The fluorescent light in the hospital hallway hummed, a flat, buzzing sound that felt like it was drilling directly into my skull. It was 3:17 AM. I hadn’t slept in two days, and the smell of antiseptic and floor wax had become my own personal atmosphere.
“Maria, you need to go home. Get some coffee.”
I looked up at Patricia, my coworker from the gallery. Her kind, creased eyes were filled with a pity I couldn’t stand. I just shook my head, my gaze locked on the window of the CICU.
Inside that room, my little brother, Diego, was a pale shape under a white blanket. He was nineteen. He was supposed to be failing his sophomore lit class and sneaking beer into his dorm, not… this. Not dying.
“They’re just keeping him comfortable,” I whispered, my voice raw. “That’s what the doctor said. ‘Comfortable’.” The word felt like acid on my tongue.
Patricia put a hand on my arm. “What did Dr. Evans say about the transplant list?”
“He said the list doesn’t matter if we can’t pay for the surgery. His heart is giving out, Tricia. The experimental procedure… it’s the only option. And it’s $200,000. Two hundred thousand dollars.”
I laughed, a dry, broken sound that hurt my chest. “I sold my car. I emptied my 401k. I’ve got twenty… no, twenty-one thousand dollars. I’m $179,000 short of a miracle.”
“You have three weeks,” she said, trying to sound hopeful.
“Three weeks,” I repeated. It wasn’t a deadline. It was a death sentence.
I finally left the hospital when the sun started to tint the gray Chicago sky a sickly pink. My apartment felt hollow, the silence deafening after the constant beeping of the monitors. I looked at the pile of bills on my kitchen counter. The second eviction notice. The red-stamped “FINAL” on the electricity bill.
I worked 70 hours a week. I was a curator’s assistant at a high-end art gallery, surrounded by pieces that sold for more than my brother’s life. At night, I slung mediocre pasta at a tourist trap in Little Italy. I was a good person. I paid my taxes. I recycled. And my brother was dying because I didn’t have enough money.
The GoFundMe I’d started had stalled at $4,300, mostly from high school friends who had already given all they could. The bank had laughed—literally laughed—at my loan application.
My phone buzzed. It was Patricia. I know you said no. But just look. It’s tonight. You don’t have to do anything. Just look.
The link was to a discreet, elegant website. No name. Just a logo: a stylized golden key. It was called “The Seraphim Club.” It looked like a site for a luxury watch brand or a private bank.
Patricia had told me about it on the bus two days ago. I’d almost slapped her. “A companion auction? Tricia, that’s… that’s prostitution.”
“It’s not,” she’d insisted, her voice low. “It’s legal. It’s contracts. Wealthy men—politicians, CEOs—bid for a companion for a social event. A gala. A business dinner. That’s it. It’s all discretion. No… expectations. A friend of my cousin’s… she paid off her medical school debt in one night.”
I had shut her down. Now, staring at the peeling paint on my wall, I clicked the link.
It was invitation-only. But Patricia had given me a code. The site opened. It wasn’t seedy. It was terrifyingly professional. Testimonials from “associates” who had “achieved their dreams.” An FAQ that spoke of “ironclad contracts” and “complete companion discretion.”
The “Evening Showcase” was tonight. At the Grand View Hotel. I thought of Diego’s hand, so cold in mine. I thought of the $200,000. I thought of the word “virgin.” It felt stupid, like an antique I’d kept on a shelf too long. A piece of me I had been saving for… what? Love? A future that was currently evaporating?
I showered, the hot water a temporary relief. I looked in the mirror. Maria Santos. 26. Dark hair, dark eyes that were currently hollowed out with fear. I had one good dress. A simple, long-sleeved black velvet dress I’d bought for an art gala two years ago.
I put it on. It felt like a costume. Or a shroud.
The Grand View Hotel wasn’t a building; it was a statement. The lobby was a cathedral of marble and gold, and I felt like a stray animal that had wandered in from the rain. I used the code Patricia gave me, and a silent security guard escorted me to a private elevator.
The penthouse suite was run by a woman named Catherine Wells. She was thin, ageless, and wore a silver suit that probably cost more than my apartment. She looked me up and down, her eyes analytical, not unkind, but utterly devoid of warmth.
“Miss Santos. You’re late.”
“I… I wasn’t sure I was coming.”
