The morning arrived not with the sun, but with the low, ominous hum of a high-end engine idling outside Ava's apartment.
She stood at her window, the glass cold against her forehead, watching the black town car sit like a predatory shadow against the cracked pavement of her street. The driver didn't move. He didn't check his watch. He simply waited, a silent reminder that Julian Thorne didn't ask—he commanded.
Ava looked back at her living room. It was a space defined by struggle: stacks of "Past Due" notices on the scarred wooden table, the lingering scent of turpentine, and the small, framed photo of her father before the stroke had emptied his eyes.
"Six months," she whispered to the empty room. "Six months and he's safe."
She picked up her two battered suitcases. One was held together by a fraying bungee cord, a pathetic contrast to the polished chrome of the vehicle waiting for her. As she stepped out and the driver took her bags without a word, Ava felt a sudden, sharp grief. She wasn't just leaving her apartment; she was leaving the girl who was allowed to have a conscience.
The drive to the Thorne Estate was a blur of gray highway and lashing rain. When the iron gates finally groaned open, Ava felt the air in the car grow heavy. The mansion didn't look like a home; it looked like a tomb built of limestone and ego.
Henderson, the butler whose face was as animated as a tombstone, met her at the door.
"Mr. Thorne is in the morning room," Henderson said, his voice a dry rasp. "He prefers his guests to be punctual. In this house, Miss Miller, time is the only thing we cannot buy more of."
Ava followed him through a labyrinth of marble hallways. Everything was too quiet, too clean. It felt like a museum where the oxygen had been sucked out to preserve the artifacts.
She found Julian standing by a wall of floor-to-ceiling glass. He wasn't wearing a jacket today, just a crisp white shirt that looked bright enough to burn. He was staring at a digital tablet, his thumb swiping with a ruthless, rhythmic efficiency.
"You're four minutes late," he said. He didn't turn around.
"The rain—"
"The rain is a constant, Ava. Your lack of preparation is the variable." He finally turned, his icy blue eyes raking over her thrift-store coat and the exhausted circles under her eyes. He looked at her with the clinical detachment of a man inspecting a faulty piece of machinery. "Sit."
He gestured to a velvet chair that looked more like a throne. On the mahogany desk between them lay a thick stack of papers bound in blue leather.
"My legal team has spent the night drafting the parameters of our... arrangement," Julian said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly calm register. "It covers every possible scenario. Confidentiality, public behavior, and the boundaries of our private interactions."
Ava reached for the pen, but her hand stalled as she caught sight of a clause near the bottom.
"Section Eight: Public Displays of Affection?" she read aloud, her voice trembling.
Julian leaned forward, his shadow falling over her like a shroud. The scent of him—sandalwood and expensive coldness—clogged her senses. "We are supposed to be in love, Ava. If we stand six feet apart at a gala, the press smells blood. The stock price drops. My board of directors begins to wonder if I've lost my edge."
He stood up and walked around the desk, stopping so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"In public, you will hold my hand. You will smile at me as if I am the sun and the moon. You will let me touch you, and you will not flinch." He leaned down, his breath warm against her ear. "Do you think you can play that part? Or are you as fragile as you look?"
Ava looked at the pen. She thought of her father's hospital bed, the flickering monitors, and the debt that was drowning them both. She thought of the secret diary she'd found—the only thing giving her any power in this room.
"I'm not fragile," she whispered, her jaw tightening.
She pressed the pen to the paper. The gold nib scratched against the parchment, and she felt as though she were signing a death warrant for her own heart.
"There," she said, sliding the document back. "I'm yours. For six months."
Julian picked up the paper, a ghost of a smile touching his lips—a smile that didn't reach his predatory eyes. "Good. Henderson will show you to your quarters. There is a team waiting to... adjust your appearance. We have dinner with my cousin Marcus at eight. He is looking for a reason to ruin me, Ava. Don't give him one."
As she stood to leave, Julian reached out, his fingers brushing the back of her hand for a split second. It was a brief, accidental touch, but it felt like a jolt of electricity that left her skin burning.
"Welcome to the cage, Ava," he said quietly. "Try not to break your wings against the bars."