My father stole two million dollars from the Rossi family. Then he vanished. So they came for me instead. Now I'm standing on white marble in a dress that isn't mine, being handed over like a debt payment. And the man they promised me to is smiling. The man watching me from the shadows is not. "Ava Ward," the lawyer says, sliding a contract across the table. "Sign here. And here." I don't move. My stepbrother Nico does it for me — he grabs my wrist, presses the pen into my fingers, and hisses in my ear, "Don't embarrass me. This is the only reason you're still breathing." Six weeks ago I was pulling double shifts at a diner and studying for finals. Six weeks ago I had a father. Then the FBI knocked. Then the Rossis knocked. And the Rossis knocked harder. Luca Rossi steps forward. Golden hair, gray suit, the kind of handsome that gets forgiven for everything. He crouches beside my chair so we're eye level, which nobody in this room has bothered to do. "You're shaking," he says softly. "Don't. Nobody's going to hurt you here. You'll live in the east wing. You'll finish school. In two years we marry, the debt clears, and your father's name is wiped clean. That's all." "And if he's dead?" I ask. Luca's jaw tightens. "Then you're still mine to protect." Mine. Like a car. Like a chair. I look down at the contract. My whole life in twelve pages of legalese. Property transferred. Guarantee provided. The guarantee is me. I sign. The pen scratches like a knife across bone. And then someone laughs. He's been standing by the window this entire time and I somehow didn't notice him, which I now understand was the point. He steps into the light and my stomach drops through the floor. He's younger than Luca. Darker. Black shirt, black ink crawling up his throat, a single gold earring, and eyes that have already decided what you are. Damien Rossi. I know the name. Everyone in this city knows the name. He's the one they send when talking is over. "Cute," Damien says. "The whole speech. You'll be safe here." He plucks the contract off the table before the lawyer can stop him. Reads it. Smiles like a blade opening. "Two years. Debt cleared. Very generous, brother." "Put it down, Damien." "Do you know what she cost us?" Damien's voice stays soft, which is somehow worse than shouting. "Not the two million. The two million is nothing. Her father had our shipping manifests. Our routes. He walked out of my office and eleven of my men went to prison." He turns those eyes on me. "Do you know how many funerals I attended in March, Ava Ward?" "I didn't do anything," I whisper. "No," he agrees. "You just have his face." My chest is caving in. Luca stands. Nico backs toward the door like the coward he's always been. And Damien tears the contract in half. The sound is obscene in that room. Someone gasps. The lawyer actually stands up. "Damien—" "New terms." He drops the pieces onto the marble, and steps on them on his way toward me. He stops close enough that I have to tilt my head back to see his face. Close enough that I smell smoke and expensive cologne and something colder underneath. "She doesn't go to the east wing. She doesn't go to Luca. She comes to me." "You can't—" Luca's voice cracks like a whip. "She was promised—" "She was purchased," Damien says. "And I'm the one who paid." He picks my hand up off the table. Turns it over. Studies my palm — the callus from the diner trays, the chipped drugstore polish — like he's pricing me. "Two years," he says to me, quietly, just for me. "You'll live in my house. You'll eat at my table. You'll wear my name in public and smile while you do it." "Go to hell." Something flickers in his face. Interest. God help me, interest. "And every single day," he finishes, "you're going to help me find your father." "And when you find him?" Damien Rossi leans in until his mouth is an inch from my ear. "Then I'll decide which one of you pays."