“Few are,” she said, gesturing for me to sit. The white leather sofa felt like it was judging me. “Let’s be clear. This is a business transaction. Our clients are verified, high-net-worth individuals. They are bidding for your time and companionship at an upcoming social engagement. Nothing more is ever required. Our contracts are explicit. Physical intimacy is entirely at your discretion and is handled in a separate, private arrangement, should you choose to pursue it.”
I just nodded, my throat too tight to speak.
“The average bid for a showcase companion is between fifty and three hundred thousand dollars,” she continued, as if discussing the weather. “You are… raw. Unpolished. That’s good. They can spot artifice from a mile away. You are natural. Genuine. That’s your selling point.”
My selling point. I was a product.
She had me sign a stack of papers. NDAs, liability waivers, payment agreements. I signed my name over and over, each stroke of the pen feeling like I was carving away a piece of myself.
“The auction begins in thirty minutes. You will be number seven.”
The backstage area was a holding pen of impossible beauty. There were six other women. They were all goddesses. Blondes in sequined dresses, redheads with sharp, intelligent eyes, a stunning model who looked like she’d just stepped off a Parisian runway. They were sipping champagne, laughing with a brittle, nervous energy.
I sat in the corner, in my simple black dress, and felt like a crow in a flock of peacocks.
“First time?” a blonde asked, sliding next to me. I nodded. “Don’t worry, honey. Just smile, walk, and think of the money. They love the ‘girl next door’ types. Makes them feel like white knights.” She winked, but her eyes were just as terrified as mine.
“Number Five!” a stagehand called. My heart was trying to escape my rib cage. I could hear the auctioneer’s voice, a smooth, buttery baritone that made my skin crawl. “Number Six!” I stood up. My legs were shaking so violently I wasn’t sure I could walk. “And now… Number Seven. Please welcome… Maria.”
I walked out onto the stage. It was blinding. The lights were so hot and bright, I couldn’t see anything but the first row of shadowy figures. It wasn’t a stage; it was a platform. The room was silent. I could hear my own breathing, shallow and fast.
“Here we have Maria,” the auctioneer’s voice boomed. “A lover of art, a quiet evening, and meaningful conversation. She is offering her companionship for the upcoming Children’s Hospital Gala. A noble cause. Let’s start the bidding at fifty thousand dollars.”
Silence. A paddle went up in the back. “Fifty thousand.” My heart sank. That was it? “I have fifty. Do I hear seventy-five?” Another paddle. “Seventy-five.” “One hundred.” “One hundred twenty-five.” It was climbing. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “One fifty.” “One eighty.”
The bidding stalled. $180,000. I did the math. After the club’s 20% commission… it wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t be $200,000. Oh, God. Please. Just a little more. Please. I was praying. To whom, I had no idea.
“One hundred and eighty thousand. Going once… going twice…”
“Five hundred thousand.”
The voice wasn’t from the auctioneer. It was from the audience. It was deep, calm, and cut through the room like a razor. The entire hall went absolutely, deathly silent.
I squinted against the lights, trying to see who had spoken. I could just make out a figure in the darkest corner of the room, seated alone at a table. He hadn’t raised a paddle. He had just… spoken.
The auctioneer fumbled, his smooth facade cracking. “I… I’m sorry, sir. Did you say…?”
“Five hundred thousand dollars,” the voice repeated. It was flat. A statement of fact.
A ripple of whispers went through the crowd. I saw Catherine Wells step out from the wings, her eyes wide. The auctioneer found his voice. “Sold! To bidder… to the gentleman in the back. Five hundred thousand dollars.”
The gavel cracked, and the sound echoed the break in my sanity. I stumbled off the stage, my legs finally giving out. A security guard caught me before I hit the floor.
Catherine was waiting for me in the hallway, her professional mask firmly back in place, though her eyes were glittering. “This is… unprecedented, Miss Santos. Mr. Blackwood has never attended one of these events. He’s never bid on anyone.”
“Blackwood?”
“Sebastian Blackwood. Blackwood Technologies.” The name meant nothing to me, but the sudden deference from the staff told me everything. He was powerful. “He will meet you in the private lounge to finalize the arrangement.”
I was guided to a different room. This one was dark, paneled in mahogany, with a fireplace and two deep leather chairs. He was already there. He was standing by the window, looking out at the city lights, his back to me.
He was younger than I expected. Mid-thirties, maybe. His suit was dark, tailored so perfectly it looked like it was forged onto him. He turned, and my breath caught.
It wasn’t that he was just handsome. He was… striking. Intense. Dark hair, a strong jaw, and eyes that were the color of a stormy sea. They were cold, intelligent, and looked at me not like a person, but like a problem he was about to solve.
