The Handersons dinner is exactly what I expected, a performance where I'm both the star and the prop.
I sit beside Damien at a table, wearing a dress he selected, jewelry he bought, and a smile so expensive like it was imported from France. Margaret Handerson drones on about her latest charity gala while her husband discusses market fluctuations with Damien like they're debating the weather.
I am decorative. I am pleasant. I am a showcase. I am everything the contract requires me to be.
I also spend the entire evening cataloging every detail of how this arrangement actually works.
"Elena, darling, you must tell me about your volunteer work," Margaret gushes, her Botox preventing any real expression of interest. "Damien mentioned you're involved with that little nonprofit downtown."
Little nonprofit. As if feeding homeless families is some quaint hobby I've picked up to pass the time.
"The Riverside Community Center," I say, keeping my voice warm and engaged. "We provide meals, job placement services, and educational programs for families transitioning out of homelessness."
"How... noble." The pause before the word makes it clear she thinks it's anything but. "It must be so rewarding to help those less fortunate."
I feel Damien's hand settle on my thigh under the table, a gentle warning. Don't antagonize the clients. Don't make waves. Be charming, be agreeable, be forgettable.
"It is," I agree, even though what I want to say is that luck and circumstance are the only things separating Margaret Henderson from the families we serve. "The center is always looking for additional funding if you're interested in getting involved."
Margaret's smile becomes strained. "Oh, well, I'm sure Charles and I will consider it, won't we, darling?"
Charles Handerson didn't even look up from his conversation with Damien about offshore investments. The dismissal is complete and obvious.
This is what my life has become. Sitting at tables full of people who see me as either a curiosity or a threat, playing the role of devoted companion while my real thoughts stay locked behind perfect manners and practiced smiles.
The hand on my thigh squeezes gently approval or possession, I can't tell anymore. Maybe there's no difference.
"Elena has quite a gift for connecting with people," Damien says, his voice carrying that note of pride that sounds almost genuine. "She's increased their donor base by thirty percent in just three months."
This is news to me. I knew I had been successful at the center, but I didn't know he was tracking my performance. The thought that he's been monitoring my work evaluating me like an investment makes my skin crawl.
"How industrious," Margaret says, but her tone suggests she finds my actual productivity somehow inappropriate. Like I should be content to play dress-up and attend galas rather than doing anything meaningful.
The conversation moves on to safer topics: vacation homes, mutual friends, the kind of gossip that passes for substance in circles like these. I nod and smile and play my part while my mind wanders to my father's terrified face, to Damien's pale reaction when I mentioned my mother, to the growing certainty that everyone in my life has been lying to me.
When we finally escape back to the penthouse, I kick off the designer heels that have been torturing my feet for four hours and collapse onto the high standard leather sofa.
"Well, that was educational," I mutter, watching Damien pour himself three fingers of whiskey from a crystal decanter that definitely has a pedigree.
"The Handersons are important clients," he says without looking at me. "Their investment firm handles a significant portion of my European holdings."
"And I'm part of the package that keeps them happy?"
"You're part of what makes me appear stable and trustworthy. Men like Henderson want to do business with men like them, successful, established, with beautiful women on their arms who know how to behave in polite society."
The clinical way he says it makes something twist in my chest. "How to behave. Like a trained pet."
"Like a partner." He turns to face me, glass in hand, and I see something in his expression that might be regret. "There's a difference."
"Is there? Because from where I'm sitting, it feels like I'm performing tricks for treats."
"And what treats would those be?" His voice carries a dangerous edge now, the same tone he uses in business meetings when someone has overstepped.
"Freedom to work at the center, permission to see my friends. The illusion that I have choices in my own life." I stand up, suddenly needing distance from him. "Tell me something, Damien. What happens if I decide I don't want to play companion anymore? What happens if I refuse to attend another dinner or charity gala or whatever other performance you require?"
He takes a slow sip of his whiskey, studying me over the rim of the glass. "You signed a contract, Elena. Contracts have consequences."
"What kind of consequences?"
"The kind that would make tonight's dinner seem like a vacation."
The threat hangs in the air between us, polite and devastating. This is what I keep forgetting underneath the expensive suits and careful courtesy, Damien Cross is still the man who destroyed my family for sport.
"So I'm a prisoner after all," I say quietly.
"You're a woman who made a choice, several choices, actually." He sets down his glass and moves toward me with that predatory grace that makes my pulse quicken despite everything. "You chose to sign the contract. You chose to take my hand on your first night here. You chose to kiss me back yesterday morning."
Each word is a small blow, accurate and cruel. Because he's right, I did make those choices. Even if they were made under impossible circumstances, even if they were coerced by desperation and family loyalty, I still made them.
"And what choices do I get to make now?" I ask.
"The same ones you've always had. Within parameters."
"Your parameters."
"The contract's parameters." He's close enough now that I can smell his cologne, see the gold flecks in his gray eyes. "Would you like me to refresh your memory about the terms?"
No, I think. Because I remember every clause, every limitation, every carefully worded restriction on my freedom.
But instead, I hear myself saying, "Yes."
Something flickers in his expression surprise, maybe, or approval. He moves to his desk and retrieves a folder I recognize, the same one that contained the original contract I signed three months ago in my father's study.
"Article Three, Subsection A," he reads, his voice taking on the formal tone he uses in boardroom negotiations. "The Companion agrees to reside at the Principal's primary residence for the duration of the contract term, departing only with expressed permission or for pre-approved activities."
"Prison," I mutter.
