Victor's text hit Elara's phone at 9:47 PM.
*Final notice. 48 hours or we seize the house.*
She read it three times in the bathroom stall of the Thorne Dynamics ballroom, her hands shaking hard enough to nearly drop the phone into the toilet. Outside, two hundred of New York's elite celebrated another record quarter. Inside this stall, Elara's life was collapsing.
Seven figures. That's what the debt had become over ten years. Medical bills from Leo's leukemia. Her mother's cancer treatment. Her father's gambling addiction. Numbers that had stopped feeling real and started feeling like a life sentence.
The fire stairwell was empty. She kicked off her heels, and sat on the concrete steps. Sipping the remaining champagne, it was the 5th glass sheâs had, pulling her knees to her chest, her expensive navy dress bunching around her thighs.
Professional. Composed. That's what she'd been for three years as Marcus Thorne's executive assistant, you have to be, if you work for Marcus youâll know he's the Devil in Dior.
The stairwell door opened.
Marcus descended slowly, his jacket unbuttoned, his tie loosened. The dim light caught the sharp angles of his face, carved jaw, dark eyes that missed nothing. He stopped two steps above her. Heâs the type of man that turns heads when he enters a place, handsome? Yes, sexy? Yes, when it comes to work? a nightmare in black suits
"You left the gala," he said.
"I needed air."
"You've been gone for eleven minutes." He moved closer. "I don't employ people who disappear."
She looked away. "Iâm sorry it was a family emergency, there's nothing you can fix."
"Try me."
Three years working under him, he literally gets off making her life miserable. Unreal goals, Inhuman workload, impossible deadlines, yet she always delivered and made sure she'd maintained perfect distance. Hated his guts, he was always set out to make her work difficult.
Now, drunk on champagne and desperation, she felt it crumble. "My brother. Financial trouble. A debt collector. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars by tomorrow."
He pulled out his phone immediately.
"No." She grabbed his wrist. "You can't justâŠ."
"You work for me. Your problems are containable." His eyes locked on hers. "We're going to contain this."
Something broke open inside her. For the first time in three years, she wasn't alone with it.
He reached out, and for a terrifying second, she thought he would touch her face. Instead, his fingers brushed the collar of her dress, adjusting the thin strap where it had slipped on her shoulder.
âLet go of control, just for a moment,â he said, his thumb resting where her neck met her shoulder, the heat searing her skin.
"I can't," she whispered.
"Yes, you can."
He closed the final inch, ran his hands through her short dress, Elara felt electric waves through her.
His mouth descended, not with the arrogance of a boss, it was gentle but with the demanding hunger of a man who had not been with anyone for too long.
She kissed him back.
It wasn't tender. It was desperate, her mouth against his, tasting cologne and expensive scotch. She expected him to pull away. Marcus Thorne didn't blur professional lines. Marcus didn't blur anything.
Instead, he kissed her again.
His hand gripped the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, destroying the careful pins. The other hand pulled her close until there was no space between them. He tasted like control and power, and she wanted to drown in it.
He spun her around and pressed her back against the brick wall. His mouth moved to her neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks she'd have to hide tomorrow.
"Tell me to stop," he said against her skin.
She didn't.
She pulled his shirt up instead, needing to feel him. His chest was solid muscle, warm skin stretched over ribs she could feel under her palms. He made a sound, almost a growl and then his hands were everywhere.
Her dress was hiked up around her waist. His fingers found the edge of her underwear and tore them away completely, the fabric ripping in his grip.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're soaked."
He didn't waste time. His hand pressed between her thighs, fingers sliding inside her, and she gasped into his neck. His thumb found her clit and worked it in rough circles while his fingers pumped deeper, fingering her so hard. She could feel her own wetness coating his hand, dripping down her inner thighs.
He moved the other free hand pressing her boobs and sucking on it passionately, tongue curling around the nipple and biting softly yet hardly.
Her hips rocked against his hand desperately. This was insane. This was career suicide. This wasâŠ.Damn she hates her boss, howâs this possible, she tried to stop but she couldnât, the champagne was hitting harder now.
He stopped and stepped back just far enough to unbuckle his belt. His pants dropped. Already hard and thick, stroking it once before reaching for his wallet.
"Don't you fucking move," he said.
He tore open a condom with his teeth and rolled it on with one hand while the other gripped her hip, keeping her pinned against the wall. Then he positioned himself and pushed inside her in one hard stroke.
Elara's cry echoed off the concrete walls.
