The air on the fiftieth floor of the Vane Tower didn't feel like oxygen. It felt like a curated blend of nitrogen and expensive filtered silence, designed to remind visitors that even the air here cost more than they earned in a lifetime. I stood before the floor-to-ceiling glass, watching the sunset bleed over the city skyline like an open wound. My reflection looked pathetic a ghost in a thrift-store dress, my heels worn down from walking twenty blocks because I couldn't justify the bus fare.
Behind me, the silence was broken by the rhythmic, heavy tap of a pen against a glass desk. It was a heartbeat. Not mine, because my heart had stopped the moment I stepped into the elevator. It was the heartbeat of the man who owned this building and, as of five minutes from now, would own my life.
Silas Vane didn't look up when he spoke, telling me to sign the papers without a hint of warmth in his voice. He sounded like velvet wrapped in barbed wire, a sound that made the hair on my arms stand up. I didn't turn around immediately. I couldn't. I needed another second to look at the city and remember what it felt like to be free, even if that freedom meant being starving and desperate.
I told him I needed the money upfront, my voice trembling more than I wanted it to. I reminded him that my brother's surgery was scheduled for tomorrow morning and that I wouldn't put pen to paper until the wire transfer was confirmed in my account. It was a bold move for a woman with exactly four dollars and twenty cents in her pocket, but desperation had a funny way of mimicking courage.
The tapping stopped. The sudden vacuum of sound was more terrifying than the noise had been. I heard the leather of his executive chair creak as he stood up. Silas was a big man, not just in stature but in presence. When he moved, the very molecules in the room seemed to rearrange themselves to make a path for him. His footsteps were slow and predatory, the sound of a wolf approaching a deer that was already caught in a trap.
He stopped so close that the heat from his body seeped through the thin fabric of my dress. He smelled like sandalwood and an approaching thunderstorm. He whispered into my ear, telling me that I was in no position to negotiate. He reminded me that I had come to him because he was the only person in the state with enough liquid capital and enough lack of a conscience to fund a high-risk surgery on such short notice. He made it clear that in return, he didn't just want a wife to parade in front of the board of directors. He wanted my complete, unwavering obedience for the next three hundred and sixty-five days.
I finally turned to face him, my neck aching as I looked up into his eyes. They were a piercing, metallic gray, like the hull of a battleship. There was no mercy there. Silas Vane didn't do mercy. He had spent the last five years systematically dismantling my father's legacy, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but debts and a sick younger brother. Now, he was coming for the last thing the Vance family owned. Me.
I questioned the term complete obedience. I pointed out that the initial draft of the contract only mentioned public appearances, shared living quarters, and a convincing performance for the media to ensure his inheritance stayed secure. It hadn't mentioned anything about being a servant or a plaything.
He didn't argue. He simply slid a gold fountain pen across the polished mahogany desk toward me. He told me the clock was ticking and that every minute I spent debating semantics was a minute closer to the hospital cancelling my brother's procedure for lack of payment.
He was a monster. He knew exactly where the knife was, and he knew exactly how deep to twist it. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic rhythm that he surely could see beneath the thin skin of my throat. I looked down at the legal document. It wasn't just paper; it was a golden cage. If I signed this, I wasn't Elena Vance anymore. I was an asset. I was property.
My fingers shook so violently I had to grip the pen with both hands to keep it steady. I pressed the nib to the paper, the ink bleeding into the fiber like a stain. I wrote my name, Elena Vance, and watched the life I had planned for myself evaporate with the drying ink.
The moment it was done, Silas didn't pull away. Instead, he stepped even closer, his hand coming up to grip the back of my neck. His palm was hot, his grip firm and possessive. He welcomed me to the family, calling me Mrs. Vane with a cruel smirk that told me he enjoyed the taste of my defeat. He told me to go home and pack my bags because we were leaving for his estate tonight. He added a final, stinging command, telling me not to bother bringing the rags I currently called clothes. From this moment on, he would decide what I wore, down to the lace of my underwear.
I was too breathless to argue, my mind reeling from the sudden loss of my identity. But the humiliation wasn't over. His phone buzzed on the desk, a sharp, intrusive sound. He glanced at the screen, and his expression shifted from smug satisfaction to ice-cold calculation.
He announced a change of plans. His ex-fiancée, the woman who had left him at the altar and nearly ruined his reputation, had just landed at the airport. He decided right then that we weren't going to the estate. Instead, we were going to the Charity Gala at the museum tonight. He looked me up and down, his eyes turning into shards of glass. He told me that tonight, I wouldn't just be his wife. I would tell the world, and specifically his ex, that I was pregnant with the Vane heir.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. I tried to protest, to tell him that I couldn't possibly lie about something so massive, that I wasn't even
He cut me off, his gaze dropping to my stomach with a chilling intensity. He said that I would be whatever he needed me to be. If a lie was what it took to win his war, then I would become the most convincing liar in the city. He walked back to his desk, already dismissing me, telling me that a stylist would be at my apartment in twenty minutes.
I stood there, the weight of the gold pen still heavy in my hand, realizing that I hadn't just saved my brother. I had sold my soul to the devil, and the devil was just getting started with me.