Rain tapped against the cracked window of the tiny apartment like a warning. Gray light filtered through the blinds, washing the room in cold silence. Aria sat on the edge of the couch barefoot, sleepless, and staring at the crisp document on her lap. The contract. Six months. One million dollars. Total control. Her hands trembled as she traced the thick black signature at the bottom Damien Black's name etched there like a tattoo on her future. Her own name sat beneath his in delicate, defiant ink. She had signed it. Last night, she had been soaked to the bone, backed into a corner by life, and he'd offered her a deal with the devil in a tailored suit. And she had accepted.
Across the room, her little sister slept curled under a thin blanket, her chest rising and falling with the kind of innocence Aria hadn't known in years. Her chemo was working, slowly but surely, but the hospital bills weren't forgiving. Aria's gaze dropped to the envelope on the coffee table $10,000 in crisp bills. Advance payment. A down payment on her soul. She pressed a hand to her stomach. It was twisting again. Not from hunger—she hadn't eaten since yesterday but from the sickness that came with knowing her body, her time, her will, no longer belonged to her. "What the hell did I just do?" she whispered to no one.
Her phone buzzed once. One message. Driver outside. Mr. Black awaits. Short. Cold. Like him. She stood slowly, her bones aching with exhaustion. The apartment was quiet too quiet. She walked to her sister's side, brushing a strand of dark hair from the girl's cheek with trembling fingers. "Be good, baby," she murmured, her voice cracking as she leaned down to kiss her forehead. "I'll fix this. I promise." She didn't pack. She wasn't allowed to. The contract clearly stated she would arrive with nothing. Not even a toothbrush. She took only her coat and the contract folded tight like it could disappear if she held it hard enough.
When she stepped outside, the city was still damp from the night's storm. A black Bentley waited at the curb, engine idling, sleek and terrifying. The driver stepped out tall, stoic, dressed in black. No smile. "Miss Grey?" he asked, opening the door. She hesitated for the briefest second. Then nodded. The door closed behind her with a thud that echoed through her chest.
The interior smelled like leather and something more expensive like wealth didn't just sit in the seats, it breathed the air. She sat stiffly, clutching the contract in her lap. The windows were tinted so dark she couldn't see the outside world. As the car pulled away, it felt like reality did, too. She looked down at her reflection in the glass. Pale skin. Hollow eyes. A girl who used to believe in dreams. Now? She was just surviving.
Her mind drifted unwanted—backward. The day her father collapsed in their grocery store. The day the hospital said, "Stage 4." The day the debt collector smiled when he said, "You're lucky you're pretty." She had done everything right studied hard, worked double shifts, stayed clean. And the universe had still cornered her. Until Damien Black. Powerful, rich, and impossibly dangerous. He had looked at her like a man starving—but not for sex. For control. For obedience. For someone to own. And now, he did.
The ride felt endless. City noise faded to silence. Skyscrapers gave way to forests. Then, finally, the gates appeared tall, iron, and marked with a B so large it could swallow her name whole. The Bentley stopped. The gates opened without a word. They drove through a long, winding road, flanked by trees and luxury. She couldn't even see the mansion yet, but she could feel it. The weight. The power. Her lungs shrank.
When they finally stopped in front of a towering black-and-glass mansion, Aria felt her breath leave her chest completely. It didn't look like a home. It looked like a throne. Cold, beautiful, intimidating. The driver opened her door. "This way, Miss Grey." She stepped out slowly, boots crunching on white gravel. The air was colder here.
A butler was waiting by the steps. Immaculately dressed. Not a wrinkle in sight. "Welcome to Black Manor," he said with a slight bow. "Mr. Black is not available at the moment. He instructed me to provide you with accommodations, house regulations, and your transition instructions." Aria blinked. "Transition instructions?" He didn't answer. He simply turned and walked toward the massive front doors. She followed.
Inside, the mansion was… silent. No ticking clocks. No music. No footsteps. Just wealth in the form of silence. Marble floors. Velvet drapes. Paintings that looked older than the city itself. Her reflection caught in a black mirrored wall she looked like a misplaced street girl in a billionaire's museum. The butler handed her a sealed black envelope. "Read this carefully. You'll be escorted to your quarters shortly." She opened it.
Inside was a set of printed rules. Not suggestions. Not guidelines.
RULES FOR ARIA GREY – SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE CONSEQUENCE IF BROKEN:
1. No leaving the premises without written permission.
2. No speaking to staff unless spoken to.
3. No emotional displays.
4. Daily schedule must be followed.
5. Do not enter Mr. Black's private quarters.
6. Obedience is not optional.
7. The contract may be terminated by Mr. Black at any time with penalty.
8. Failure to comply may result in punishment of his choosing.
Aria felt her mouth go dry. Punishment. Not fines. Not warnings. Punishment.
"This is insane," she whispered, folding the paper with shaking hands. "Your belongings will be taken care of," the butler said. "You will not need your personal effects here." "I don't have any belongings," she replied, voice dry. He nodded like he expected that. "All clothing, meals, and schedules are selected for you." "What about my" "Questions are discouraged. Rules are not negotiable. If you disobey, Mr. Black will be informed."
Aria's pulse pounded. "What happens if I break a rule?" The butler's face didn't move. "You don't want to know."
She was led down a long hall. Everything smelled like polished wood and money. Every detail was calculated. The corridor ended at a door. It opened without a sound. Her room was... beautiful. Large, dark, full of shadows. Black silk sheets. A silver chandelier. Floor-to-ceiling windows with an impossible view. But it wasn't a room. It was a cage with diamonds in the bars.
There were no mirrors. No clock. No phone.
On the bed sat a box. Inside: a silver choker, velvet-lined. No tags. No instructions. Just a note. Wear this when you sleep. —D. Her heart slammed in her chest.
She sat on the bed for a long time, staring at the choker. Her first collar. Not jewelry. Not a gift. A symbol. A claim. She held it in her hands. It was heavier than it looked. Cold. Unforgiving. Tears threatened to burn again. But she didn't let them fall.
Instead, she stood, walked to the mirrorless vanity, and fastened the collar around her throat. Each click echoed in her ears like a vow.
She crawled into the bed and stared at the ceiling.
Was he watching?
She didn't know.
Until the speaker in the corner of the room clicked on. A voice deep, slow, and terrifying filled the silence.
"Good girl," Damien said.
"I'm watching."