He was big, bigger than she'd expected, filling her completely, stretching her almost to the point of pain. He didn't give her time to adjust. He pulled out and thrust back in, establishing a brutal rhythm that knocked her back against the brick with each movement.
"Is this what you wanted?" he demanded, his voice rough. "Is this why you kissed me?"
She couldn't answer. Could barely breathe. He was hitting something deep inside her that made her vision blur.
His hand moved from her hip to grip her thigh, pulling her leg up and around his waist, changing the angle, going even deeper.
The cold wall at her back. His heat pressing against her front. The sound of their bodies colliding in the empty stairwell, wet and urgent and absolutely forbidden.
"Fuck, you're tight," he groaned. "So fucking tight."
He was hitting so fast and rough and didnât notice the condom had broken. The pleasure was insane.
Her orgasm built fast, a pressure that started at her core and radiated outward. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders, tasting blood from biting her own lip.
"Come," he commanded.
She did. Hard and sudden, her muscles clenching around him as pleasure ripped through her body. She bit down on his neck to keep from screaming.
He followed seconds later, his hips jerking erratically as he finished inside her, his breath harsh against her ear. For a moment, they stayed pressed together, both breathing hard, still connected.
Then he pulled away.
His expression was already closing off, back to the nonchalant ceo. He fixed his pants with mechanical precision while she slid down the wall, her legs shaking so badly she could barely stand.
"That didnât happen," he said quietly.
Her heart dropped in her stomach. "Marcus"
"Go home. Itâs Christmas holiday, see you at work next week, make sure youâre early." He didn't look at her. "This won't happen again."
He left before she could respond, his footsteps disappearing up the stairs.
Elara sat alone on the concrete, her dress torn, his marks on her skin, and realized she'd just made the worst decision of her life.
It was 1 week later when she bought the first pregnancy test.
Then four more after that just to be sure.
Shit!!! what the fuck have i done.
Two Pink Lines
It had been a week since Elara slept with the devil.
Christmas wasnât supposed to feel like this. The holiday was meant for family dinners and bad movies, not sterile hospital hallways that smelled like bleach and something darker she couldnât name. But here she was, Day seven of her vacation, sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside her motherâs bed, pretending everything would be fine.
Her phone buzzed. Another email from Marcus.
*Subject: Q4 Report - Revisions Needed*
She opened the attachment. Forty-three pages of financial projections that needed reformatting by tomorrow. On Christmas week. Because Marcus Thorne didnât believe in holidays, only deadlines.
âYouâre working again,â her mother said softly.
Elara looked up. Her motherâs face had that grey pallor that came with stage three cancer, her cheeks hollow, but her eyes were still sharp. Still watching everything.
âJust a quick edit.â Elara locked her phone and forced a smile. âNothing major.â
âYou work too hard, baby.â
âThe job pays well, Mama. Really well.â The lie tasted bitter. Her savings account had $3,000 left after this monthâs payment to Victor. The chemo her mother needed cost $80,000. âIâve got it covered. The treatment, everything. You just focus on getting better.â
Her motherâs thin hand reached out, wrapping around Elaraâs wrist. âI donât want you sacrificing your life for me.â
âIâm not sacrificing anything.â Elara squeezed back gently, careful of the IV line. âYou took care of me my whole life. Itâs my turn now.â
âHas your father come by?â
The question landed like a stone in still water.
âNo.â Elara kept her voice neutral. âHavenât seen him all week.â
âElaraâŠâ
âAnd Iâm praying it stays that way.â She couldnât hide the edge in her tone. âLuca showing up only means he needs money or heâs running from someone he owes. Either way, itâs trouble we donât need right now.â
Her motherâs eyes filled with that particular sadness that came from loving a man who kept breaking her heart. âHeâs still your father.â
âHeâs a gambling addict who put us in this mess.â Elara stood, smoothing down her jeans. âI need to head home, but Iâll be back tomorrow morning. Earlier if you need me.â
âYouâre a good girl, Elara. Too good for all this.â
Elara kissed her motherâs forehead, tasting the salt of unshed tears she refused to let fall. âGet some rest, Mama. I love you.â
âLove you too, baby.â
The taxi ride home was quiet. Elara stared out the window at the Christmas lights strung across brownstones, families visible through warm windows, living lives that didnât involve debt collectors and dying mothers and mistakes made in fire exits.
