The question hung in the super-chilled, sterile air of the penthouse, a baited hook shimmering between them. Did you bring the money… or did you come here to beg? Yanna's mind was a frantic cacophony of screaming impulses. One voice, a sliver of her old, proud self, wanted to spit on the polished concrete floor, to tell this magnificent, terrifying creature that she would rather starve in the gutter. But that voice was small and weak, drowned out by the thunderous reality of her situation. The number—₱850,000—was a physical presence in the room, a third entity standing beside them, cold and immense. Her throat felt as though it were filled with sand. She could feel Camille's eyes on her, a calm, analytical gaze that was taking in her cheap clothes, her trembling hands, her pathetic, cornered-animal terror.
"I…" The word was a dry rasp, a pathetic little puff of sound. She swallowed, forcing moisture into her mouth. "I don't have the money." Her gaze fell from Camille's face to the floor, unable to bear the intensity of that amber stare. "I came to… discuss the plan."
A slow, cruel smile bloomed on Camille's lips. It did not reach her eyes. "To beg, then," she corrected, her voice a soft, silken murmur. "It's important we use the correct terminology from the start. Clarity is everything."
The word landed like a slap. Beg. It stripped away the last of Yanna's defenses, the flimsy pretense that this was a discussion between two people. This was a supplicant before a queen. Yanna's face burned with a fresh wave of humiliation, so hot it brought tears to her eyes, which she furiously blinked back. She would not cry. She would not give her that satisfaction.
Camille seemed to find her silent, rigid defiance amusing. With a last, lingering look that felt like a physical touch, she turned her back on Yanna. The dismissal was absolute. She walked with a fluid, powerful grace over to a sleek, black bar built seamlessly into one of the white walls. Yanna was left standing alone in the center of the vast, empty room, a piece of unwanted furniture. She watched the shocking, beautiful architecture of Camille's back, the way the sweat-slicked muscles shifted under the skin as she reached for a glass. Camille wasn't just ignoring her; she was performing her own indifference, forcing Yanna to wait, to stand, to stew in her own powerlessness. The air was thick with the faint, clean scent of Camille's sweat and the expensive, ozonic smell of the climate-controlled air. It was the scent of a world Yanna didn't belong in, and it was choking her.
After a torturously long moment, Camille finished her water, placing the glass down with a soft, definitive click. She turned, her expression now devoid of amusement, replaced by a cool, brisk professionalism.
"My office," she commanded. "Follow."
She didn't wait for a response. She simply turned and strode towards a long, stark white hallway that Yanna hadn't noticed before. It was like a scar on the far wall. With no other choice, Yanna followed, her cheap shoes feeling clumsy and loud on the silent floor. The walk was an ordeal in itself. The hallway was unnervingly long and perfectly symmetrical, lined with closed, handle-less white doors. It felt less like a part of a home and more like a corridor in a high-tech laboratory or a mental institution. It was a journey deeper into the maze, further away from the exit, from the sun, from her own life.
Camille's office was not opulent. It was a command center. A sterile, brutally efficient space designed for one purpose: dominion. A massive desk, carved from a single slab of what looked like black volcanic rock, dominated the room. Behind it, a bank of glowing monitors displayed a silent, flowing river of stock market data and news feeds. The view from the window behind the desk was even more commanding than the one in the living room, looking down on the lesser towers of BGC as if they were children's toys.
Behind the desk sat a single, throne-like chair of black leather and chrome. And opposite it, placed at a calculated distance, was another chair. A visitor's chair. It was smaller, harder, with a lower back, a piece of furniture deliberately designed to be uncomfortable, to put its occupant at a physical and psychological disadvantage.
"Sit," Camille said, gesturing to the lesser chair as she moved around the desk to settle into her own. It was the first time she had invited Yanna to do so, and it felt not like a courtesy, but like a command to a dog.
Yanna sat, her back straight, her hands clenched into fists in her lap. The chair was as uncomfortable as it looked, forcing her to perch on the edge.
Camille leaned back in her throne, the leather groaning softly. She steepled her long, powerful fingers, her gaze sharp and analytical. She did not start with the debt. She started somewhere else entirely, a tactical maneuver designed to disorient.
"My father," she began, her voice a low, conversational monotone, "is a man of tradition. He believes the future of Navarro Corp is best secured through alliances. Specifically, through marriage. He is currently attempting to leverage a merger with the Tan real estate conglomerate by arranging a marriage between myself and their eldest son. An oaf with a gambling problem and the intellect of a sea sponge." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I find this arrangement… distasteful."
