Elena's POV
Wrong. Everything was wrong.
The sheets beneath me were too smooth—silk, not cotton. The air smelled expensive, like leather and cologne instead of the old wood smell of my cottage. And my body felt heavy, like I'd been sleeping for a hundred years.
My head pounded. My mouth tasted like metal.
Where was I?
I tried to sit up, but my arms shook. The drug—Owen's wine—it was still in my system, making everything slow and foggy.
Owen drugged me. Owen sold me.
The memory slammed back, and I gasped. My hands flew to my body, checking, feeling, and my heart stopped.
This wasn't my dress. This was thin fabric—a nightgown. Someone had changed my clothes while I was unconscious.
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."
I scrambled off the bed so fast I fell. My knees hit a floor that was too hard, too cold. Not my cottage's wooden planks. This was marble or tile—something expensive that rich people had.
"Owen!" I screamed. "Owen, where are you?"
My voice echoed in a space that felt massive. Too much empty air around me. A huge room.
"OWEN!" I screamed louder, my throat raw.
Silence.
Then—footsteps.
Heavy. Slow. Confident. These weren't Owen's quick, nervous steps. These belonged to someone who owned wherever he walked.
The footsteps got closer, and I tried to stand, tried to run, but my legs tangled in the nightgown and I fell again. My shoulder hit something sharp—a bedpost maybe—and pain exploded.
"Careful." The voice was deep. Cold. Like winter itself had learned to speak. "You'll hurt yourself."
"Who are you?" I choked out. "Where's Owen? What did you do to me?"
The footsteps stopped. Close. Too close. I could hear him breathing—steady and calm while I was falling apart.
"Owen isn't here." Each word was precise. Controlled. Like he was used to people listening when he spoke. "Owen Harris sold you to me to clear his gambling debts. You're in the Crown Towers penthouse. Top floor. And before you ask—yes, I own this building. I own most of this city's underground, actually."
My brain couldn't process his words. Sold. Underground. Owner.
"I don't understand," I whispered.
"It's simple." The man moved, and I heard fabric shift—expensive fabric. A suit probably. "Harris owed me two hundred thousand dollars. He couldn't pay. So he offered me something else instead. You."
Two hundred thousand dollars. Owen had traded me for money like I was a car or a piece of furniture.
"What did you do to me?" My voice broke. "My clothes—"
"Were covered in dirt from being dragged across a parking garage," the man interrupted. "I had my housekeeper change you into something clean. Don't worry—I haven't touched you. Yet."
Yet.
That word hung in the air like a knife.
"Please," I begged, hating how weak I sounded. "Please, I don't know what Owen told you, but I don't have any money. I can't pay his debts. I'm nobody. I'm just—"
"Blind," the man finished. "Yes, Harris mentioned that. Said you'd be helpless. Easy to control."
Rage cut through my fear. "I'm not helpless."
"No?" He sounded amused. "Then stand up. Walk out that door. Escape."
I tried. I really tried. But my legs shook so badly I could barely kneel, let alone stand. The drug was still messing with my body, and I didn't know which direction the door even was.
"That's what I thought." The man's footsteps came closer. I felt him crouch down near me—felt the air shift with his movement. "Let me be clear about our situation. Harris paid his debt with your body. I own you for tonight. That was our agreement."
"I'm not a thing you can own!" I shouted.
"Tell that to the man who drugged you and delivered you like a package."
His words hit like punches. Because he was right. Owen had treated me exactly like a thing to be sold.
"What's your name?" the man asked suddenly.
"Why does it matter?"
"Because I prefer to know what I'm collecting."
Collecting. Like I was a stamp or a coin.
"Elena," I whispered. "Elena Carter."
The silence that followed was weird. Too long. Like my name meant something.
"Carter," he repeated slowly. "How old are you, Elena Carter?"
"Twenty-three."
"And Harris? How did you meet him?"
Why was he asking these questions? What did it matter?
"His mother was my family's housekeeper," I said. "After my parents died, she took me in. Owen was my friend. My only friend."
"Friend." The man laughed—sharp and cruel. "Is that what you call someone who drugs you and sells you to a stranger?"
Tears burned my useless eyes. "He said he had no choice. He said people were going to kill him."
"He was right about that," the man agreed. "I would have killed him if he didn't pay. But selling you? That was his choice, Elena. Don't excuse him."
My chest hurt. Everything hurt.
"What are you going to do to me?" I asked.
The man stood. I heard his knees crack slightly. "I haven't decided yet."
"Please," I whispered. "Please don't hurt me. I'll do anything. I'll find a way to pay you back. I'll—"
"You can't pay me back," he interrupted. "You said it yourself—you're nobody. You have nothing."
He started walking away.
"Wait!" I called out. "You can't just leave me here! I don't know where I am! I can't see!"
The footsteps stopped.
"My name is Damien Cross," he said. "Remember it. Because for tonight, I own you. And when morning comes, I'll decide whether you're worth keeping or whether I throw you back into whatever hole Harris pulled you from."
A door opened. Closed. Locked.
I was alone.
I crawled back to the bed and pulled myself up, my whole body shaking. My fingers touched the silk sheets that probably cost more than anything I'd ever owned.
Damien Cross. The name sounded familiar—like something from a nightmare or a news report about dangerous men doing terrible things.
And Owen had sold me to him.
I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. I was too shocked. Too broken.
Hours passed. Maybe. Time felt weird when you couldn't see light changes.
Then I heard it—a phone ringing somewhere in the penthouse. Damien's voice answered, angry and sharp.
"What do you mean she collapsed? I was just there three hours ago!"
A pause.
"I'm coming. Tell the doctors—" His voice cracked. Actually cracked. "Tell them I'm coming."
Footsteps rushed past my door. The penthouse's main door slammed open and shut.
Silence again.
I sat frozen, my mind racing. Someone had collapsed. Someone Damien Cross cared about—I'd heard real emotion in his voice for the first time.
This was my chance. He was gone. The door might be unlocked. I could try to escape, try to find help, try to—
But then I remembered: I was blind. In a strange building. Wearing only a nightgown. Weak from drugs. Even if I got out of this room, how would I get out of the building? How would I get anywhere?
I was trapped.
And when Damien Cross came back, he'd decide my fate.
I pressed my hand to my stomach, and that's when I felt it—a weird flutter. A strange warmth.
No.
It couldn't be.
But my body knew what my mind didn't want to believe. The timing. The symptoms. The way my breasts felt tender and my stomach felt different.
"Please no," I whispered to the darkness. "Please, not now. Not like this."
But deep down, I already knew the truth.
I was pregnant.