Chapter Seven – Contract on the Table
I didn’t sleep. Not even a little.
The card lay on my nightstand like it was alive, glowing in the dark. Alexander Knight. Silver letters pressed into stiff black cardstock, daring me to touch it again, to turn it over, to let it sink deeper into my skin. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face—calm, unreadable, but sharp enough to cut me open.
By dawn, I felt hollow. I shuffled through the motions—shower, uniform, bus ride to the diner—but my mind wasn’t in any of it. My body worked on autopilot while my brain spun circles around one impossible truth: I had been offered a way out, and the price was me.
All day, I tried to convince myself I wouldn’t go. That I would rip the card in half and throw it into the trash at the back of the diner. That survival meant holding on to what little dignity I had left. But every time I thought of Dad passed out with the whiskey bottle on the floor, every time I imagined those men’s eyes watching me from the shadows, I knew I was lying.
By evening, I was already on the sidewalk, card clutched in my hand.
The car arrived like clockwork, black and sleek, purring low like a predator. The driver stepped out in a suit that probably cost more than everything I owned combined. He opened the back door without a word.
I hesitated, one foot on the curb, my stomach twisting into knots. Then I slid inside.
The interior smelled faintly of leather and something sharper—like money, like power. My hands fumbled in my lap, restless. I expected Alexander to be there, but the car was empty except for me. My nerves tightened with every mile as the city blurred past the tinted windows.
When the car finally stopped, I stared up at a building so tall it looked like it wanted to touch the stars. His building. Glass and steel glittering against the night, daring me to enter. The driver escorted me to the private elevator. No reception desk, no questions. It was as if the entire tower belonged to him alone.
And maybe it did.
By the time the elevator doors slid open, my hands were clammy. I stepped into silence broken only by the faint hum of electricity. His penthouse was vast, clean lines and sharp edges, the kind of place where everything had been chosen carefully, purposefully. Even the air felt expensive.
And there he was.
Alexander Knight stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights spilling around him like a crown. He turned as I entered, his face unreadable, his presence heavier than the walls themselves.
“You came,” he said, as if he’d never doubted it.
My throat tightened. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” he replied smoothly, walking toward me. His gaze lingered on me, not cruel but assessing, weighing me like a problem to be solved. “But some are wiser than others.”
I wanted to snap at him, to tell him I wasn’t some pawn for him to move around, but my voice betrayed me. “What happens now?”
Instead of answering, he gestured toward a sleek glass table. On it lay a stack of papers, thick and intimidating. My pulse spiked.
“A contract,” he said simply. “The terms of our arrangement.”
My legs nearly gave out. I moved toward the table slowly, like the papers might burn me if I touched them. “You can’t be serious.”
“I don’t play games, Annabel,” he said. “Everything I do is serious.”
I sank into the chair across from the stack, staring at the bold letters across the top of the first page. Contractual Agreement. The words alone made me feel trapped.
I forced myself to flip the first page. My eyes scanned lines that blurred together—terms, obligations, clauses thick with legal jargon. But a few phrases cut through clear as glass:
Exclusive companionship. Public appearances as required. Confidentiality in perpetuity. Compensation equal to debt value, paid in full upon signature.
I dropped the page like it had bitten me. “This is insane.”
“It’s business,” Alexander countered, his voice calm but firm. “You erase your debt. I secure the image I need. Clean, simple, effective.”
“Clean?” I snapped, finally finding my voice. “You’re asking me to sell myself. To pretend I’m yours. That’s not business—it’s—”
“Survival,” he cut in sharply, eyes narrowing. “Don’t delude yourself, Annabel. You’re not in a position to negotiate morality. You need protection. I need discretion. This is a transaction, nothing more.”
My chest heaved. “And if I refuse?”
He leaned down, bracing one hand on the table, his face close enough for me to see the steel in his eyes. “Then the debt remains. And those waiting to collect will not be nearly as patient. You know this.”
I wanted to scream, to throw the contract in his face. But the image of Dad slumped in his chair, the bills stacked on the counter, the fear that shadowed every corner of our apartment—it all pressed down on me until I couldn’t breathe.
“You think I can just… walk into your life like this?” I whispered.
“I think you can survive,” he said coldly. “The rest is irrelevant.”
His words hung in the air, heavy, unyielding.
I stared down at the papers again, my hands trembling. Every instinct told me to run, to get out while I still could. But beneath the fear was something uglier—relief. Relief at the possibility of the number vanishing, of the weight lifting from my shoulders.
My fingers brushed the pen lying neatly beside the contract. It felt heavier than it should.
“I don’t even know what you’ll want from me,” I said softly.
“You’ll know when it matters,” he replied. “And you’ll adapt.”
I squeezed the pen until my knuckles whitened. “You’re cruel.”
For the first time, his expression shifted. Not guilt. Not shame. Just a flicker of honesty. “Cruelty is efficient.”
Silence stretched. The city glowed outside, alive and unreachable, while inside the glass walls I felt smaller than ever.
I thought of Dad, of the men’s eyes following me, of the way fear chewed holes through my chest every night. And then I thought of this contract—ugly, suffocating, wrong—but also offering something I hadn’t felt in weeks. A way out.
My hand shook as I lowered the pen to the paper.
The sound of my signature scratching across the first line was deafening.
When I set the pen down, Alexander picked up the contract, scanning it once before nodding. His eyes met mine, sharp and final.
“It’s done,” he said.
I swallowed hard, fighting the sting in my throat. “So what am I now?”
His gaze held me, steady and cold. “Mine.”
The word settled in my chest like a stone, heavy and immovable. And as the city lights burned beyond the glass, I realized there was no going back.