“Miss Santos,” he said. His voice was the one from the auction. Low, measured, and holding absolute authority. “Please, sit.”
I didn’t sit. I couldn’t. I was vibrating with adrenaline and fear. “Why? Why did you bid that much? That’s… it’s too much.”
He tilted his head, a small, curious gesture. “It was the most efficient way to get your attention. And to ensure no one else did.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know you are Maria Santos. Twenty-six. Graduated from Northwestern, Art History. You work 70 hours a week, split between the Harris Gallery and ‘Luigi’s Pasta.’ You live at 1412 North Ash street, apartment 3B. You are three months behind on rent.”
I took an involuntary step back. This wasn’t a suitor. This was an interrogator.
“Your brother,” he continued, his voice softening, but only barely, “is Diego Santos. Nineteen. He’s at Mercy General, in the CICU. He has non-ischemic dilated cardiomyopathy. He needs an experimental ventricular assist device, a surgery performed by Dr. Aris. The cost is $200,000, and you have $21,450, which you scraped together by selling your 2014 Honda Civic and cashing out your meager 401k.”
I stared at him, my blood turning to ice. The room was spinning. “How… how do you know that?”
“I know it,” he said, “because I had you investigated the moment I decided to bid.”
“You… investigated me?”
“Of course.” He gestured to the chair again. “Sit, Maria. You look like you’re going to faint.”
This time, I sat. My legs wouldn’t hold me. He remained standing, a predator circling.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered. “If you knew… why the auction?”
“The auction was the mechanism. You entered it of your own free will. That’s important. It makes the contract clean.” He picked up a tablet from the desk. “As of an hour ago, Dr. Aris—the best cardiac surgeon in the world, whom I flew in from Zurich—is prepping for your brother’s surgery. It’s scheduled for 7 AM tomorrow.”
I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth. “What? No… I haven’t… the money…”
“The money is irrelevant,” he said, dismissing the $200,000 with a wave of his hand. “It’s been handled. My helicopter is transporting Diego to my private clinic in Lake Forest in twenty minutes. He will have the best care on the planet.”
Tears streamed down my face. Not of sadness, but of a sudden, violent relief that was so powerful it was painful. “He’s… he’s going to be okay?”
“Yes.”
I looked up at this impossible man, this stranger who had just handed me my brother’s life. “What… what do I have to do? The $500,000. What do you want from me?”
The unspoken question hung in the air between us. The thing Catherine Wells had promised was “at my discretion.”
Sebastian Blackwood finally moved. He sat in the chair opposite me. He leaned forward, and for the first time, his cold eyes focused on me with a burning intensity.
“I’m glad you asked,” he said, his voice dropping. “The $200,000 was for your brother. The remaining $300,000 is for me. It’s in an escrow account, and it will be transferred to you in exactly six weeks.”
“Six weeks? What happens for six weeks?”
“You will be my companion,” he said. “For the Children’s Gala. That’s what the auctioneer said.”
A small, humorless smile touched his lips. “The Gala is one night. I require you for six weeks. There are five events. A tech conference in San Francisco. Two galas. A private dinner with international investors. And a week-long business retreat in Barcelona.”
My mind was reeling. “Six weeks… living… where?”
“Here. In my home. A guest suite, of course,” he said smoothly. “You will accompany me. You will be… my partner.”
“Your partner?”
“My romantic partner,” he clarified, his gaze unwavering. “You will present, to my business associates, my rivals, and my family, as my devoted girlfriend.”
I recoiled. “Pretend? Why? A man like you… you could have anyone. Why pretend?”
The brief warmth—if it ever existed—vanished from his face. His eyes became flat and hard. “Because ‘anyone’ wants something. They want my money. They want my name. They want my connections. I learned a long time ago, Miss Santos, that genuine connection is a luxury I cannot afford.”
“That sounds… incredibly lonely,” I whispered.
“It’s safe,” he countered. “What I want from you is your ‘genuineness.’ The same quality Catherine Wells saw. You’re desperate, but not for yourself. You’re not a gold digger. You’re a… a rescue. It’s a much more compelling story.”
“So I’m a… a prop? A story you’re telling?”
“You are an actress in a very important play,” he said. “For six weeks, you will smile when I tell you to smile. You will hold my hand at dinners. You will laugh at my jokes. You will look at me as if I am the only man in the world. You will be convincing. You will be perfect.”
“And… and after six weeks?”
“After six weeks, you will have your $300,000, your brother will be healthy, and you will sign a final NDA. You will never see me again. We will be ghosts to each other.”
