Susie was ripped from a shallow sleep by the sharp, deliberate knock at her front door.
It wasn't polite.
I didn't panic.
It was intentional.
She blinked at the clock—barely 6:00 a.m.—then hurried to the window, peeling the curtain aside just enough to see.
Martian.
Standing at the base of her steps. Arms folded. Glaring up at her with the same dead-eyed calm that made most men piss themselves. She yelped and ducked away from the window like it might protect her.
Her robe was on in seconds. She raced downstairs and cracked the door just enough to hiss: "What the hell are you doing here?"
Martian didn't blink. "Relax. I'm not here to kill you."
"Oh, that's comforting," she muttered, swinging the door open wider. "You don't make house calls unless something's on fire. What do you want?"
"I want to talk," he said simply. "You owe. Still. But I'm not here for that. Not directly."
Susie crossed her arms. "Then what?"
"I'm meeting with Brandi Brentford this morning."
Her brows shot up. "So am I. She's coming into the office. I'm planning to let her invest. Maybe it'll be enough to get Melinda back. Or at least sec—"
"She's not bringing that girl near either of us," Martian cut in sharply. "And she'd be an idiot if she did. We both know what we want from her. And she knows it."
Susie's expression hardened, but her silence was not enough.
Martian stepped forward. His voice dipped into a more casual, biting edge. "So I'm gonna see if I can get your little pet out of Brandi's grip. You keep your collateral so if you don't pay you don't die, I keep my leverage so you pay, or I take the girl... again, but if all goes well, the girl stops getting passed around like a hot potato. Wins all around"
Susie scoffed as her nostrils flared. "You make it sound like I planned this."
"Didn't say you did," he shrugged. "But if you're lucky, I clean up your mess, and you get your little secretary with a taste for withered cooch back."
Susie barked a laugh, dry and venom-laced. "You're disgusting. Just get going. You know, Brentford shows up early."
He turned to leave, casting her one last smirk. "You're not hard to look at naked, by the way."
Susie's face snapped into a scowl. "What?"
"You came to the window tits-first."
She rolled her eyes, curling her fingers tighter around the door frame. "You know, for a hitman-contracting-loan-shark, your game is trash."
He laughed—full-bellied, caught off-guard—and looked back over his shoulder, raising a brow. "I always figured you were a full-tilt lesbian."
Susie smirked. "I go both ways. Just not with emotionally stunted gorillas who smell like cheap whiskey and regret."
"Good to know," he said with a chuckle, then turned and made his way back to his car.
Susie slammed the door and leaned against it, pressing a hand to her forehead.
"Did the guy holding a two-million-dollar kill tab over my head just flirt with me?" she muttered aloud.
Maybe she was crazy.
She groaned and pushed herself upright, dragging her feet back upstairs.
"Yeah," she muttered to her reflection in the bathroom mirror. "Definitely losing it."
—
Melinda woke to a vice clamped around her temples and the driest mouth she'd ever known. Her tongue felt like sandpaper and her throat scraped like she'd swallowed cotton balls. The dress she wore last night clung to her, wrinkled but mercifully intact. A small relief.
She sat up slowly, blinking against the filtered sunlight bleeding through the gauzy curtains. One side of the bed was pulled back—the warmth gone, but the impression of someone having been there was still pressed into the sheets. In that spot, resting atop the pillow, was a phone.
Not hers.
She turned toward the nightstand. A glass of water. And a note.
Not cursive. Just clean, printed handwriting in black ink.
You're free to move about the house and grounds.
If you go outside, a guard will follow. Don't be alarmed—they're only there to help.
I hope you'll think about yesterday. I hope it meant something. Even just a little.
–Brandi
Melinda reached for the phone. It lit up instantly—no passcode.
No apps. No photos.
Just one contact.
Brandi.
Her fingers began to shake.
Her chest tightened. Her vision blurred.
She clutched the phone to her chest and stumbled to her feet, every corner of the room suddenly too sharp, too wide, too wrong.
This wasn't protection. This was containment.
She wasn't going home.
She wasn't going anywhere.
The panic hit like a freight train—her breath caught, and then everything inside her exploded. She sobbed, hard, her legs giving out as she dropped to the floor, the air like fire in her lungs. She choked on nothing. She couldn't scream—but she wanted to.
She didn't even hear the footsteps at first.
But then the door creaked open.
A man stood there—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black from collar to boot. Security, definitely. Well-groomed, clean-cut. Not unkind-looking... but large. Strong.
He stepped in with caution. "Miss Carter?" His voice was calm, deep. "Are you okay?"