She pulled out her phone, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram. Mimi had posted pictures from her campus in London, surrounded by friends at some holiday party. Elara double-tapped the image, feeling the distance between them like a physical ache.
The next post was one of those viral memes. A girl holding up twelve fingers with the caption: *Period check. 12/12 months DONE. We survived besties.*
Elaraâs thumb froze mid-scroll.
Twelve months.
When was the last time sheâd gotten hers?
She tried to think back. November had been hell at work with the annual report. October⊠she couldnât remember. Everything blurred together in a haze of hospital visits and late nights at the office and Victorâs constant threats.
But sheâd gotten it in November. She was sure. Maybe. Possibly.
Her heart started doing something uncomfortable in her chest.
âMiss? Weâre here.â
The taxi driver was watching her in the rearview mirror. Elara paid quickly, her hands shaking as she handed over crumpled bills.
The bodega on the corner was still open, fluorescent lights harsh against the darkening street. She walked in like she was in a dream, past the rows of chips and energy drinks, to the back wall where the pharmacy items were kept.
Pregnancy tests. An entire shelf of them.
This was stupid. She was being paranoid. Stress could delay periods. Sheâd read that somewhere. And theyâd used a condom. Marcus had used a condom. Sheâd seen him put it on.
But intrusive thoughts were a bitch, and Elara had never been good at leaving questions unanswered.
She grabbed the cheapest box and paid without making eye contact with the cashier.
Her apartment was dark and cold. She hadnât been home much this week, spending most nights on the hospitalâs uncomfortable chairs. The space felt foreign now, like it belonged to a different version of herself. One who hadnât fucked her boss in a stairwell.
The bathroom light flickered twice before staying on. Elara tore open the box with shaking hands, reading instructions she already knew by heart from countless pregnancy scares in college that had amounted to nothing.
Pee on the stick. Wait three minutes. One line meant not pregnant. Two lines meantâŠ
She didnât let herself finish the thought.
The test felt absurdly light in her hand. Such a small thing to hold so much weight. She did what needed to be done, set the stick on the edge of the sink, and pulled out her phone to set a timer.
Three minutes.
She couldnât watch it. Instead, she sat on the closed toilet lid and stared at the cracked tile on the floor, counting the seconds in her head because the silence was too loud.
Her phone buzzed. Another email from Marcus. She didnât open it.
The timer went off.
Elara stood slowly, like her bones had aged a decade in three minutes. She picked up the test with hands that didnât feel like her own.
Two pink lines.
Clear as day. Unmistakable.
She bought four more tests from three different bodegas, spacing them out so the cashiers wouldnât remember her face. Took them all within an hour, lining them up on the bathroom counter like evidence at a crime scene.
Two lines. Two lines. Two lines. Two lines.
Elara sat on her bathroom floor as the reality settled into her bones.
She was pregnant.
With Marcus Thorneâs baby.
âShit.â Her voice cracked. âWhat the fuck have I done?âââââââââââââââââ
The Devilâs Proposal
Elara hailed a taxi, dropped into the back seat, the taxi smelled like stale coffee.
Elara rummaged through her tote bag for the third time, fingers brushing past lip gloss and crumpled receipts, searching for the USB drive that held Marcusâs edited Q4 reports. If sheâd left it on her kitchen counter, she was dead. Not metaphorically dead. Actually dead. Marcus Thorne would fire her on the spot, and worse, heâd do it with that blank expression that made you feel like an insect heâd stepped on without noticing.
Her fingers closed around the small drive. She exhaled.
âRough morning?â the driver asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.
âYou have no idea.â
Rough didnât cover it. The past week had been hell wrapped in a nightmare and served cold. Sheâd worked through Christmas, editing financial projections while her mother slept in a hospital bed and five pregnancy tests sat hidden in her bathroom drawer like evidence of a crime she couldnât undo.
And Marcus. God, Marcus had made sure she earned every cent of her salary. Emails at 2 AM. Revision requests on Christmas Day. A forty-page report that needed complete reformatting because he decided he didnât like the font. The man was the devil in Dior. No, worse. He was heartless in Hugo Boss. Satan in Suitsupply.
Why not just quit? The question had been circling her brain for three years like a vulture.
Because she couldnât.
Before this job, sheâd been a janitor at a corporate office in Manhattan, mopping floors at 5 AM and dodging the eyes of executives who looked through her like she was furniture.
Jobs were scarce when you didnât have connections or a degree from the right school. And this job, for all its hell, paid well. Well enough that her mother had a hospital bed instead of dying on a clinic floor. Well enough that Leo, her junior brother, could stay in community college. Well enough that she could keep Victor, the debt collector from taking the last thing they owned.