This was insane. It was a golden cage. But what choice did I have? He had already saved Diego. I was already in his debt.
“What about the… the other part?” I forced myself to ask. “The… physical…”
“Intimacy?” He said the word without a trace of emotion. “That is not part of our contract. Your body is your own. I am buying your performance, Maria, not your person. You will have your own suite. Your own security. You will be treated with respect at all times.”
He stood up, the meeting clearly over. “A car will take you to your apartment. Pack a bag for six weeks. A driver will pick you up at 9 AM tomorrow and bring you to my home. My housekeeper, Mrs. Davies, will get you settled.”
I stood on shaky legs, my mind a blizzard of confusion and terror. “And… my virginity?” The word just… fell out. I hadn’t meant to say it. My face burned hot with shame.
Sebastian Blackwood stopped, his hand on the door. He turned around slowly. The mask of a CEO was gone. His eyes raked over me, and for the first time, he looked… shocked. A flicker of something unreadable—surprise, disbelief, maybe even… intrigue?—passed over his features.
He was silent for a long, agonizing moment. “That,” he said, his voice softer, and somehow more dangerous, “is… unexpected.”
“Does it… does it change things?”
He looked at me, really looked at me, as if he was seeing me for the firstt time. Not as ‘Number Seven,’ not as ‘Diego’s sister,’ but as me.
“No,” he said, opening the door. “It doesn’t change the contract.” He paused. “But it makes the next six weeks… significantly more interesting.”
He left me alone in the room, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had just sold myself to a man who investigated people for a living, a man who moved surgeons around like chess pieces, a man who saw everything.
And I had just handed him a secret I had guarded my entire life.
The next morning, Diego’s surgery was a success. I spoke to him on a video call from a hospital room that looked more like a four-star hotel. He was groggy, but his color was already better. “Maria… this place… who is this guy?” he slurred, smiling. “He’s a benefactor from the gallery, Di. A very generous man.” The lie tasted like ash. “Tell him thank you,” he mumbled, drifting back to sleep. “I will,” I whispered.
The car, a black Audi with tinted windows, arrived at 9 AM sharp. We didn’t drive through the city. We drove above it, to the tallest, newest skyscraper of glass and steel that had pierced the Chicago skyline: Blackwood Tower.
His “home” was the top three floors. The penthouse. It wasn’t a home. It was an observatory. The walls were almost entirely glass, offering a 360-degree view of the city and the lake. The furniture was minimal, expensive, and cold. Black, gray, and chrome. There wasn’t a single photograph. Not one.
“Miss Santos. I am Mrs. Davies.” The housekeeper was a stern woman in a gray uniform. She led me to my “guest suite.” It was twice the size of my entire apartment. A beautiful, sterile, lonely room.
“Mr. Blackwood will be home for dinner at eight. He expects you to join him. Your… new wardrobe… has been provided.” She opened a walk-in closet. It was full. Racks of designer dresses, suits, casual wear, shoes, handbags. It was a store. “He had your measurements taken from the file at the Seraphim Club,” Mrs. Davies said, as if this was normal.
I touched the silk of a green dress. It felt wrong. This was a cage, and these were the pretty, expensive bars.
That night, I dressed for dinner. I felt like a doll. Sebastian was in his study when I found him. He was working, his brow furrowed as he stared at a wall of monitors. “You did well today,” he said, not looking up. “I… I didn’t do anything.” “You followed instructions. You’re here. That’s a good start.” He finally turned off the screens and faced me. “Tomorrow, we begin. You’ll have an etiquette coach. A stylist. A dialect coach.” “A dialect coach? I speak English.” “You speak Chicago. My investors speak… money. You need to sound the part.”
He was stripping me down, piece by piece, and rebuilding me into someone else. Someone who belonged on the arm of Sebastian Blackwood.
The next few days were a blur of lessons. How to walk. How to sit. How to hold a wine glass. How to deflect a personal question. “The key,” my etiquette coach, a terrifyingly chic woman named Anya, told me, “is to be charmingly vague. Never lie, but never tell the truth.”
I was becoming a ghost.
Our first event was the tech conference in San Francisco. We flew on his private jet. “Tonight,” he briefed me on the plane, “you will meet Marcus Vance. He’s my chief competitor. He will try to get to me through you. He will ask how we met.” “What do I say?” “You will say we met at the Art Institute. You were explaining a Rothko painting. I was… captivated. It’s plausible.” “I do love Rothko,” I said quietly. “I know,” he replied.
