ISLA'S POV
I had ninety-three minutes left of freedom.
Daddy wouldn't look at me.
He lay in his hospital bed, tears running down his face, his hand pulled away from mine like I'd burned him.
Please talk to me, I begged.
What's there to say? His voice was broken. My daughter just sold herself to save me. How am I supposed to live with that?
You're supposed to live. That's all that matters.
Not like this. He finally looked at me, his eyes full of pain. I raised you to be strong. Independent. To never let anyone own you. And now
And now I'm choosing to save your life, I interrupted. This is my choice, Daddy. Mine.
It's not a choice when you have a gun to your head.
He was right. But I couldn't tell him that.
A nurse entered, cheerful and oblivious. Mr. Chen! Good news. You're being transferred to a private suite on the VIP floor. Fully paid for. Isn't that wonderful?
Daddy's face crumpled. Get out.
The nurse's smile faltered. But
Get. Out!
She scurried away, leaving us alone again.
This is blood money, Daddy whispered. I don't want it.
Too bad. I already signed the contract.
Then un-sign it. Break it. Run away
And watch you die in four days? My voice cracked. I can't do that. I won't.
We sat in silence. The machines beeped. The clock on the wall ticked.
Seventy-one minutes left.
I love you, Daddy, I said quietly. More than anything in this world. That's why I'm doing this.
I love you too. His hand finally found mine, squeezing weakly. Which is why I'll never forgive myself for letting this happen.
It's not your fault—
Whose fault is it then? Anger flashed in his eyes. Someone sabotaged my company. Destroyed our lives. And now you're paying the price for my failure.
You didn't fail. You were attacked by someone powerful. Someone cruel. I leaned closer. And someday, I'm going to find out who did this to us. And I'm going to make them pay.
Daddy's eyes widened. Isla, no. Don't think about revenge. Just survive these five years and—
And what? Pretend everything is fine? Pretend some monster didn't destroy our family? I shook my head. I'm going to survive. But I'm also going to find out the truth.
Before Daddy could respond, my phone buzzed.
Text from Damien: One hour. Car is waiting outside.
My stomach dropped. I have to go.
Already? Daddy's grip tightened on my hand. But you said two hours—
He changed his mind. Because he can. Because I belong to him now. The words tasted like poison.
I stood, memorizing every detail of my father's face. The gray in his hair. The lines around his eyes. The love and pain and guilt warring in his expression.
I'll visit when I can, I promised.
Will he let you?
I didn't know. I'll find a way.
Daddy pulled me into a hug, his arms weak but desperate. Be smart. Be careful. And if he hurts you—if he touches you in any way that's wrong—you call me immediately. Contract or no contract, I'll—
You'll do nothing, I said firmly. You'll focus on getting better. That's all.
I pulled away before I started crying again.
At the door, I looked back one more time.
I'm proud of you, Daddy said, his voice breaking. Even if I hate this. Even if it destroys me. I'm proud of the woman you've become.
I ran from the room before he could see me fall apart.
The elevator ride down felt like descending into hell.
Outside, a sleek black car waited exactly where Damien said it would be. The same one from this morning.
A driver stood beside it—older man, gray hair, blank expression. Miss Chen. I'm Mr. Park. Mr. Cross sent me to collect you.
I need to go to my apartment first—
Mr. Cross was clear. You bring nothing from your old life. He'll provide everything.
But I have clothes, photos, my mother's necklace—
Nothing, Mr. Park repeated, opening the car door. Please get in.
I looked back at the hospital one more time. At the building where my father lay broken and guilty and alive.
Then I got in the car.
The leather seats were soft. The interior smelled expensive. A privacy screen separated me from the driver.
As we pulled away from the hospital, reality crashed over me.
This was real. Actually happening. I'd signed a contract selling myself to a stranger for five years.
The city blurred past through tinted windows. We drove through neighborhoods that got progressively wealthier. Bigger houses. Nicer cars. People who'd never known desperation.
Finally, we stopped in front of the tallest building I'd ever seen.
