Aria's POV
I can't go home.
I sit in my car in the casino parking lot, staring at Damien's text message until the words blur. The car will pick you up at 8 AM. Pack light.
My entire body shakes. Not from cold—from rage so hot it burns through my veins like acid.
He planned this. Every single second of it.
I slam my hands against the steering wheel. Once. Twice. Three times until my palms sting.
A knock on my window makes me jump.
A man in a black suit stands outside. One of Damien's security guards from the poker room.
"Miss Moretti?" His voice is muffled through the glass. "Mr. Cross asked me to give you this."
I crack the window an inch. He slides through a thick manila envelope.
"What is it?"
"I don't know, miss. I'm just the messenger." He walks away before I can ask anything else.
My hands shake as I open it.
Inside is a contract. Thirty pages of legal terms I can barely understand. But the highlights are clear enough:
Five years of service as Personal Assistant to Damien Cross.
Residence: Cross Penthouse, Las Vegas, NV.
Compensation: Full debt forgiveness plus living expenses.
Terms: Employee must be available 24/7. No outside relationships permitted. Complete confidentiality required.
There's more, but I can't read it. Can't breathe.
At the bottom of the contract is a sticky note in sharp handwriting: You already agreed. This is just the paperwork. Sign it before 9 AM or I'll have you arrested for participating in illegal gambling. Your choice. - DC
I crumple the note in my fist.
He's not giving me a choice. He never was.
I drive home in a daze. It's almost 3 AM when I park outside our building. The lights in our apartment are on.
Marco is still awake.
I find him at the kitchen table, staring at an envelope. When he sees me, his eyes are red.
"Some man came here," he says quietly. "Damien Cross. He brought this."
I take the envelope. It's an acceptance letter to Brighton Academy—one of the most expensive boarding schools in the country. Full scholarship. Room and board included.
"He said you made a deal with him." Marco's voice cracks. "Is it true?"
I can't lie to him anymore. "Yes."
"What kind of deal?"
"I work for him for five years. In exchange, he erases Dad's debt and pays for your school."
Marco stands up so fast his chair falls over. "No! I'm not going to some fancy school while you're— while he—" He can't finish. "Aria, please. We'll figure something else out."
"There is nothing else!" My voice breaks. "In five days, they take you away. In six days, we lose the apartment. We're out of options, Marco. This is the only way."
"Then let them take me! At least I'll know you're safe!"
"Safe in foster care? Safe with strangers?" I grab his shoulders. "You're the only family I have left. I won't lose you. Not like we lost Dad."
Tears stream down his face. "Dad killed himself because of Damien Cross. And now you're going to work for him? Live with him?"
"I don't have a choice."
"You always have a choice!" He pulls away from me. "You're just too scared to make the hard one."
"The hard one is letting you go!" I'm crying now too. "The hard one is watching you get swallowed by the system while I can't do anything to save you. At least this way, you're safe. You get an education. You get a future."
"What about your future?"
I don't have an answer for that.
Marco goes to his room and slams the door. I hear him crying through the thin walls.
I sit alone in our dark kitchen and read the contract again. Every word is a nail in my coffin.
My phone buzzes. Another text from Damien: I assume you've read the contract. Sign it. Or don't. But if you refuse, I'll move forward with legal action against you for the poker game. You'll go to jail, and Marco will still end up in foster care. At least my way, he has a chance.
I text back with shaking fingers: You're a monster.
His response comes immediately: Yes. But I'm a monster who keeps his promises. 8 AM, Miss Moretti. Don't be late.
I don't sleep. At 6 AM, I pack a single bag with clothes, toiletries, and the one photo I have of Mom, Dad, Marco and me when we were still happy.
Marco emerges from his room at 7:30. His eyes are swollen.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "For what I said."
"You were right. I am scared." I hug him tight. "But I'm more scared of losing you."
"When do you leave?"
"An hour."
We sit together on our ratty couch, not talking, just holding each other. I memorize everything about this moment—the way he smells like cheap soap, the way his breathing matches mine, the way his hand grips my sleeve like he did when he was little and had nightmares.
At 7:55, a sleek black car pulls up outside.
"That's him," I say.
Marco walks me to the door. "Promise me something."
"What?"
"Promise you'll find a way to destroy him. From the inside."
I look into my brother's eyes—so much older than sixteen. "I promise."
The driver takes my bag without a word. I slide into the backseat of the most expensive car I've ever been in.
As we pull away, I watch Marco standing in the doorway of our terrible apartment, and I wonder if I'll ever see him as a free person again.
The drive to Damien's office building takes twenty minutes. We park underground, and the driver escorts me to a private elevator.
"60th floor," he says. "Mr. Cross is expecting you."
The elevator rises so fast my stomach lurches. When the doors open, I step into an office that's all glass and steel and money.
Damien stands at the window, his back to me.
"You're three minutes early," he says without turning around. "I'm impressed."
"Let's get this over with."
He turns, and for the first time, I see his face in daylight. He's younger than I expected—maybe early thirties. And handsome in a way that makes him more dangerous, not less.
He walks to his desk and picks up the contract. "Sign."
I take the pen he offers. My hand hovers over the signature line.
"Once I sign this, you own me for five years."
"No." His voice is quiet but firm. "I own your time. Your freedom to leave. Your ability to make certain choices. But I don't own you, Aria. No one can own another person."
"That's exactly what this contract does."
"Read clause seventeen."
I flip to page seventeen. My eyes scan the legal language until I find it:
Employee retains all rights to personal dignity, bodily autonomy, and freedom from degrading or illegal activities. Employer agrees to treat employee with basic human respect at all times.
"You negotiated that last night," Damien says. "I agreed to honor it. I keep my word."
"Your word means nothing to me."
"Then let my actions speak." He pulls out another document. "This is the deed to your current apartment. It's now paid in full for the next two years. If you complete your contract, it transfers to your name. Marco will have somewhere to come home to."
I stare at him. "Why?"
"Because despite what you think, I'm not a monster. I'm a businessman. And good business means taking care of investments."
"I'm not an investment. I'm a person."
"Then act like one. Sign the contract and take control of what happens next. Or refuse and let the courts decide your fate." He checks his watch. "You have thirty seconds."
I think about Marco. About Brighton Academy. About having one less thing to worry about in this world that's tried to break us.
I sign my name.
Damien takes the contract and slides it into a folder. "Welcome to Cross Industries, Miss Moretti. My driver will take you to the penthouse now. Your new life begins today."
"I hate you," I say clearly. "I want you to know that."
"Good." He meets my eyes. "Hate will keep you sharp. You'll need that."
"Why?"
"Because someone is trying to destroy me. And now that you work for me, they'll try to destroy you too."
Before I can ask what he means, his phone rings. He answers, and his expression goes dark.
"When?" He listens. "How many casualties?" Another pause. "I'll be there in ten minutes."
He hangs up and looks at me. "Change of plans. You're coming with me."
"Where?"
"To see what happens when people underestimate how far I'll go to protect what's mine."
We take his private elevator to the parking garage. His driver is waiting with the car running.
As we speed through Las Vegas, Damien makes three phone calls in a language I don't understand. His voice is cold, efficient, deadly.
Finally, I ask:
"Where are we going?"
"To the hospital."
"Why?"
"Because someone just tried to kill your brother."