THE CONTRACT
Warmth.
Softness.
Silence.
Alina blinked slowly, her eyelids heavy as if someone had placed stones on them. When her vision finally sharpened, she didn't recognize anything. The ceiling was high, a soft cream color. The sheets beneath her were impossibly smooth. The faint scent of lavender hung in the air.
This wasn't the auction.
This wasn't home.
This wasn't anywhere she knew.
Her pulse climbed as confusion washed over her.
Where… where am I?
Before the thought finished forming, movement caught her eye.
A row of women—five of them—stood perfectly still at the foot of the bed. All dressed in matching black-and-white uniforms. Their hands clasped in front of them. Their eyes lowered respectfully but still watching her with a quiet attentiveness that made her skin prickle.
She shot up instinctively, but her weak body didn't cooperate. Her arms trembled, and the sudden motion made everything spin.
"Good morning, Miss," one of them said gently.
Another added, "Do you need help standing?"
Alina jerked back. "Who are you people? Why are you—why are you staring at me like that?"
Her voice cracked. She hated that it cracked.
They stepped forward at once, trying to support her as she clumsily swung her legs off the bed.
"I—I don't know you. Don't touch me!" she panicked, swatting their hands away.
But her body betrayed her again. Her knees buckled.
She fell.
Their hands reached out—too late.
Alina hit the carpeted floor with a soft thud, breath knocked out of her.
"Miss!"
"Please let us—"
"You shouldn't be standing yet—"
The door opened.
Instant silence.
A wave of tension moved through the room so fast it felt like a physical shift. The women straightened immediately, their gazes dropping to the floor as a tall figure entered the room with slow, deliberate steps.
Damian Voss.
His presence was colder than the marble floors outside the room. His black shirt, rolled at the sleeves, revealed the faint lines of veins running down his forearms. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone.
His eyes—gray, piercing, steady—landed on her.
"Out," he said quietly.
The maids didn't hesitate. They practically vanished, disappearing through the doorway like a gust of wind.
The room emptied.
The silence deepened.
Damian stepped closer.
Alina's breath hitched—not because of admiration, but because of intimidation. Even in silence, he carried a pressure that made her lungs work harder.
He held out his hand—not gently, but decisively.
She stared at it, refusing.
He didn't withdraw it.
Finally, with no energy left to fight, she let his hand close around her arm as he helped her back to the bed. His touch wasn't warm. It wasn't cold. It felt… controlled. Calculated. Like every movement he made had purpose.
"Sit," he ordered.
His tone wasn't raised, but it left no room for argument.
Alina sat.
Her pulse pounded in her ears as she hugged her knees instinctively, trying to shield herself from him.
Damian stood in front of her, hands in his pockets, eyes studying her like she was an equation only he understood.
"You shouldn't have been standing," he said. "Your fever only broke a few hours ago."
Alina stiffened.
"Fever?"
"You collapsed last night. You have no memory of it." He paused. "You were burning up. The rain didn't help."
Rain…
Her mind flashed back—her drenched clothes, her cold skin, her trembling.
She swallowed hard. "And what… what exactly happened? How did I get here?"
"You were brought," he said simply.
Brought.
Like property.
Her jaw clenched.
"I want answers," she said quietly.
"Oh?" His eyebrow lifted slightly. "You're already demanding things from me?"
"I'm not demanding. I'm asking. I deserve to know what this place is." She gestured weakly to the room. "Where am I? Who are those people? And who exactly are you?"
Damian exhaled softly, almost amused.
"You don't know who I am?" he asked.
"No," she snapped. "And even if I did, it wouldn't explain any of this."
A silent beat.
Then another.
Finally, Damian's lips curved—not a smile, but something close to being entertained.
"Interesting," he murmured. "You're the only person who has ever dared look me in the eyes and ask me that many questions without shaking."
She wasn't sure if that was a compliment or a warning.
He moved closer—too close—until he stood right in front of her. Her breath stilled, her heart racing so loudly she was certain he could hear it.
"I don't like explaining myself," he said.
"Then don't buy people," she shot back before she could stop herself.
His eyes darkened—not with anger, but with something else. Something unreadable.
"You want to understand why you're here?" he asked.
"I deserve that much."
He turned and walked toward the table beside the bed. Picking up a thick folder and a pen, he placed them gently beside her.
When she looked down, her blood froze.
CONTRACT OF OWNERSHIP
Her hands trembled. "Wh—what is this?"
"A contract," he said. "Your contract."
She stared at the bold letters, her stomach dropping painfully.
He stepped closer—so close she could feel the warmth of his breath, the intensity of his gaze drilling into her.
"You really want to know everything?" he asked quietly.
She swallowed. "Yes."
"Or should I," he continued, voice dropping, "help guide your hand while you sign that?"
Her entire body went rigid.
He wasn't threatening her.
He wasn't sweetening anything.
He was simply stating a reality.
Her reality.
Her heart thudded painfully. Yes, he was breathtaking—anyone could see that—but that was the least important detail right now. The least relevant thing in the world.
Her mind snapped back to her ex's betrayal, to the café, to her soaked clothes, to her father dragging her like an offering to be slaughtered.
"It doesn't matter if you carried me out of that place," she said quietly, voice trembling with emotion and fury. "That doesn't give you the right to own me."
Damian's jaw ticked.
"Oh?" he asked. "You're questioning the terms now?"
"I'm questioning you," she whispered. "Who even thinks like this? A contract of ownership? Do you hear yourself? Are you even okay?"
The silence that followed was thick, cold, suffocating.
Damian's eyes locked onto hers, unreadable, sharp.
Without a word, he turned and walked toward the door.
Her heart raced.
He reached for the handle, paused, then glanced back at her.
His voice was low, calm, but slicing.
"Make sure those papers are signed before I return."
Her chest tightened painfully.
"You've already wasted enough of my time this morning."
The door clicked shut behind him.
And Alina realized—
Her nightmare wasn't over.
It had only just begun.