The rain hit harder than usual that night icy needles piercing through Asia's thin coat, soaking her to the bone. She stood still, unmoving, as water trickled down her scalp and into her collar, trailing the length of her spine. In one hand, she held a crumpled eviction notice; in the other, medical bills smudged with ink that bled like her sanity. Her fingers trembled, not from the cold but from everything else. Desperation, exhaustion, fury. The city's chaos swirled around her horns blaring, people shoving past without sparing her a glance like she was invisible. But that wasn't new. Aria had been invisible for a long time now.
Behind her, a flickering red cross buzzed from a run-down clinic, its neon light casting a sickly glow across the sidewalk. The last place she had begged to keep her mother on life support. They'd refused her again today no payment, no treatment. Ahead of her rose a skyscraper, monstrous and immaculate. The Black Tower. The building looked like it had been carved from the sky itself, all steel and glass, glistening under the rain like the crown of a god who had long abandoned mercy. Her gaze traveled upward, her jaw tight, eyes burning with an emotion she couldn't name. Somewhere on the seventy-fifth floor, a man was waiting.
Aria pulled the thick black card from her coat pocket. Even through the soaked fabric, it felt heavier than it should, like it pulsed with purpose. She stared at the silver embossed letters.
Suite 75 | 9PM | D.B.
A whisper of a name. Damien Black. Just the initials had sent a chill down her spine when she first received the card. Now, they felt like a final breath before drowning.
She hated how her hand shook.
But hate wasn't enough to fight hunger.
Not when her stomach hadn't seen food in two days. Not when the streets had become her only bed. Not when the woman she loved most was being eaten alive by a disease the world couldn't care less about. Not when every door slammed in her face before she could finish the sentence. Her pride had died somewhere between the third hospital visit and the second missed shift at her third job. She had no dreams left to chase, no dignity left to lose.
Desperation was louder than shame.
So she crossed the street.
The lobby of the Black Tower might as well have been another universe. A sanctuary of glass, gold, and too much silence. The ceiling stretched so high it vanished into soft light. Crystal chandeliers sparkled like frozen stars. The floor beneath her boots was slick marble, her every step echoing. Classical music drifted through speakers she couldn't see. The air was cold, perfumed with jasmine and something more intangiblepower.
She stood there, dripping water onto the floor, every inch of her soaked through. Her reflection shimmered on the polished surface pale skin, wet hair plastered to her forehead, shadows under her eyes. A ghost. The few people moving through the lobby were sleek and elegant, walking in tailored suits and whispering into phones. They didn't look at her. Didn't see her. Like always.
Before she could reach the gold-plated reception desk, a woman appeared sharp-shouldered, dressed in a black suit with a wireless earpiece and a pinched expression. "Miss Grey?" the woman asked, not waiting for confirmation. Aria could only nod, her throat too dry to speak.
"This way," the woman instructed, already walking.
She followed in silence, each footstep betraying her with a wet squeak. They stopped in front of a private elevator with no buttons just a card scanner. The woman swiped her pass, the elevator doors opened, and Aria stepped inside. Alone.
As the doors slid shut, the last thing she saw was her own reflection in the steel. Soaked. Defeated. Broken. A voice inside whispered cruelly: You don't belong here.
The ride was silent. Smooth. Endless.
When the doors finally opened, it was not into an office or a suite. It was a palace.
Suite 75 was a world carved from shadow and wealth. Black marble floors gleamed under dim lighting. Walls were adorned with abstract art bold, sharp, expensive. A fireplace burned low in the corner, its flames casting long, lazy shadows. But the warmth didn't reach her. The air was too still. Too heavy. Like it was watching.
She stepped inside cautiously, boots squeaking again on the slick floor. The elevator doors closed behind her with a soft click that sounded more like a lock. She turned instinctively trapped.
Then he appeared.
Damien Black.