The event was a sea of ambitious men and women in sharp suits. Marcus Vance found me immediately, just as Sebastian was pulled away. “So you’re the one,” Vance said, his smile all teeth. “The one who finally tamed the beast. Tell me, how does a quiet art curator land Sebastian Blackwood?”
I took a sip of champagne, my hand miraculously steady. “He was captivated by my insights on Rothko,” I said, my voice smooth. Vance laughed. “Cute. A prepared story. Be careful, little bird. Sebastian doesn’t keep pets for long. He gets… bored.” “I’m not his pet,” I said, my voice sharp. “Aren’t you? He bought you, didn’t he?” My blood ran cold. He knew. Before I could respond, Sebastian’s hand was on the small of my back. His touch was firm, proprietary. “Marcus. I see you’ve met Maria. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bore her with your corporate posturing.” His smile was lethal. Vance’s smile faltered. He saw the possessiveness. And he believed it. “Just welcoming her to the shark tank, Blackwood,” Vance said, backing off.
Later, on the balcony of the hotel, overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge, Sebastian handed me a drink. “You did well,” he said. “He knew. He said you ‘bought’ me.” Sebastian’s jaw tightened. “Vance thinks he knows. He assumes you’re a high-class escort I’m paying for. He’s wrong.” “Is he?” I asked, the words sharper than I intended. “He’s just off by a few details.” Sebastian turned to me, the wind whipping his dark hair. His eyes were unreadable in the dark. “He thinks you’re with me for my money. I know you’re with me for your brother. The motives are… purer.” “Purer,” I repeated, tasting the irony. “Yes. You aren’t pretending to love me to get my wallet. You’re pretending to love me to save a life. It’s… noble.”
We stood in silence. “Why did you do it?” I asked, finally. “Why me? You could have hired an actress. A professional.” He looked out at the dark water for a long time. “Because actresses are good at faking. You… you don’t know how to fake. When you smile, it’s real. When you’re afraid, it’s real. The lies I’m telling you to say… they fight with the honesty in your eyes. It makes it… compelling. No one can look at you and believe you’re capable of the kind of deception required to be with me.” “So… my honesty makes me a better liar.” “Precisely,” he said.
The next few weeks fell into a strange, tense rhythm. We went to the galas. I wore dresses that cost more than my college tuition. I smiled, I charmed, I deflected. I played the part of Maria, the adoring, art-loving girlfriend. And Sebastian played the part of the devoted, humanized partner. The press loved it. The “Ice King” of tech had been “thawed” by a “mystery brunette.” I spoke to Diego every day. He was in physical therapy. He was getting stronger. He was laughing. And every time I heard his laugh, the guilt of my lie twisted in my stomach.
But something else was happening. Something I hadn’t expected. I started to see the man behind the mask. I saw him in his study at 4 AM, his face illuminated by code, the burden of his empire pressing down on him. I saw him be surprisingly gentle with Mrs. Davies. I saw the way he’d go silent whenever a commercial for “Vargas Pharmaceuticals” came on the television.
One night, I couldn’t sleep. I went to the kitchen. He was there, standing in the dark, staring out at the city. He was holding a single, framed photograph. I didn’t mean to pry. I just… froze. He didn’t notice me. He was tracing the glass of the photo with his thumb. It was a picture of him, younger, smiling—a real, unguarded smile—with a beautiful, laughing woman with fiery red hair.
He suddenly sensed me and slammed the photo face-down on the counter, his whole body tensing. “Don’t,” he growled, his voice rough. “I’m sorry, I just wanted some water.” “Get it and go.” “Sebastian, who was she?” “It’s none of your business,” he snapped, his voice dangerously cold. “It has nothing toDdo with our arrangement.” “It has everything to do with it, doesn’t it?” I said, walking closer. “She’s why you need this. She’s why you won’t let anyone in. She’s why you’re ‘safe’.”
He turned on me, his eyes blazing with a pain so raw it stunned me. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re here to do a job. Do it. Don’t… presume… to know anything about me.” He stormed out, leaving the photograph on the counter, face-down. I knew, right then, that I wasn’t just a shield against future gold diggers. I was a shield against a ghost.
