Chapter 2 · The Price of a Secret

The pen was still warm from my hand. He leaned in, his voice a low, jagged blade.

"You belong to me. You don't leave."

I set the pen down. Slowly. Like it was a bomb instead of a cheap ballpoint he’d left on his desk. "Say that again."

Julian didn't blink. He just flipped the forty-page contract around—my signature still wet on the final page—and tapped the first one. "Clause four. Out loud."

"I read it, Julian."

"Then it won't hurt to hear it."

Eighty floors above the city, the penthouse was a tomb of glass and cold light. It was so quiet I could hear the rhythmic ticking of his watch. The air smelled like his signature cologne and the bitter coffee I’d spilled on my cuff in the elevator. My feet were screaming in these heels, but I wasn't taking them off. Not in front of him.

"Clause four," I recited, my voice tight. "'The assistant agrees to remain reachable at all hours, at the sole discretion of the employer.'"

"Keep going."

"'Failure to respond within fifteen minutes constitutes breach of contract.'"

"Breach." He tasted the word. "You know what that costs."

Two hundred and forty thousand dollars. A debt delivered in a folder with my father’s name printed on it like a death sentence. That number was the reason I was standing on his marble floor at midnight with ink on my skin.

"I know the cost," I snapped. "I'm the one paying it."

"No." He rounded the desk. "You’re not."

He stopped a foot away. Close enough that I could see the stray thread on his cuff—the only flaw on a man who didn't allow for mistakes. My body betrayed me, spiking with heat at the scent of cedar and rain. Four years later, and my skin still filed him under *danger* and *mine* in the same breath.

"Two weeks ago," he murmured, "a company called Meridian Holdings bought your note."

"Good for them. Send flowers."

"Meridian is mine."

I froze. My lungs felt like they’d collapsed.

"I bought the firm that held your debt," he said. "It was cheaper than my car."

I thought of the envelope on my kitchen table this morning. The one that made my hands shake so hard I’d dropped my coffee. I wasn't just working for him. I was his collateral.

"You bought my debt? Personally?"

"Personally." He toyed with the edge of the contract. "I wanted to see what you’d sell for."

"I have a life, Julian. An apartment. A job."

"You had a blue door and a lamp your mother gave you," he countered. "And you left it all in the middle of the night without a word."

That hit a nerve. I winced.

"Clause nine," he said, sliding a single sheet across the marble. "'The assistant will reside on the premises for the duration of the contract, should the employer deem it necessary.'"

"That’s not a job. That’s a leash."

"You signed it. You wanted the money."

My phone buzzed in my bag. Once. Twice.

I slapped it face-down on the desk. Julian’s eyes narrowed. He’d built a billion-dollar empire by catching the things other people missed.

"Who texts at midnight?"

"My landlord. He's enthusiastic."

He stared at the phone. Then at me.

Somewhere across the river, my four-year-old was waiting. A sitter who thought I was a widow was checking the clock. The guilt pulled at my ribs like a hook.

"I’m going home," I said, grabbing my bag strap. My hand was trembling. I didn't hide it.

"Clause nine is dormant," he said, his gaze drifting over my face. Unhurried. Intent. "For now."

I turned to the elevator. I got three steps. Four.

His palm slammed against the wall right beside my head. The panel shook. He had me boxed in.

"You think I ruined your father?" he whispered. "Say it. To my face. Say it, and I’ll let you walk."

"My father didn't kill himself over a bad market."

"No," he agreed. "He didn't."

Then he kissed me.

It wasn't a question. His hand clamped onto the back of my neck, his mouth devouring mine like he was reclaiming stolen property. For one horrific, honest second, I kissed him back—fingers fisting in his shirt, rising on my toes, the years of hate dissolving into coffee breath and cedar.

He pulled back an inch. Just enough to leave me gasping.

"Run," he murmured against my lips. "And I’ll buy the street you’re hiding on."

Street. Not city. He already knew where I was going.