Cross Tower. All black glass and sharp angles. Intimidating and beautiful and wrong.
Top floor, Mr. Park said, opening my door. Mr. Cross is waiting.
The lobby was massive. Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. Security guards in suits.
Everyone stared as I walked to the elevator in my coffee-stained uniform, looking like exactly what I was—a poor girl who didn't belong here.
The elevator ride to the top floor felt endless.
When the doors opened, I stepped directly into an apartment.
No. Not an apartment. A penthouse.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire city. Modern furniture that looked uncomfortable and expensive. Everything cold. Clean. Perfect.
Like a museum. Or a prison.
Isla Chen. Damien's voice came from behind me.
I spun around.
He stood in the doorway to another room, wearing dress pants and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Somehow he looked more dangerous than before. More real.
Welcome home, he said, the words mocking.
This isn't my home.
It is now. He walked toward me slowly. Let me show you around.
He gave me a tour like a hotel manager. Guest bedroom—mine. Master suite, his, off-limits. Kitchen with a chef who'd come daily. Office I was never to enter without permission.
Everything had rules. Boundaries. Control.
And this, Damien said, pulling a document from his desk, contains your behavioral expectations.
The document was thick. At the top in bold letters: RULES FOR ISLA CHEN.
Read it, Damien ordered. Memorize it. Break any rule, and there will be consequences.
My hands shook taking the paper.
Rule #1: Be available when called, day or night. Rule #2: Never question my decisions or orders. Rule #3: Maintain a pleasant demeanor in public at all times. Rule #4: No contact with your previous life without explicit permission. Rule #5: Address me properly at all times.
There were fifteen more rules. Each one tightening the cage.
This is insane, I whispered.
This is our agreement. Damien stepped closer, his dark eyes boring into mine. You signed a contract. Now you follow the rules. Simple.
Nothing about this is simple
Do you understand the rules? he interrupted.
I understand you're a control freak
Do you understand? His voice dropped dangerously low.
I swallowed hard. Yes.
Yes, what?
The question hung in the air like a trap.
I knew what he wanted. What he was demanding.
Submission. Obedience. Acknowledgment that he owned me.
Yes... Mr. Cross, I forced out.
His smile was sharp and satisfied. Good girl.
The words made my skin crawl.
Your clothes are already in your closet. All your size. Everything you need. He checked his watch. We have a charity gala tomorrow night. You'll attend with me. Wear the blue dress. Be ready by seven.
I don't know how to act at galas
Then learn quickly. He turned to walk away, then paused. Oh, and Isla? One more rule that's not on the list.
What?
He looked back, his expression cold and absolute.
Never fall in love with me. This is business. Nothing more. Nothing less. Keep your heart out of it, and we'll get along fine.
The arrogance. The assumption that I'd ever want him.
Trust me, I said, my voice dripping with ice. That won't be a problem.
Good. He disappeared into his office, closing the door with a decisive click.
I stood alone in the massive penthouse, surrounded by luxury I didn't want and rules I didn't agree to.
My phone buzzed.
Text from Maya: Where are you? I went to your apartment and you're gone. Are you okay?
I started to reply, then remembered Rule #4: No contact with previous life without permission.
I turned off my phone instead.
In my assigned bedroom, I found a closet full of designer clothes. All expensive. All beautiful. All wrong.
On the bed, a note in sharp handwriting:
Sleep well. Tomorrow, your training begins. D.C.
Training. Like I was a dog to be taught tricks.
I collapsed on the bed, still wearing my stained uniform, and stared at the ceiling.
Somewhere in this city, my father was crying in a hospital bed.
Somewhere in this penthouse, Damien Cross was probably smiling at his victory.
And somewhere inside me, a small voice whispered:
You're going to survive this. And when you do, you're going to make him regret ever buying you.
Five years.
One thousand, eight hundred and twenty-six days.
The countdown started now.
I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn't come.
Because in the morning, I'd wake up as someone's property.
And I had no idea how to be anything except myself.