Melinda's body flinched violently, though he never came close. "Don't touch me—don't—go away!" she cried, scrambling back until her spine hit the side of the bed.
She ran.
Straight into the bathroom.
She locked the door with shaking hands, voice breaking through more sobs. "Go! I'm fine—I don't want any trouble, go away, please—"
There was a pause.
Then, from the other side: "I understand. I'll be just down the hall if you need anything."
Footsteps retreated.
Melinda sank to the cold tile, shaking so hard her teeth knocked together. She wrapped her arms around her knees and buried her face there, crying until her throat ached.
It took a long time.
But eventually, the trembling eased. Her pulse slowed.
And she got up.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Puffy eyes. Hair a mess. She splashed water on her face, dried it with a hand towel, and took a breath that didn't catch in her chest.
There was no use hiding in here.
So she stepped out.
Back into the quiet room.
The phone still rested on the bed. The note beside it. And near the door, in a neat stack, were the shopping bags—dresses, flats, jeans, soft shirts, accessories. Brandi had insisted. Told her to get whatever she liked. Anything.
And Melinda had let herself enjoy it.
Just a little.
She'd laughed. She remembered laughing. At Brandi's bad jokes, at the play. At herself. And Brandi had... listened. Be patient. Kind, even.
Melinda's heart ached with confusion.
She didn't hate her.
She wanted to. God, she should.
But she couldn't forget how Brandi held her hair when she puked. How she'd refused to kiss her while she was drunk. How she whispered, "You're safe," like she meant it.
Still...
Melinda stared down at the phone again.
She couldn't get past the truth.
She'd been bought.
And no matter how golden the cage...
She was still in one.
—
Brandi took a slow, grounding breath as the elevator doors opened. The familiar sterile scent of Hillsdale's lobby hit her immediately. She stepped out, heels sharp against the polished tile. The receptionist gave her a nervous smile. Brandi didn't return it.
She walked with purpose, just like she had a few days ago, only this time, there was no Melinda to greet her with that warm, unsure smile. That seat at the desk was filled now.
And by him of all people.
Brandi's eyes narrowed as she approached. The young man—Eric, she presumed—sat at Melinda's desk, plucking petals from the now wilted roses Brandi had sent. He barely glanced up.
"They're dead," Brandi said flatly.
He looked up, startled. "Oh, uh—"
She didn't wait for a reply. She breezed past him with a flick of her eyes that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand.
The conference room was just ahead.
She didn't knock.
Brandi shoved the door open.
Susie stood at the window, back to her, phone in hand. She didn't look startled. Her voice was low, trembling slightly.
"...please. Just let her go. Whatever you want, you can have it. Just don't hurt her. I know she's with you. I know what you are."
Brandi's voice cut through the room like a knife. "That's enough begging for one morning."
Susie spun around, her face pale, her composure snapping back in an instant. Her hand fell to her side, phone still in it. Brandi walked in slowly, smoothly. She placed two phones on the conference table, hers and Melinda's. Deliberate.
"I haven't hurt her," Brandi said. "And I don't intend to. We spent the day together yesterday. It was... civil. Enjoyable, even. We're working on a living arrangement that suits us both, her phone."
Susie's mouth fell open, then snapped shut again. Her knuckles went white as she gripped the edge of the table.
"That's not what this meeting was for," she growled. "I called you here to bargain. To negotiate her freedom, not to listen to some insane fantasy where you play house with a girl you bought like a goddamn handbag."
Brandi blinked. "She's not a handbag."
"She's not yours either!" Susie slammed her hand on the table.
"She's not yours either! You insane dyke—what the hell is this, huh? Some twisted collector fantasy? You paid someone to kidnap her, didn't you? So you could swoop in at the auction, that yeah I know about it! Life — like some white knight and buy her? Drag her through boutiques like she was your paper doll, huh? Shove her in dresses she hated seeing herself in, body being shown to someone that didn't deserve her?! Wipe her face and tell her to smile while she begged you not to do whatever the hell you wanted? Huh... say it Brentford... sick exhibition kink having ass..."
Brandi's jaw twitched, but she didn't rise to the insult.
She simply sat.
Calm. Measured. Dangerous.
"For someone so repulsive," she said coolly, "you sure know a lot about exhibitionist kinks."
Susie's face flushed—whether from rage or embarrassment, it wasn't clear.
"You think I don't see you? You walked her through the city like a prize pony! Don't lie to me, Brandi. You planned this. I bet you watched her try on those dresses, you touched her, fed her filet mignon right?" She said rocking her shoulders
"like she was a pet, made her sit in a fancy restaurant, put up in a too tight dress, while you touched her under the table, right? She looked scared in that dress—like she'd rather vomit than be next to you. And you just smiled. Right?"