"Article Three, Subsection B: The Companion may maintain employment at a mutually agreed-upon organization, provided such employment does not interfere with the Companion's primary obligations."
"Supervised freedom."
"Article Four, Subsection C: The Companion agrees to accompany the Principal to business and social functions as required, presenting themselves in a manner befitting the Principal's public image."
"Performance art."
He looks up from the contract, and I see something in his eyes that might be amusing. "Are you quite finished with the editorial commentary?"
"Depends. Are you quite finished reading my terms of service?"
"There's more." He turns the page, and his voice takes on a different quality. Quieter, more personal. "Article Five, Subsection A: The Principal agrees to provide for all of the Companion's material needs, including but not limited to housing, clothing, food, healthcare, and reasonable personal expenses."
I had forgotten about that part. The way the contract binds him as well as me.
"Article Five, Subsection B: The Principal will not restrict the Companion's communication with family or friends, provided such communication does not interfere with the contract's objectives or jeopardize the Principal's business interests."
"How generous," I say dryly.
"Article Five, Subsection C: The Principal will not require physical intimacy beyond what the Companion willingly provides."
The words hit me hard. I had forgotten that clause too the one protection Vincent insisted on, the one line he wouldn't let Damien cross.
"I remember now," I whisper.
"Do you?" Damien closes the folder and sets it aside. "Because for three months, everything physical between us has been your choice, Elena. Every touch, every kiss, every night you've spent in my bed instead of the guest room."
He's right, and I hate him for it. Hate him for making me complicit in my own captivity, for making me want the very thing I should despise.
"That doesn't make this right," I say.
"No," he agrees quietly. "It doesn't."
The admission surprises me. I expected justification, rationalization, maybe anger at my continued resistance. I didn't expect honesty.
"Then why?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "If you know this is wrong, why are you doing it?"
For a moment, he didn't answer. Just stands there in his expensive suit, looking every inch the corporate predator, and yet somehow vulnerable in a way I've never seen before.
"Because some debts can only be paid in kind," he says finally.
"What debt?"
"One that your family owes mine."
"What kind of justice requires owning me?"
"The kind that makes the punishment fit the crime." His voice hardens, and I see the predator return. "Your father took something precious from me. Something that can never be replaced."
"So you took me."
"I took what was offered."
"I wasn't offered. I was sold."
"By a man who valued his name more than his daughter's." The words are brutal in their accuracy. "Tell me, Elena, how does it feel to know your father's exact price?"
The question hits me like a slap. Because I do know his exact price three years of my life in exchange for his reputation, and the family name. The mathematics of my worth are written in black and white on legal documents that bear both our signatures.
"It feels like discovering that everyone I've ever trusted has been lying to me," I say quietly.
"Not everyone." He moves closer again, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "I've never lied to you, Elena. I've never pretended this was anything other than what it is."
"A transaction."
"A reckoning."
The word sits between us like a blade. Because that's what this is, isn't it? Not romance, not even simple possession, but some twisted form of justice that uses my body as the scales.
"What did my family do to you?" I ask again.
"Nothing that can be undone." His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing across my lower lip. "Nothing that you can fix by playing detective."
"Then why won't you tell me?"
"Because some truths are more dangerous than lies." His thumb traces the curve of my jaw. "Because once you know, there's no going back to the woman you were."
"Maybe I don't want to go back. Maybe I want to know who I really am."
"You're mine," he says simply. "For the next thirty-three months and eight days, you belong to me. That's who you are."
The possessive certainty in his voice should terrify me. Instead, it sends heat racing through my veins, pooling low in my belly like molten gold.
"And after that?"
"After that, you're free to hate me properly."
"What if I already do?"
His smile is sharp enough to cut glass. "Then why are you still here?"
It's a fair question. One I've been asking myself for weeks now. Because the truth is, I could probably find a way to break the contract if I really wanted to. Could expose him publicly, could run, could find some legal loophole that would free me from this gilded cage.
But I haven't. And he knows I haven't.
"Maybe I'm planning something," I say.
"Maybe you are." His other hand settles on my waist, thumb stroking the silk of my dress. "Maybe you're planning to seduce information out of me. Maybe you're planning to use what you learn against me."
The suggestion should outrage me. Instead, it makes me realize that he might have just given me a weapon I didn't know I possessed.
"And if I am?"
"Then you're finally becoming the woman you were always meant to be." His hands tighten on me, possessive and proud. "The woman strong enough to match me."
"Match you or destroy you?"
"In this game, Elena, those might be the same thing."
He leans down and kisses me, soft and sweet and completely at odds with the predatory intensity in his eyes. When he pulls back, I'm breathless and confused and more turned on than I want to admit.
"Goodnight, Elena," he says, stepping away from me. "Sweet dreams."
He disappears, leaving me standing in the middle of the living room, pulse racing and mind spinning with possibilities in my head.
Because maybe he's right. Maybe I am becoming someone new. Someone strong enough to play his game.
Someone smart enough to win it.
But first, I need to understand exactly what game we're playing. And that means finding out what really happened to my family, no matter how dangerous the truth might be.
Starting with a trip to my mother's grave tomorrow morning.
Because if Isabella Castellano is really dead, then I'll know my father and Damien are simply protecting me from some painful family history.
But if she's not...
If she's not, then everything I thought I knew about my life is a lie. And I'll have to decide whether I'm Elena Castellano, a victim of circumstances, or someone else entirely.
Someone who might be more like Damien Cross than I ever imagined.