The flat was dark, and cold, it smelled like the chicken soup she'd made three days ago. Lina shut the door gently and leaned against it as if she were shielding herself from the world outside. Her mother's faint breathing came from the little bedroom. Asleep, thank God. She couldn't deal with her tonight.
She eased herself down the door until she settled on the little hallway carpet, the last of her strength spent. The lone twenty-pound note lay on the floor beside her as if accusing her. The memory of the champagne avalanched behind her eyes. The shock on his face. The ice in his eyes. The total, complete annihilation of her life in five seconds.
Her phone vibrated against her thigh. An unfamiliar number flashed on the screen. Telemarketer. Debt collector. It didn't matter. She muted it and let her head fall back against the wood.
It buzzed again. The same number. Again. Persistent. Relentless.
A cold trickle of fear, not shame, slid down her gut. She swiped the button to answer and fingered the phone to her ear but said nothing.
Lina Carter. The voice was a clean, calm baritone. What she was saying wasn't a question. It was an identification. It was the same voice that had said "You" in the ballroom.
Her blood turned to slush. She couldn't speak.
"I believe you're at home," said Alexander Knight. No anger. This was not anger, it was a fact. "A vehicle will be at your address in twenty minutes. Be downstairs."
"W-wh-y?" The word was a dry croak.
"We have a business to discuss. Otherwise I will sue for gross negligence and intentional tort of property of great value. Decision," then the line went dead.
She did not move for a whole minute. A lawsuit. He will sue her. They will sue her. They will take what little she has. They will take this flat. She will have nowhere to go. Her mother had nowhere to go.
Panic crawled up her throat, alive and urgent. She forced herself upright, legs trembling. In the dark, she stripped off her stained uniform and dragged on jeans and a loose sweater. She scrawled a note for her mother, back soon,i love you, she left it on the kitchen table. Her hands shook so hard the words blurred.
Nineteen minutes later she was standing on the wet curb outside her building.
The streets were empty
The curtains were drawn shut. A black sedan glided to a stop on time, quiet as a shadow.
It opened the rear door.
She paused
The cold wind was cutting her face.
"Get in, Miss Carter." A deeper voice, rough as gravel. The driver. He didn't say thank you.
She got in.
The door closed with a soft, expensive click.
It smelled of leather and something sharp and citrus. The privacy glass between the seats was down.
She was in a capsule of silence and rich. Someone was taking her away, against her will, from the life she had known.
They didn't go to an office.
The car meandered around the city
Past the towers of light and glass
Into an older, grander part of the city, where the white-stone mansions had black iron gates.
It stopped in front of a harsh, modern structure, a slab of glass and steel.
A subtle plaque identified the building, The Aegis Club.
The driver opened her door.
"Penthouse suite. You're expected."
The lobby was a cavern of muted marble. A man in a tailored suit stood waiting. He gave her a single, assessing glance that took in her scuffed trainers and made his lips thin, but he said nothing. He simply led her to a private elevator, used a key, and stepped back as the doors closed.
Her reflection in the brass walls looked like a ghost, pale, wide-eyed, drowning in her old clothes.
The elevator opened directly into a room. It was not an office. It was a living space, but so minimalist, it felt like a museum. A wall of glass looked out over the endless sparkle of the city. There were no photos, no books, no signs of life. Only a large steel desk, a single chair, and a low sofa of black leather.
Alexander Knight stood by the window, he is not facing her,she could only see his backside. He had changed into a dark grey sweater and trousers. He looked less like a gala statue and more like a predator at rest.
She moved to the sofa, perching on the very edge. The leather was cold.
He finally turned. In the city's dim, ambient light his face was all harsh planes and shadow. He walked to the desk, took a single sheet of paper, and set it on the short table on the other side of her. Then he sat in the chair across from her, steepling his fingers. He looked at her. His gaze was a physical weight.
"Read it."
Her eyes swept the page. The first words blurred, then snapped into terrible, clear focus.
CONFIDENTIALITY AND SERVICES AGREEMENT
Three calendar months.The Undersigned (Lina Carter) shall function in the capacity of the romantic partner of Alexander Knight for all public and private functions as may be required. This includes, but is not limited to, attendance at social events, business functions, and family engagements. Appearance, behavior, and affection shall be maintained as directed.
Compensation: Upon successfully achieving the Term, the sum of £250,000, payable in full tax-adjusted.
Conditions: Extremely strict confidentiality must be observed. No emotional or physical attachment beyond the fulfillment of the Services is permissible. All terms of this agreement must be adhered to. Breach will result in immediate termination and forfeiture of entire compensation, plus awarding compensatory damages.
She read it twice. The numbers swayed. A quarter of a million pounds. It would pay off the debt. It would get her mother the best care. It would be a future.
It was insane.
"This is a joke," she whispered.
"It is not."
"You want to pay me… to be your girlfriend?"
"A public companion," he corrected, his voice inflectionless. "My corporate image requires stability. Certain rumours have been… inconvenient. Your little performance tonight, witnessed by half the city's influencers, has made the need more immediate. You are unknown. You are unconnected. And you are, currently, in a position of significant need."
He laid out her desperation like items on a spreadsheet. Shame burned her cheeks.
"And if I say no? You sue me?"
"I will pursue full recompense for the damage to a Brioni tuxedo and a custom Thomas Mason shirt, valued at approximately twelve thousand pounds. The legal fees will exceed that. You will lose."
She stared at the paper. It was a rope thrown to a drowning woman. A rope that would tie her to him.
"Why me? You could hire an actress. A model."
"Models seek fame. Actresses seek attention. You," he said, his eyes cold and knowing, "seek survival. You will follow the rules. You will not develop… expectations."
The final word was a lash. She flinched.
He leaned forward slightly, the first real movement he'd made. "This is a business transaction, Miss Carter. You are a temporary solution to a public relations problem. In return, your financial problems disappear. Do you understand the offer?"
She looked from his impassive face to the contract. The figure £250,000 seemed to pulse on the page. She saw her mother's tired smile. She heard the hospital administrator's polite, relentless voice on the phone.
She saw herself in that alley forever, clutching a twenty-pound note.
Her voice, when it came, was hollow. "What do I have to do?"
A pen appeared in his hand, offered to her. "Sign. The car will take you home. You will be contacted tomorrow with instructions. Your first public appearance is in forty-eight hours."
Her fingers were numb as she took the pen. It was heavy, cold metal. She hovered it over the signature line. The silence in the room was absolute, waiting to be broken.
She thought of his eyes at the gala. The promise of annihilation.
Now, they promised something else. A gilded cage.
She signed her name. It looked small and strange on the pristine document.
He took the paper, glanced at the signature, and gave a single, slow nod. "The car is waiting." He turned back to the window, dismissing her.
She stood, her knees weak. The world had just been split into a before and an after. She walked back to the elevator, the man in the suit appearing silently to escort her out.
In the car, speeding back through the sleeping city, she pressed her forehead to the cool window. She had sold the next three months of her life. She had sold her name to be used as a shield for a man made of ice.
The car stopped at her curb. She got out. It drove away.
She looked up at the dark window of her flat. Her mother was sleeping inside, unaware that her daughter had just made a deal with the devil.
And the devil now had her signature.