She leaned forwards.
"Right" she said nodding
slowly rising from her chair, "Stop."
"No, no—you look me in the eye and tell me you didn't. That you didn't see how turned off she got, how docile she was when you grabbed her damn body like you owned her."
Voice rising, "You need help."
"You need therapy. And a shock collar."
slamming her palms on the table, eyes blazing, "Are you done?"
"Why? You gonna hit me now?"
rounding the table with terrifying calm "Oh, I'm not gonna hit you." She lunges.
Brandi grabs Susie by the collar and hauls her halfway out of her chair, nose to nose, eyes glowing with a kind of billionaire-cult-leader wrath.
"Say it again. I dare you. Say it again and so help me God, I will gut this entire floor of this Godforsaken office where Melinda has been wrongly confined like some tragic intern Barbie by the weak-minded whims of a sexually frustrated, late middle-aged, poorly aging white woman with the charisma of a dust bunny and the libido of a rabid unpaid intern."
Susie gasps, stunned, frozen. Brandi doesn't stop.
"Whatever you've got Melinda tied up in, I will find out. I have the resources, the people, the time, and you know damn well the money"
"connections to dig through every offshore account and phone running through and in this building."
She jerks Susie forward an inch.
"If you so much as breathe on her future, I'll make sure you retire to a private island—not because you're rich, but because I'll pay to have you banished. I will spend millions to make you comfortable and irrelevant. You'll never want to leave because everyone on Earth will know what a crooked little investor Susie Bowden turned out to be—climbing up the ladder on the cock of a murdered boss and the name of a secretary who made the mistake of trusting you."
She shoves Susie back into the chair with a thud. The room is dead silent.
Brandi straightens her blazer, smooths her locs, and turns for the door.
"I'll send someone to finalize my investment deal. Give them trouble, and I swear to God your car's going to be upside down in your backyard on fire, bitch." she grabbed both the phones before she walked out.
Susie sits frozen, still half-slumped, blinking like she just got baptized in boiling water.
—
Melinda sat cross-legged on a cushioned chair near the sprawling back porch, a glass of untouched water resting on the table beside her. The infinity pool shimmered beneath the late-morning sun, the breeze soft and fragrant with early spring. It was beautiful here. Quiet. Safe.
She wore a soft lounge set—pale blue, loose-fitting, comfortable. She watched the water flow, reflecting the sky in fractured glints. Her eyes followed the way it danced, and she smiled.
Bits of last night drifted back to her.
Dinner... laughter... Brandi gently tugged her wine glass away with a teasing warning: "You'll regret this in the morning, lightweight."
That made Melinda chuckle. It felt like something a friend would say. Someone who cared.
But then... that warmth twisted. Her smile faltered.
How had she gotten to bed? She knew Brandi had driven her home, that was given by where the hell she was sitting right now.
She touched her stomach, flat, fine. No pain. Her legs. Nothing sore. She was still in the dress from dinner when she woke up... but the blanket had been pulled up over her. Like someone had tucked her in. The other side is empty, cold, but an impression there.
Like someone had stayed.
Her breath caught.
Had Brandi slept beside her?
Had they...?
The pit in her stomach churned with nausea again. Panic flickered like a spark. Her mind clawed at blurry memories she couldn't reach.
What if—? What if Brandi had—
The phone in her hand vibrates suddenly.
She flinched, startled, staring at the name glowing on the oversized screen: Brandi.
She was calling.
Melinda's thumb moved before she thought. She pressed except. Brought it to her ear. Silence. Then, the faint, familiar hum of Brandi's engine. Luxury smooth.
"Mel?" Brandi's voice was low. Careful. "What are you up to?"
Melinda swallowed. "Just... sitting outside. By the pool."
"Is everything alright? Have the guards said anything weird to you? Bothered you?"
"No," Melinda said quickly. "They've actually been really kind. Talk to me a bit. Nothing strange."
Brandi was quiet for a beat. "You sound shaky. Are you okay?"
Melinda closed her eyes. "Last night... I was drunk."
"Yes," Brandi breathed, cautious. "You were. I tried to slow you down, remember?"
Another beat. Melinda's voice cracked.
"Did we sleep together?"
Brandi didn't hesitate.
"Yes... No, not in that way, no!" she said firmly. "God, no. Melinda—I would never. Not while you were like that. I don't care what you think of me. But I'm not that."
Melinda exhaled in a burst, like she'd been holding her breath underwater. Her body slumped in relief. She nodded, even though Brandi couldn't see it.
"I just—I can't remember."
