damien's expression gave nothing away. A five-year contract. In exchange, I'll clear your entire debt, pay all medical expenses, and provide your daughter with housing and a generous salary.
It sounded reasonable. Almost too reasonable.
What's the catch? I heard myself ask.
Damien's almost-smile returned. Smart girl. The catch is total commitment. You'll live in my penthouse. Attend events on my arm. Present yourself as my girlfriend to the public. Follow my rules without question. Your time, your schedule, your life—all of it becomes mine to direct.
No, Daddy said immediately. Absolutely not. Isla, tell him no.
But I was doing the math in my head.
Five years of my life in exchange for fifty million dollars. For Daddy's medical care. For saving him.
It's not slavery, Damien said, reading my thoughts. You'll have your own room. Your own space. I'm not asking for... physical services. The way he said it made heat flood my face. Just your presence. Your companionship. Your obedience to reasonable requests.
There's nothing reasonable about this, Daddy protested. She's not property you can rent—
She's not property at all. Which is why she gets to choose. Damien pulled out a contract from his jacket. Thick. Official-looking. Read it. Consider it. You have until I leave this room to decide.
He set the contract on my father's bedside table and stepped back, giving us space.
Daddy grabbed my hand, his grip weak but desperate. Isla, no. We'll find another way. We'll sell the house, I'll get a loan, something—
We don't have a house anymore, I whispered. The bank took it last week. And no one will give us loans. I've tried everything, Daddy. Everything.
His eyes filled with tears. Not this. Please, not this.
I picked up the contract with shaking hands and started reading.
The language was formal, legal, but clear:
Miss Isla Chen agrees to provide companion services to Mr. Damien Cross for a period of five (5) years...
Residence at Mr. Cross's primary penthouse required...
Attendance at social and business functions mandatory...
Public presentation as Mr. Cross's romantic partner required...
Compensation: Complete debt forgiveness ($50,000,000) plus living expenses and medical care for James Chen...
Five years. For Daddy's life.
Why me? I asked Damien suddenly. You could hire anyone. Models. Actresses. Why a broke girl with nothing to offer?
Something flickered in his cold eyes. Let's just say your particular situation serves my purposes.
That's not an answer.
It's the only answer you're getting. He checked his expensive watch. You have three minutes to decide, Miss Chen. After that, I walk away, and your father has four days before the hospital moves him to die in county care.
You bastard, I breathed.
Accurate. But irrelevant. His smile turned cruel. Two and a half minutes.
Isla, don't, Daddy begged. I'd rather die than watch you sell yourself—
And I'd rather die than watch you die knowing I could have saved you! The words exploded out of me. You think I want this? You think I want to belong to some cold, heartless stranger for five years?
Then don't, Daddy pleaded.
Two minutes, Damien announced.
I looked at my father—pale, weak, barely holding on. The machines beeping. The IV drip. The oxygen tube.
Four days until they moved him to county care.
Seventy-six days until Mr. Zhao's deadline.
Fifty million dollars I'd never earn in my lifetime.
And five years that could save the only person I had left in this world.
What are the rules? I asked, my voice hollow.
Damien's eyes gleamed with victory. You'll find out after you sign.
That's not—
One minute.
My hands shook holding the contract. The pen appeared in Damien's hand like magic, extended toward me.
Isla, please, Daddy sobbed. Please don't do this.
I looked into my father's eyes—the man who'd raised me alone, worked three jobs to give me a good life, sacrificed everything for me.
Now it was my turn.
I'm sorry, Daddy, I whispered.
I took the pen from Damien's hand. Our fingers brushed, and I felt ice run through my veins.
I signed my name on the bottom line. Black ink. Shaking letters.
Isla Chen.
The pen clattered on the table.
Damien picked up the contract, scanned my signature, and nodded with satisfaction. He pulled out his phone and typed something quickly.
Your father's medical bills are paid as of now. The hospital will move him to a private suite with the best care available. He looked at me with those merciless eyes. And you, Isla Chen, are now mine.
The word mine hit like a physical blow.
I'll send a car for you in two hours, Damien continued. Bring nothing from your old life. I'll provide everything you need.
Wait—two hours? But I need time to—
To what? Say goodbye to a life that's already over? His smile was sharp as glass. Two hours, Miss Chen. Don't be late. I hate waiting.
He walked toward the door, then paused.
Oh, and Isla? His voice dropped lower, more dangerous. Welcome to hell. I promise, it's going to be a very long five years.
The door closed behind him.
Silence filled the room except for the beeping machines.
Daddy was crying, his whole body shaking. What did you do? Oh god, Isla, what did you do?
I saved you, I whispered, tears streaming down my face. I saved you.
But as I stood there in my coffee-stained uniform, contract signed, soul sold, I wondered:
Who was going to save me?
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
Black car. Two hours. Don't make me come find you. —D.C.
I had two hours left of freedom.
Two hours before I became Damien Cross's property.
Two hours before my new life—my cage—began.
And I had no idea what hell I'd just signed myself into.