He didn't announce himself. Didn't walk with sound. He was just there. Leaning against the edge of a black leather couch, glass of amber liquid in his hand, eyes pinned on her like a hawk sizing up its prey. He was tall. Impossibly tall. And made entirely of edges sharp jawline, sharp cheekbones, sharp stare. His black dress shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms veined and powerful. No tie. No pretenses. Just power.
"You came," he said simply.
"I didn't come to sell myself," she snapped before she could stop herself. The words cut through the air like knives. Her voice sounded braver than she felt.
A single brow arched, calm and unimpressed. "I don't buy women," he replied, voice like velvet over steel. "I offer contracts."
He moved to the couch, dropped into it like a king taking his throne, and gestured with one hand. "Sit."
She didn't.
"Aria Grey," he said again, and this time her name felt like silk dragged across concrete. "Twenty-one years old. Former Juilliard student. Dropped out when your mother was diagnosed with ALS. Three jobs in two years. One eviction notice. Forty-eight thousand dollars in debt. No insurance. No safety net."
Her breath hitched. She flinched without meaning to.
"How do you know all that?"
"I make it a point to know everything before I invest," he said smoothly.
"So this is an investment?" she whispered.
"It's a deal."
Her eyes narrowed. "Why me?"
"Because you're drowning," he said simply. "And I like saving people who know they'll never fly again."
His cruelty wasn't loud. It didn't shout or stab. It smirked. Subtle. Icy. Final.
He reached for a leather folder resting on the table in front of him and slid it across to her. Her name was embossed on it in gold. Aria didn't touch it right away. She stared at it like it might bite.
"Open it," he said.
She did.
Inside were documents copies of her debts, her mother's medical reports, even a photo of her curled up on a subway bench. Her stomach twisted, bile rising.
"This is blackmail," she whispered.
"No," Damien corrected. "This is control. And control is the currency I deal in."
"What do you want from me?" Her voice cracked.
He took a sip of his whiskey, then answered with deadly calm.
"Rule one: Obedience. You do what I say, when I say it."
She clenched her fists.
"Rule two: No emotions. No love, no attachment."
She swallowed. "Easy."
"Rule three: Confidentiality. No one knows what happens between us."
She nodded tightly. "Fine."
"Rule four: Time-bound. Six months. At the end, you walk away with enough money to save your mother. To start over."
Her gaze flicked back to the contract. Her signature line was waiting.
"And in those six months?" she asked. Her voice shook.
"I own you," he said.
Her heart stopped. "You mean sexually."
His lips quirked not into a smile. Into a threat.
"I mean completely."
Something inside her tried to rebel. Rage, pride, maybe the last scrap of dignity she had left. "What if I say no?"
"Then you walk back into the rain," he said, rising from the couch. Each step he took toward her echoed in the quiet. Thunder on marble. "But you won't."
"Don't be so sure," she hissed.
He reached her, towering above, and tilted her chin up with one finger. His touch was cold. Unyielding.
"You came here, Aria," he murmured. "You walked into the lion's den because there's nowhere left to go."
Tears burned the backs of her eyes. She refused to blink.
"Not unless you beg for it," he added cruelly.
Her hand slapped the folder shut. "You're disgusting."
"And yet," he whispered, "you're still here."
Silence. Deep. Tense.
Her fingers hovered over the contract again. Slowly, she opened it.
He placed a pen in front of her.
"I'm not afraid of you," she lied.
He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "Good. Fear makes things messy."
She signed.
The ink spread across the page like blood.
He picked up the contract, scanned it, and said two words that made her knees nearly buckle.
"Good girl."
She stood up, throat tight with rage and regret. "So that's it? You own me now?"
He walked to the window, gazing out at the glittering city. "I don't want a pet, Aria. I want a weapon. Something sharp. Something obedient."
Her voice trembled. "I'm not a thing."
He didn't turn.
But his silence said everything.
She was now his.
And there was no turning back.