The elevator climbed quietly, a glass box sliding up the steel frame of Thorne Industries. Each floor number felt like a step closer to doom. My hands were sweaty, gripping the old leather strap of my purse. Inside, tucked away, was a rough note shoved under my apartment door this morning. No name, just a scary warning about a two-million-dollar debt and the name Volkov.
Mr. Henderson's words stuck in my head: alternative arrangements. What other choice could there be when you owe five million dollars to men like Julian Thorne and Dmitri Volkov? Nothing safe. Nothing right. But sitting still, waiting for everything to crash, wasn't a choice either.
The elevator doors opened to a whole new place. Cool air, quiet voices, simple design in gray and shiny metal. A receptionist with a too-perfect smile pointed me to a pair of big, heavy doors.
His office was huge. Giant windows showed a stunning, scary view of New York City. But the view was nothing next to the man standing behind a massive, dark wood desk.
Julian Thorne was colder face-to-face. Harder. His suit fit him perfectly, showing off wide shoulders and a slim body. His dark hair was neat, not a single strand out of place. But his eyes caught me. Deep, sharp blue, smart, and completely without kindness. They looked at me like I was just a number on a money sheet.
"Miss Rossi," he said. His voice was low, smooth, and had a scary tone of power. It wasn't a hello; it was just a fact. He knew who I was, why I was here.
He pointed to a chair across from his desk. It felt so far away.
I sat, my back stiff. "Mr. Thorne. Thank you for meeting me." My voice sounded tiny in the huge room.
"Time is something I don't waste, Miss Rossi," he shot back, skipping all the polite stuff. He stayed standing, looming over his desk, making it clear who was in charge.
"My father's debt..." I started, my throat tight. "It's... a shock. I need time. To sort things out, maybe sell stuff..."
He lifted a hand, a small, cutting move that shut me up fast. "Selling won't be enough. Your father's things are worth almost nothing. His debts, though, are big. Five million dollars, to be exact."
He knew the exact amount. Of course, he did.
"That includes the two million owed to Mr. Volkov," he added, his eyes narrowing a bit, watching how I'd react. He knew about that too. The note in my purse felt heavier now.
"I know this is hard," he went on, his tone saying he didn't care. "But hard doesn't change the truth. The debts are due. Right now."
Fear twisted in my gut. Right now? How?
"There has to be some way..."
"There is one way," he cut in smoothly. He walked around the desk, his presence taking over the room, making it hard to breathe. He stopped close, looking down at me. "I have an offer for you."
My heart slammed in my chest. An offer. The other choice.
"I will take on all of your father's debt. All five million dollars. Mr. Volkov and any other small lenders will be dealt with. You will owe nothing."
Relief hit me, so strong I almost felt dizzy. Nothing? Free?
But his eyes showed no kindness. This wasn't a gift. This was a deal.
"In return," he said, the word heavy in the air, "you will sign a contract. One year. You will work for me."
Work? Doing what?
"As my personal assistant," he explained, though the title felt wrong, tricky. "You will live in my penthouse. You will be ready whenever I need you, for any task I say."
Live with him? Ready for any task?
His gaze moved over me, staying just long enough to feel too personal. "Your job will cover both work... and personal needs. I expect total obedience."
The meaning was clear. Cold.
He wasn't offering a job. He was offering a fancy prison. Slavery.
"One year," I whispered, the word tasting bitter.
"One year," he repeated. "After that, if your work is good enough, the debt will be gone. You walk away free."
Could I last a year under his total control? Could I handle the shame, the possible humiliation, hinted at in his icy eyes?
He set a thick document on the desk in front of me. A contract.
"You have twenty-four hours to decide, Miss Rossi." His voice was final. "Sign this, and your troubles vanish. Say no, and I promise, the results will be quick and harsh. Mr. Volkov, I bet, isn't known for waiting."
The threat hung there, sharp and real.
Twenty-four hours. To pick between this dark deal and total ruin.
He turned back to the window, done with me. The meeting was over.
I stood on shaky legs, the contract heavy in my hands. My father's debt, my body, my life, all tied up in the cold, exact words set by Julian Thorne.
Twenty-four hours.