The taxi pulled up to Thorne Dynamics Tower, all glass and steel stretching into the grey January sky like a middle finger to everyone who couldnât afford to work there.
Elara paid the driver and stepped onto the sidewalk. The building loomed above her. She made the sign of the cross, muttering under her breath, âDear God, about to work with the devil again today. Keep me safe.â
It was sarcastic. Mostly.
The lobby was already buzzing with employees, everyone moving with that particular Monday morning energy that felt more like a death march than a workday. Elara checked her phone. 8:47 AM. She was late.
âElara!â
She turned to find Emeka striding toward her, coffee in one hand, his designer scarf draped over his shoulder like he was walking a runway instead of heading to accounting. He looked her up and down, eyebrows rising dramatically.
âGirl, youâre glowing. What happened during the holiday? You met someone?â
âEmeks, Iâm late. Can we not?â
âOh, weâre absolutely doing this.â He fell into step beside her as they headed toward the elevators. âYouâve got that glow. That âI had good sexâ glow. Spill.â
âThereâs nothing to spill.â
âLies. I can smell lies, babe, and you reek of them.â
Elaraâs phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced down at the screen.
*Mr. Thorne: My office. Now.*
Her stomach dropped to her feet.
Emeka leaned over her shoulder, reading the message. âIs that the devil?â
She nodded, her mouth suddenly dry.
âWell, donât keep him waiting.â Emekaâs grin turned wicked. âGo on before he drops hell on earth. And babe? Whatever you did during Christmas, do it again. That glow is everything.â
Elara didnât respond. She was already moving toward the private elevator that led directly to Marcusâs top-floor office, her heels clicking against the marble like a countdown.
The ride up felt like drowning in slow motion. She stared at her reflection in the polished steel doors. Dark circles under her eyes that concealer couldnât quite hide. Hair pulled back in a tight bun that made her look professional and miserable. She looked like someone whoâd spent the week having a mental breakdown in installments.
The doors opened with a soft chime.
Marcusâs office was exactly as she remembered. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Minimalist furniture that probably cost more than her annual salary. Everything is cold, clean, controlled. Just like him.
He stood behind his desk, hands in his pockets, staring out at the skyline. He didnât turn when she entered.
âGood morning, Mr. Thorne.â
Silence.
She stayed by the door, clutching her bag like a shield. The air in the room felt heavy, charged with something she couldnât name. Her mind raced. Did he know? Had he somehow found out about the pregnancy? Was this the part where he fired her for unprofessional conduct and she lost everything?
âSit.â
It wasnât a request.
Elara moved to the chair across from his desk, lowering herself slowly. Her hands were shaking. She clasped them together in her lap, willing them to stop.
Marcus turned finally, his dark eyes locking onto hers. His expression gave away nothing. No anger. No warmth. Nothing. He looked at her the way someone might look at a contract they were considering signing.
The silence stretched. Ten seconds. Twenty. She was about to break, about to say something, anything to fill the terrible quiet, when he spoke.
âMarry me.â
Elara blinked.
The words didnât make sense. They were English, she understood English, but strung together like that they became nonsense. Her brain scrambled to process. Did he hit his head over Christmas? Did he think the sex in the stairwell meant something? Did he somehow know about the pregnancy and this was his twisted solution?
âIâŠ..â
âShould I repeat myself?â
His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that came before hurricanes.
Elaraâs mouth opened. Closed. It opened again. No sound came out. Her heart was doing something violent in her chest, slamming against her ribs like it was trying to escape.
Marcus Thorne, her boss, the devil whoâd made her life hell for three years, the man whoâd fucked her in a fire exit and then dismissed her with cold finality, had just asked her to marry him.
And judging by the look on his face, he wasnât joking.
My devil on earth had just made it official.ââââââââââââââââ
One Million Reason
âMarry me.â
The words hung in the air between them like smoke. Elara stared at Marcus, waiting for the punchline, the smirk, anything that would indicate this was some elaborate joke at her expense.
Nothing came.
Is this man insane?
âYou heard me.â His tone was flat, like heâd just asked her to schedule a meeting, not commit to a lifetime legal bond.
God, she despised this man.
