Chapter 2
The penthouse was less a home and more a statement.
When Lily stepped out of the private elevator, a polite but expressionless man in a black suit took her two meager bags. He didn't offer a word of welcome, just a stiff nod and a gesture toward the enormous, open living space. The entire wall facing the city was a seamless sheet of glass, the setting sun turning the metropolis into a vast, glittering expanse of gold and shadow. The furniture was sleek and minimalist—all clean lines, muted tones, and intimidating angles. There was no clutter, no personal touch, no warmth. It felt like walking into a magazine spread.
She stood awkwardly in the middle of a room that could fit her entire old apartment inside it, clutching the strap of her worn backpack. The man who had escorted her disappeared down a hallway, leaving her alone in the overwhelming silence.
Then, a voice.
"You're late."
It was a deep, gravelly tone that seemed to vibrate through the air. He emerged from a different hallway, a phone pressed to his ear. Alexander Cross was taller than she expected, and much more imposing in person than in the photos. He wasn't conventionally handsome; his face was all sharp angles and a stern jaw, but he possessed an undeniable, magnetic intensity. He wore a dark, perfectly tailored suit, and his gray eyes, cold and assessing, swept over her in a single, dismissive glance.
He held up a hand, a silent command for her to wait. "No, I said the quarterly projections are off by three percent. Find out why and have it on my desk by morning." He listened for a moment, then hung up, dropping the phone on a glass side table with a faint clink.
He finally turned his full attention to her. "Lily Davies, I presume."
"Lily," she corrected, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Lily," he repeated, the name sounding foreign on his tongue. "Let's be clear. I have no interest in this arrangement. Your grandfather was a friend to my family a very long time ago, and my father asked me to honor his memory. This is nothing more than a legal obligation." He spoke as if reading from a contract, his words precise and devoid of emotion. "Your room is down the hall. I've arranged for you to continue your studies, but you will abide by my rules. No guests. No disruptions. You will be seen and not heard."
His rules were a cage, and she felt the bars closing around her. The grief she'd been holding at bay mixed with a fiery new anger. He saw her as a problem to be solved, an item on his to-do list.
"And what about my rules?" she shot back, surprising even herself.
He raised a single, skeptical eyebrow. "You don't have any rules."
"I do. I am not a project. I am not a charity case. I am a person, and I'm not going to sit here and be treated like a piece of furniture."
A flicker of something—surprise? irritation?—crossed his face before he composed himself. He took a slow step toward her, his presence dominating the immense room.
"You have a place to live. Your education is paid for. And in return, you will not cause me any trouble. You will respect my privacy and my space. That is the deal." His voice dropped, low and menacing. "I have more important things to worry about than a rebellious teenager."
Lily's heart pounded, but she refused to look away. She wasn't just a girl, and he wasn't just a savior. They were two people trapped in a deal neither of them wanted. She couldn't leave, not without losing everything. But she wasn't going to let him break her, either.
"Then I guess we're both stuck," she said, her voice steadier this time. "Welcome to the deal."