The late afternoon sun bled orange across the sky as Anissa stood outside the towering gates of Steven Derulo's mansion. The place wasn't just a house—it was a fortress. Black iron bars topped with discreet cameras, manicured lawns stretching like a warning: You don't belong here.
Her palms were slick with sweat. Heart hammering so hard she could hear it in her ears. She stared at the intercom, finger hovering, every instinct screaming at her to run.
This wasn't what I signed up for.
But there's no turning back now.
She pressed the button.
A low buzz. The gates swung open with mechanical precision.
A sleek black Maybach idled just beyond the entrance, engine purring like a predator. The driver—tall, silent, face carved from stone—stepped out and opened the rear door without a word.
Anissa hesitated one last heartbeat, then slid into the cool leather interior. The door shut with a finality that made her flinch.
The drive up the winding driveway felt endless. She caught glimpses through tinted windows: marble fountains, armed security patrolling discreetly, a helipad glinting in the distance. This wasn't wealth. This was empire.
When the car stopped, the driver opened her door and nodded toward the private elevator that led straight to the penthouse. No words. No need.
The ride up was silent except for the soft hum of machinery and the roar of blood in her ears.
The doors slid open directly into the penthouse.
Steven Derulo stood waiting.
Immaculate as always—tailored black suit hugging his frame, crisp white shirt open at the collar, gold chain catching the low light. Phone in one hand, glass of something dark in the other. His eyes swept over her like she was inventory.
Anissa's voice came out small. "I can't keep doing this, Steven. You said it was one night—just business. You got what you wanted. Delete the videos. Please."
He smirked, slow and dangerous. Thumb hovering over his phone screen—the paused video of her, naked and gasping beneath him, frozen mid-moan.
"Didn't promise you shit, baby," he said, voice low and smooth, that signature swagger curling around every syllable like smoke. "Didn't guarantee a damn thing. You needed money. I gave it. Now you pay interest."
He tapped play.
The sound hit her first—her own broken moan filling the vast room. Then the visual: her legs spread, his hand gripping her throat just enough to control, hips driving into her with ruthless rhythm.
Anissa turned her face away, cheeks burning.
Steven killed the video. "This is just sex. Just money. That's the deal. You want it to stay private? Then you finish what you started."
He crossed the room in three strides, poured amber liquid into a crystal glass, and pushed it toward her on the marble counter.
"Drink up. You'll need it."
Her hands shook as she took it. The whiskey burned all the way down, but it dulled the edges just enough.
Steven leaned back against the counter, eyes never leaving her. "Strip."
The command hung in the air, simple and absolute.
Anissa's fingers fumbled with the hem of her hoodie. She pulled it over her head, let it drop. Then the jeans. Bra. Panties. Piece by piece, until she stood bare under the cold gallery lighting.
He didn't touch her yet. Just watched—detached, assessing, like she was art he'd already purchased.
Only when she was fully exposed did he move.
He circled her slowly, fingertips trailing lightly over her shoulder, down her spine, across the curve of her hip. Goosebumps rose in his wake.
"You shake like a leaf, ma," he murmured near her ear, breath warm. "But your body remembers me. Already wet, ain't you?"
She hated that he was right.
He guided her to the bedroom—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering city, bed the size of her entire dorm room. He didn't kiss her. Didn't pretend tenderness.
This wasn't passion.
This was power.
He pushed her down onto the silk sheets, spread her thighs with firm hands, and took what he wanted—slow at first, deliberate, making her feel every inch. Then harder. Deeper. Controlling the pace, the angle, her breath.
Anissa bit her lip to stay silent, but he wouldn't allow even that.
"Look at me," he ordered, gripping her chin. "I want to see it in your eyes when you come undone."
Tears slipped down her temples as her body betrayed her again, climax crashing through her against her will. He followed moments later, groaning low, spilling inside her with possessive satisfaction.
Round one.
After, he didn't hold her. Didn't speak softly.
He rolled off, reached for his phone on the nightstand, and tapped a few buttons.
Anissa's phone buzzed on the floor where her clothes lay.
She crawled over, legs still trembling, and checked the notification.
Bank Transfer Received: $2,000,000.00
Her breath caught.
Steven stood, adjusting his shirt. Voice flat. Cold.
"Next time, don't make me wait. You delay again, and I'll make sure the whole world watches your little performance—every angle, every sound."
He waved the phone like a weapon.
"Driver's downstairs. Get dressed. You're going back to school."
Anissa nodded, throat too tight for words. She dressed in silence, feeling his eyes on her the entire time.
The ride back to campus was a blur. When she stepped out near the dorms, the fresh air hit her like a slap.
Nelly was waiting on a bench nearby, eyes widening with worry as Anissa approached.
"Anissa… you okay? You look—" Nelly reached out. "You don't have to do this alone."
Anissa pulled away, hugging her arms to her chest. "I'm fine."
She walked past, silence her only armor.
Days blurred into weeks.
She moved through campus like a shadow—sitting in lectures but not hearing, eating but not tasting, smiling but never meaning it.
In the cafeteria, Nelly watched her from across the room with Denzel and another friend.
"She's off," Nelly whispered. "Like, way off."
Denzel nodded slowly. "Girl's carrying the whole damn world on her shoulders."
In the lecture hall, pens scratched furiously during a crucial continuous assessment exam.
Anissa stared at the blank page in front of her. Words swam. Numbers blurred.
"Pens down. Time's up!" the lecturer called.
Anissa slowly scrawled her name at the top—letters shaky, barely legible. The rest of the paper remained empty.
Two weeks later, in the lecturer's office, the failed results stared up from the desk.
"Anissa," the professor said gently, concern etching her face. "You were top of the class last semester. What happened?"
Anissa opened her mouth to explain—to say something, anything—but the words wouldn't come. Instead, her face crumpled. Silent tears spilled over as she broke down in the chair, shoulders shaking.
No one knew.
She was watched.
Trapped.
Alone