âWhat is this?â Her voice came out sharper than intended. âSome kind of mental breakdown? A psychological experiment? The physical workload wasnât torture enough, so now weâre moving into emotional manipulation?â
âMarry me, and I willâŠ..â
âNo.â
The word came out loud. Too loud. Sharp enough to cut through the thick glass walls of his office and reach the assistants stationed outside. She saw heads turn, eyes widening before quickly looking away.
Marcus blinked.
It was the first genuine reaction sheâd seen from him in three years. Actual surprise flickering across his face before the mask slammed back down.
âNo?â
âShould I say it in French? Morse code? Sign language?â Elaraâs hands were shaking again, but this time it wasnât fear. It was rage. Pure, undiluted rage at this man who thought he could control everything, including her. âWhich translation works best for you, Mr. Thorne?â
âYou havenât even heard my offer.â
âIâm not interested in whatever twisted game youâve cooked up in that calculating brain of yours.â She stood, chair scraping against the floor. âFind another assistant to play with.â
Marcus watched her like she was a puzzle he couldnât solve. The look on his face was almost comical. Almost. Sheâd just become the first person in Thorne Dynamics history to tell Marcus Thorne no, and he genuinely didnât know how to process it.
Elara turned to leave.
âOne million.â
She stopped. Her hand was on the door handle, fingers frozen mid-grip.
âOne million what?â
âDollars.â
Slowly, she turned back around. Marcus hadnât moved. He stood behind his desk, hands still in his pockets, expression carefully neutral except for that slight tightness around his eyes that suggested he was recalculating every assumption heâd made about this conversation.
âOne million dollars,â she repeated. The number felt absurd in her mouth. Fake. Like Monopoly money. âFor what? A year? Six months? How long does this arrangement last?â
âTwo years. A marriage contract. You play the role of my wife. After twenty four months, we divorce. You walk away with the money.â
Elara laughed. It came out bitter and sharp. âYou think you can just throw money at me? After three years of treating me like Iâm nothing? Like Iâm some object you keep in that office to make your life easier?â She took a step closer to his desk. âAll the impossible deadlines. The emails at 3 AM. The constant criticism. The way you look through me like Iâm invisible. And now you want me to marry you?â
âItâs a business transaction.â
âItâs insane.â
âItâs practical.â Marcus pulled his hands from his pockets, placing them flat on the desk. âI need a wife. You need money. This solves both problems.â
âYou donât know anything about my problems.â
âI know youâre drowning in debt. I know your family is one payment away from losing everything. I know you spent Christmas in a hospital instead of enjoying your holiday.â His eyes locked onto hers. âI know Victor called you six times last week.â
Ice flooded her veins. âHow do youâŠ.â
âI pay attention, Miss Vance.â
The use of her last name felt like a slap. Theyâd had sex a week ago. His marks had barely faded from her neck. And now they were back to Miss Vance, like nothing had happened. Like she was still just the assistant. The employee. The thing he kept around for convenience.
âTake your time,â Marcus said, settling into his chair with infuriating calm. âThink it over. Run the numbers. Youâll come around.â
The certainty in his voice made her want to scream.
âI wonât.â
âYou will.â
Elara turned and walked out.
She didnât storm. Didnât slam the door. Just walked out with her head high and her hands steady, even though everything inside her was screaming. The assistants at their desks kept their eyes down, suddenly fascinated by their computer screens.
It was the first time in three years sheâd walked out of Marcus Thorneâs office without being dismissed. And surprisingly, he didnât call her back. No sharp command. No snide comment about professionalism. Nothing.
Her own office was smaller. Cramped. A desk shoved against a window that overlooked the building next door instead of the city skyline. But it was hers, and right now she needed the space to breathe.
Elara dropped into her chair and pressed her palms against her eyes. One million dollars. The number kept circling her brain like a vulture. That kind of money would pay off Victor. Cover her motherâs treatment. Give Leo a real shot at a future instead of community college classes he could barely afford.
That kind of money would save them.
But marriage? To Marcus Thorne? The man whoâd made her life miserable for three years? The man whoâd fucked her in a stairwell and then act like she was nothing?
Her phone buzzed. She ignored it.
The office phone rang.
âMiss Vance speaking.â
âHi, um, thereâs someone here to see you?â The receptionistâs voice was hesitant. âHe doesnât have an appointment, but he says itâs urgent. His name is Victor.â
Elaraâs blood turned to ice.
Victor. The debt collector. Here. At her office.
âTell himâŠ.â Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. âTell him Iâll be right down.â
She hung up before the receptionist could respond. Her hands were shaking again, but this time there was no rage to hide behind. Just pure, animal fear.