The final event was the “business retreat” in Barcelona. “This is the most important one,” he told me on the jet. “We’re meeting with Alejandro Vargas.” The name hit me. “Vargas Pharmaceuticals?” Sebastian’s face was carved from stone. “Yes. We’re negotiating a merger of our biotech divisions. This deal is worth billions. It’s… complicated.” “Vargas,” I said, the pieces clicking into place. “The woman in the picture… her name was Vargas, wasn’t it?” Sebastian went rigid. “Her name was Isabella. Isabella Vargas. She was Alejandro’s daughter. She was my fiancée.” Was. “What… what happened?” I whispered. “She died,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of all emotion. “Car accident. Three years ago. Alejandro blames me.” “Does he?” “I was driving.”
My God. The cage I was in suddenly had a new, terrible context. This wasn’t business. This was penance. “Sebastian… why are you putting yourself through this? Why merge with him?” “Because our technologies combined can cure a dozen diseases. Her work… our work… it has to continue. This is the only way.” “And me?” I asked, my heart aching. “Why am I here? To prove you’re not grieving anymore? To show him you’ve ‘moved on’?” “You’re here,” he said, “to ensure the deal closes. You are a sign of stability. You are proof that I am… solid. Unemotional. Ready for the future.” Unemotional. The irony was staggering.
The villa in Barcelona was stunning, perched on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean. Alejandro Vargas was a formidable man, with silver hair and Isabella’s same fiery eyes, only his were cold with grief and resentment. He barely looked at me. The first day of meetings was tense. I could feel Alejandro’s hatred for Sebastian. It was a living thing in the room.
The final dinner was on the terrace. The air was warm, scented with jasmine. “So,” Alejandro said, swirling his wine, finally addressing me directly. “You are the new one.” “Alejandro, please,” Sebastian warned. “No, no. I want to know,” Vargas said, his eyes locking on me. “Tell me, Maria. What is it like? To be the replacement for a ghost? He’s very good at replacing things. Cars. Companies. People.” “That’s not what this is,” I said, my voice shaking, but firm. “Isn’t it?” he sneered. “He brings you here… you, a quiet little mouse… to prove to me that he’s forgotten my daughter? That he feels no guilt?” “Alejandro, that’s enough!” Sebastian’s voice was thunder. “He told you he was driving, didn’t he?” Vargas leaned in, his voice a venomous whisper. “Did he tell you they were fighting? Did he tell you she was leaving him? Did he tell you my daughter died trying to get away from him?”
The world stopped. I looked at Sebastian. His face was white. Utterly shattered. The mask wasn’t just cracked; it was gone. He hadn’t told me that. “This… this deal is over,” Sebastian said, his voice trembling as he stood. “Yes, it is,” Alejandro agreed. “Get her out of my sight. She looks nothing like Isabella. At least he got that part right.”
We walked back to our suite in suffocating silence. I didn’t know what to feel. I was a pawn in a game so dark and painful I couldn’t even see the edges. I shut the door to my suite, my hands shaking. He had used me. He had brought me here as a human shield, to absorb the shrapnel from a war I didn’t know he was fighting.
He knocked on the adjoining door. “Maria. Let me in.” “No. Go away.” “Maria. Please.” The ‘please’ was what did it. It was the first time I’d ever heard him sound… small. I opened the door. He looked… destroyed. His perfect suit was wrinkled, his tie loosened. His eyes were red-rimmed. “He’s right,” I whispered, my own anger rising. “You used me. This wasn’t business. This was… this was a performance for him. You wanted to hurt him.” “I wanted to close the deal!” he shot back. “No! You wanted to prove you were fine, that you weren’t the monster he thinks you are! And you used me to do it. I’m not Isabella. I’m not your replacement. I’m not your goddamn shield!”
“That’s exactly what you are!” he yelled, his control finally snapping. “That’s what I paid for! You are a contract! A performance! You are here to do what I tell you to do!”
The words hit me like a physical slap. All the fear, all the humiliation, all the strange, unwanted empathy I’d felt for him… it all curdled into ice. “You’re right,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. “I am a contract. And our six weeks are almost up. You’ll get your performance. But don’t you ever pretend this is anything else.”
I went to shut the door, but he put his hand out to stop it. He was breathing hard, the anger draining away, leaving something else in its place. Desperation. “Maria,” he whispered, his voice broken. The mask was gone. The billionaire was gone. The Ice King was gone. All that was left was a man, haunted and terrifyingly vulnerable.
He looked at me, his stormy eyes searching mine, and I saw a truth he’d never admit. He didn’t bring me to Barcelona to fool Alejandro. He brought me here to fool himself. I stared at the man who had bought my life, who had just devastated me with his cruelty, and for the first time, I realized I wasn’t the only one in that room who was a prisoner.
And I had no idea what to do next.
