Chapter 2
Adrian strides to my chair, resting his palms on the table and leaning forward, his honeyed eyes locking onto mine. "You know, it hurts when you don't greet me," he murmurs, his soft lips curling as if oblivious to the horrors he's inflicted. I force out a curt, "Afternoon, Mr. Adrian." His smile widens, a predatory glint in his gaze that makes my skin crawl, urging me to lash out and end his charade. He reaches to touch my face, but I flinch back. His hand pauses mid-air, annoyance flickering in his eyes, though his smile and calm demeanor remain intact."Here for the deal we discussed two weeks ago?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest, his biceps flexing as he looms over me. I nod, and his smile turns triumphant, certain of his victory. This isn't some cliché tale where a debt-ridden girl is bought by a rich man who falls for her. Adrian saunters to a bookcase, pulls out a black file, and tosses it onto the table. Hesitant, I glance at him. He nods toward the file, his silent command clear: open it. I flip through the pages, revealing a photo of a man alongside meticulous details—his likes, dislikes, daily routines, shower habits, triggers, and even the type of women he prefers. Frowning, I look up, my mind racing with questions. Adrian's smile widens, reading my confusion. "Your first deal," he says, settling into his chair, one leg crossed over the other, exuding casual authority.Leaning forward, he clasps his hands on the table. "This is how you'll pay your debt—by following my orders. Any doubts?" His tone isn't seeking to ease my discomfort; it's a challenge to accept without question. My debt stems from my father's younger brother, David Martinez, a gambler who stole my father's identity to borrow from loan sharks—shady figures like Adrian, hidden behind legitimate businesses. When the debt spiraled, David fled, leaving my father and me buried under a mountain of obligations. I'm no longer a student, having graduated, but jobs are scarce. Until two weeks ago, I worked, but Adrian's men threatened my employer, forcing them to fire me, ensuring I'd have no means to pay him. Worse, they beat my father, leaving him in a wheelchair with a fractured leg and broken arm. That's how I ended up here, facing this devil.My hands tremble, not from fear but from rage, as I clutch the file in my lap. Adrian watches, amused by my stoic expression. "He's a thirty-year-old photographer, Elias Everett," he begins, leaning back. "He loves his job—perhaps more than his parents or any lover." I'm still unsure what this man has to do with me. I'm not Elias's type, not a killer or thug, just an ordinary graduate. "The models he photographs, the ones who fit his type—they end up dead," Adrian adds, pausing to gauge my reaction. My heart lurches. How can a photographer's models die without police intervention? My fear is evident, my chest tightening. "Not all models," he clarifies, "just those who match his type. Read it aloud."Swallowing hard, I read, "Fair, rosy skin, black or brown straight hair, 5'7" height, red lips; physical build doesn't matter." I meet his gaze, dread pooling in my stomach. "Better," he says. "You'll work under him." My legs weaken, breath catching. Work for a killer? Even if I'm not his type, Elias could kill me without hesitation. "Scared?" Adrian asks, his calm tone mocking. I'm terrified, but his casual dismissal—go and die, girl—stokes my anger. "How can I work for him? I know nothing about photoshoots or setups," I protest. He nods, unperturbed. "Does it matter? Just make him accept you." His words sink in. I'm in no position to refuse. If I say no, his men will brutalize my father again. Biting my cheek, I nod."I knew you were a smart girl," Adrian says, his voice laced with possession. "Don't forget—you belong to me now." His words are a shackle. If I run, he'll destroy my family. If I take this job, I may never return. I'm trapped in his hell, with no demands or escape.