Yanna stared at her, her mind reeling in confusion. What was this? What did any of this have to do with her, with a ruined suit and a crushing debt? It was a glimpse into a world of such astronomical wealth and power that marriage was just another business negotiation. Her own problems felt suddenly small and pathetic, and she suspected that was precisely the point.
"I require a shield," Camille continued, her gaze unwavering. "A decoy. A public-facing, stable, long-term romantic partner. A relationship of such apparent devotion and contentment that it makes the prospect of an arranged marriage politically untenable for my father. It would make him look weak, forcing his daughter to abandon a loving relationship for a business deal. He is a proud man. He will not risk the loss of face."
The pieces began to click into place in Yanna's mind, forming a picture so monstrous, so insane, that she couldn't quite believe it. Her heart began to beat a slow, heavy drum of dread against her ribs.
With a smooth, deliberate motion, Camille slid a thick, leather-bound document across the polished black surface of the desk. It stopped directly in front of Yanna. The leather was black, the same as the desk, the same as the chair, the same as the gaping void that was opening up in Yanna's future.
"This," Camille said, her voice dropping, each word precise and weighted, "is your 'personalized repayment plan.' It is a two-year social companionship and cohabitation agreement."
Yanna stared at the document as if it were a venomous snake. Her hand trembled as she reached out and touched the cover. It felt warm, as if it had absorbed the heat of Camille's own body. She opened it. The pages were thick, creamy, filled with dense, numbered clauses in a severe, elegant font. It was a language she didn't understand, the language of traps and cages.
"You don't need to read the whole thing now," Camille said, her tone that of a patient teacher explaining a simple concept to a slow student. "I will summarize the key articles for you. We can consider this your orientation."
She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the desk. The predator explaining the mechanics of its trap.
"Clause 4: Residency. You will, of course, reside here, in the penthouse, for the duration of the contract. A room will be provided for your exclusive use. All meals, basic necessities, and a modest stipend for incidentals will be covered. This is part of the remuneration package that will be offset against your debt."
Yanna's head was spinning. Live here? In this cold, white prison in the sky? The thought was suffocating.
"Clause 7: Public Conduct," Camille went on, her voice a relentless, hypnotic drone. "In any public setting, or in the presence of any third party, including my family, staff, and associates, you will perform the role of my devoted partner. This is a non-negotiable performance clause. The role requires appropriate displays of affection as and when directed by me. This will include, but is not limited to, hand-holding, smiling when I smile, attentive listening when I am speaking, and maintaining a general demeanor of quiet adoration. The minutiae of your performance will be coached."
Coached. The word implied training, like an animal. Yanna felt a wave of nausea.
"And now," Camille said, her voice lowering further, taking on a sharp, dangerous edge that made the hairs on Yanna's arms stand on end. "We come to the most important section. The heart of our arrangement. Clause 12: Private Conduct, Absolute Obedience, and Behavioral Correction."
She paused, letting the words hang in the air, letting their weight settle on Yanna.
"In private, when we are alone, the performance ends. Your role is much simpler. Your obedience to my direct verbal commands will be absolute, immediate, and unquestioning. There will be no debate, no hesitation. Failure to comply, tardiness in your response, displays of insubordination, public scenes like the one you created at the gallery, or any action I deem 'unbecoming' or 'messy' will be considered a breach of contract and will result in 'behavioral correction.'"
The phrase hung in the air, cold and menacing. Yanna found her voice, though it was a thin, trembling thread.
"Behavioral… correction?" she whispered. "What does that mean?"
Camille leaned further forward, a flicker of something dark and excited glinting in the depths of her amber eyes. "It means, Ms. Rivera, that your debt of eight hundred and fifty thousand pesos will be amortized over the two-year term of this contract. Each day you fulfill your duties without incident, a portion of the principal is forgiven. However, each infraction will incur a penalty. A financial penalty, added back onto the principal, thereby extending the duration of our arrangement. Conversely, exceptional compliance, demonstrations of proactive servitude, may earn you 'merits.' These merits can be used to purchase certain privileges, or, if accumulated, to potentially reduce the term of the contract."
She smiled, a thin, predatory slash of her lips. "It's a performance-based system. Very modern. Very fair. The 'corrections' themselves will be… educational. Physical, at times. Psychological. Intimate. Each one specifically designed to address the nature of your failure and to ensure such infractions do not reoccur. They are to be considered part of your training."