"I know," Brandi said gently. "But I promise... I wouldn't touch you like that. Not unless you were you. Really you. If you want that."
Melinda blinked fast, lips pressing together. She felt tears burning, but didn't let them fall.
"I'll have the chef come make you breakfast soon," Brandi continued. "Anything you want. I'll be home in a few hours."
"Oh." Melinda perked up, just a little. "You are?"
"Yeah. And then... we'll go to your apartment."
Melinda's eyes widened. Her breath hitched. "My—my apartment?"
She sat upright, stunned. "What are we going for?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "I love you," Brandi said, then hung up.
—
The alley door creaked open with a low groan as Brandi stepped inside—heels clicking on the polished concrete, the filtered scent of disinfectant and expensive bourbon hanging in the air. It was a stark contrast to the theatrical front entrance, hidden behind the illusion of a luxury dinner theater. One Melinda had been lured to.
Jonathan was waiting just inside, all nervous smiles and jittery energy. His arms stretched for a too-eager dap.
"Brandi! Big spender, love story, huh?" he grinned. "Listen, I—"
She didn't even slow down.
Brandi seized him by the collar with a smooth, terrifying grace, slamming him gently but firmly against the metal doorframe. One hand choked up near his throat, the other casually in her pocket.
"Whatever you're about to say," she said coldly, "I promise you don't want to finish it."
His eyes bulged. She leaned in closer.
"I spent all of yesterday convincing Melinda I'm not a monster. That I love her. That she's safe with me. You invite me to one more auction, or send me one more backdoor invite like I'm shopping for furniture—and I swear, Jonathan, I will knock the veneers off your fake-ass smile."
She shoved him away. He stumbled, nearly tripping over his own feet as she stormed past him, composed and lethal, toward the stairwell leading to Martian's office. Brandi strode in, hair perfect, eyes cutting, energy controlled. She took the seat across from Martian and crossed her legs like she had every intention of staying in charge.
"I'm sorry again about the commotion at the auction," she said dryly. "You might want to consider hiring someone to run it who isn't quite so... greasy. Or incompetent..."
From the side of the room, Jonathan stepped in quietly, clutching his throat. Martian chuckled.
"Sit, grease-boy. Close the door."
Jonathan did as he was told, shoulders slumped.
Martian leaned forward on the desk, all business now.
"Melinda Carter is collateral," he said plainly. "She was tied to a loan Susie Bowden took out -- 1.8 million, with compounding interest. You buy her things... complicated. Made her hard to reach."
Brandi's brow arched.
"I don't like it, and Susie definitely doesn't like it"
Martian continued, "What I need is for you to return her, you can have your money back. Let her go, something. That way, if Susie fails to pay, I can collect one way or another"
Brandi scoffed, shaking her head, licking her bottom lip as if holding in something far more volatile than words. She looked at Jonathan.
Then crack—she backhanded him. He yelped, stumbling into the wall. Martian didn't flinch. Brandi grinned. "Sorry. Reflex."
She turned back to Martian. "That's not happening. I don't want the money back. I didn't buy Melinda as a toy. I bought her to keep her out of the hands of whatever limp-dick freak was going to slap a collar on her and call it love. And let's be real—she's gay. Not exactly a hot market for your usual clientele."
Martian chuckled, but his smile faded fast as he leaned in.
"You really want to test me on this?"
Brandi leaned in too. "Just because I have tits doesn't mean you're going to push me around with them like you do Susie, I don't care what Susie got Melinda tied up in, she's mine, and I plan to keep her safe... not allow you or anyone else use her as an escape "
Silence. Then Brandi sat back, brushing her blazer into place.
"I'm not bringing her back. And I'm definitely not dragging her here, like Jonathan so stupidly suggested."
Jonathan whimpered from the corner.
"But I'm glad we had this little chat," Brandi added. "Because now, everything's confirmed."
She tilted her head, smiling razor-sharp. "So. Can I pay off Susie's debt?"
Martian raised a brow. "You want to take it over?"
Brandi smiled wider. " Susie won't be happy, but it ensures Melinda safety, does it not?"
Martian leaned back, clearly impressed. "I like how you think."
Brandi nodded. "I like that I win. Name the number. I'll send the money."
Martian reached down and opened a drawer, sliding out a thick manila folder, its edges worn and tabs labeled in tight black ink. He opened it with a devilish grin.
Jonathan leaned over to Brandi, still rubbing his jaw. "I really am sorry..."
Brandi didn't even look at him. She just waved him off and pulled a pen from her blazer pocket—then her checkbook.
"This is the last game," she said without looking up. "After this, I don't play nice."