Rain tapped gently against the windowpane as if the sky itself was trying not to wake her. Isabella Price sat curled in the corner of the library, a well-worn novel resting on her knees. Her world was quiet—book pages, soft blankets, and the scent of vanilla tea. That was all she'd ever needed.
And all she thought she ever wanted.
Her father had always kept her sheltered, a porcelain doll locked behind stained-glass walls. A good girl. An obedient daughter. But beneath the soft smiles and careful manners was a hunger she didn't understand—an ache for something she couldn't name. Something dangerous.
That something was already watching her.
She didn't know it yet, but from a darkened black car parked just across the street, Drystan Sepher Alphamanio's cold grey eyes never left her. He'd been watching for weeks—quietly, meticulously. She moved like light in a room full of shadows, oblivious to the monster who had already decided she was his.
Not just to take.
To own.
To break.
To worship in his own twisted way.
Isabella stood and stretched, the hem of her dress rising just slightly above her thigh. It was innocent, unintentional—but to Drystan, it was a goddamn invitation. A prayer whispered through silk. His jaw tensed.
"Time's up," he muttered, flicking ash from his cigarette into a glass tray.
He didn't usually get involved personally. That was what his men were for. But Isabella Price was not just another leverage point. She wasn't a transaction or a threat to silence.
She was curiosity.
She was obsession.
She was the only thing in a decade that made him feel.
And now her father owed him money. A lot of it. Enough to ruin most men.
But Drystan didn't want money this time.
He wanted her.
---
That evening, Isabella returned home to find her father pacing, sweat beading his forehead, hands trembling. His tie was loose, his phone shattered on the floor.
"Daddy?"
He jumped at the sound of her voice.
"Isabella—go to your room."
"What's going on?"
A knock at the door. Sharp. Commanding.
Three times.
Her father froze.
"Upstairs. Now."
But it was too late.
The door creaked open, and the room seemed to lose all warmth. A tall man stepped inside, dressed in black, eyes like cold smoke and voice like velvet dipped in poison.
Drystan.
"Mr. Price," he said slowly, gaze flicking to Isabella as if she were already his property. "We need to talk."
Her father swallowed hard. "Please… not here. Not with her—"
"She stays," Drystan interrupted. "She's part of the debt."
Isabella's heart stuttered.
"What?" she whispered.
Drystan finally looked at her—really looked. His gaze pinned her in place, and for the first time in her life, she felt truly naked. Not because of what she wore, but because of what he saw in her. The innocence. The softness. The hidden hunger.
"You're coming with me," he said simply.
She blinked. "I… I don't even know you."
A slow smile, sharp and devastating. "You will."