The clinical, corporate language she used—amortized, remuneration, performance-based—was a grotesque parody, a sterile mask for something monstrously, intimately cruel. It was the calm, detached language of a torturer explaining the mechanics of his rack.
And something inside Yanna finally snapped. The terror, the humiliation, the suffocating pressure—it all boiled over into a last, desperate surge of defiance. She shot to her feet, the hard little chair scraping backward on the concrete floor.
"No," she said, her voice shaking but loud in the silent room. "No. This is insane. This is sick. You're asking me to be… your slave." Her mind grasped for the worst possible word she could think of, the ultimate transactional degradation. "I'm a student. I have a family. I'm a person. I'm not a… a prostitute."
Camille's reaction was not what she expected. There was no anger, no shouting, no icy glare.
She laughed.
It was a low, cold, genuinely amused chuckle that started deep in her chest. It was a sound of pure, dismissive contempt, and it chilled Yanna to the bone more than any rage could have. Camille leaned back in her throne, looking at Yanna as if she were a particularly amusing and naive child.
"Darling," she said, the term of endearment a weapon of condescension. "Don't flatter yourself. I have no interest in your body in that way. I have no interest in your heart, your mind, or whatever meager passions you possess. I am purchasing your compliance. Your time. Your presence. Your life. There is a very clear distinction, you see. A prostitute gets paid for a service and is then free to go. You are working off a debt. You are not free. It is a far more… binding arrangement."
The amusement vanished from her face as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a gaze as cold and hard as the desk between them. Her voice turned to ice.
"Of course," she said, her tone dangerously soft. "You are entirely free to refuse my generous offer. The choice is yours." She paused, letting the illusion of choice hang in the air for a single, cruel second before snatching it away. "In which case, my legal team will proceed with the civil suit tomorrow morning at nine a.m. We will, naturally, win. We will attach your family's assets—the small plot of land your mother owns in her home province, I believe? We will petition the court to garnish your mother's wages from the garment factory where she works. We will petition that same court—and judges are so very understanding when a Navarro asks for a favor—to place a lien on your family's finances. That will, unfortunately, impact their ability to pay for your younger sister's… ah, what was the term your mother used? Her 'premium' medical care."
Yanna felt the blood drain from her face. Her legs went weak.
"My father," Camille continued, her voice a relentless, killing whisper, "sits on the board of directors for that very hospital. He owes me a favor. It would be a simple matter to have your sister's treatment plan re-evaluated, downgraded to the public standard. Until the debt is settled, of course."
It was the final blow. The kill shot. The world tilted on its axis, the floor seeming to fall away beneath Yanna's feet. She saw it all now, with a clarity that was a form of blindness. It was never about the suit. The spilled drink was just an opportunity, a pretext. The invoice, the threats, the knowledge of her family's most vulnerable secrets… this was a trap. A perfect, meticulous, inescapable trap that had been laid for her from the moment Camille's eyes had first landed on her. She had been hunted, selected, and captured.
The fight, the last spark of defiance, did not just die. It was extinguished, utterly and completely, leaving behind nothing but a cold, hollow ash. She sank back into the hard chair, her body suddenly boneless, a puppet with its strings cut.
A long, profound silence filled the room. Camille watched her, her expression unreadable, waiting for the inevitable surrender. Finally, with a soft sigh of finality, she pushed the leather-bound contract back across the desk. Beside it, she placed a fountain pen. It was heavy, black, and silver, an instrument of obscene expense. An instrument of execution.
"Sign it, Yanna," she said, using her first name for the first time. The sound of it on her lips was a brand.
Yanna stared at the pen, at the open page, at the dotted line beneath a block of text that began, The party of the second part, hereafter referred to as 'the Companion'…
Her hand, a thing separate from her body, reached out. It was trembling so violently she could barely grasp the pen. The metal was cold and heavy in her numb fingers. She positioned the nib over the line next to where her name had been typed. The ink was black. The paper was white. Her future was a gaping void.
With a shudder that wracked her entire body, she signed her name. The scratch of the nib on the thick, expensive paper was the only sound in the universe. It was a rough, ugly sound. The sound of a soul being scraped away. She wrote Yanna Rivera, the letters shaky and malformed, the signature of a stranger. The signature on her own death certificate.
She lifted the pen from the paper. The ink was still wet, a glistening, black wound on the page.