Victor had found her office. Heâd tracked her down to the one place she thought was safe. And if he was here, it meant the forty-eight hours were up.
It meant she was out of time.ââââââââââââââââ And heâs here to collect the money she had no hand in spending, her father, her father the drunk gambler had been borrowing money from Victor.
Broken Glass
Victor was waiting in the lobby, leaning against the reception desk like he owned the place. Designer suit. Expensive watch. Nothing about him screamed debt collector except the dead look in his eyes when they landed on her.
Elaraâs stomach twisted.
âWe need to talk,â he said.
âNot here.â She grabbed his arm, steering him toward the exit. The last thing she needed was her colleagues witnessing this. âOutside.â
They crossed the marble lobby in silence, through the revolving doors and into the cold January air. The parking lot was mostly empty at this hour, just a few scattered cars and the distant hum of traffic. Elara didnât stop until they were behind a concrete pillar, away from the buildingâs glass walls.
âWhat are you doing here?â Her voice came out harsh. âHow did you even find my office?â
Victor smiled. It didnât reach his eyes. âYour father gave me your details. Workplace, address, everything. Lucaâs been very cooperative lately.â
Of course he had. Luca would sell out his own children if it meant saving his skin for another day.
âWhat do you want?â
âYour father hasnât been answering his phone for two weeks. His weekly payment is overdue.â Victor pulled out his phone, scrolling through something before turning the screen toward her. Numbers. Dates. A debt that had somehow grown even larger. âThe house goes up for collateral if I donât get payment by tomorrow.â
âTomorrow?â Elaraâs voice cracked. âThatâs impossible. I need more time.â
âYouâve had ten years, Elara.â
âPlease.â The word tasted like ash. She hated begging. Hated the way her voice went small and desperate. But this was her motherâs house. The only thing they had left. âJust give me one more week. Iâll figure something out. Iâll get you the money.â
âOne week wonât change anything.â Victor pocketed his phone. âYou donât have it now, you wonât have it then.â
âIâll find a way.â
âHow? You going to ask your boss for a raise?â He gestured toward the tower behind them. âGirls like you donât get miracles. You get buried.â
âIâm not asking for a miracle. Iâm asking for time.â
Victor studied her for a long moment. She could see him calculating, weighing her worth against whatever pressure Lucaâs debt had put on him. Finally, he sighed.
âTwenty-four hours, Elara. Thatâs all you get.â He started walking back toward the street. âClockâs ticking.â Tick. Tok.
She watched him go, her legs suddenly unsteady. Twenty-four hours. One day to come up with money she didnât have. One day before they lost everything.
The sound of footsteps made her turn.
Marcus was walking through the parking lot, phone pressed to his ear, talking in that clipped tone he used for business calls.
He must have been heading to his car. His eyes swept past her, lingering for just a second before moving on.
Heâd heard. She knew heâd heard. The parking lot wasnât that big, and Victorâs voice carried.
But Marcus kept walking. Didnât stop. Didnât acknowledge her. Just continued toward his black Mercedes like she was part of the scenery.
Elara stood there, watching him disappear into his car, and felt something cold settle in her chest.
Of course he didnât care. Why would he? She was just the assistant. Just another problem that wasnât his to solve.
She went back inside, grabbed her bag from her office, and left without telling anyone. The building felt too small suddenly. Too suffocating.
âElara!â
Emeka caught her at the elevator, slightly out of breath like heâd jogged to catch up. âWhere are you going? Itâs only 2 PM.â
âI need to see my mum.â The lie came easily. Too easily. âSheâs not feeling well.â
His expression softened immediately. âOh babe, Iâm sorry. Do you need anything?â
âNo. I just need to go.â
âOkay. Text me if you need me, yeah?â
She nodded and stepped into the elevator before he could see her face crumble.
The subway ride home was a blur. Bodies pressed together. The smell of sweat and cheap cologne. Someoneâs music bleeding through their headphones. Elara stared at the floor and tried not to think about Victorâs words. Twenty-four hours. The house. Her mother.
One million dollars.
The thought of what happened at the office started coming back to her.
Itâs absurd sheâs even thinking about it, itâs Marcus Thorne, why would ever want to marry Marcus Thorne, she thought to herself.
No. She wasnât that desperate. She wasnât going to sell herself to Marcus Thorne for money. There had to be another way.
Her apartment building looked the same as always. The familiar brownstone that had been home for the past five years. She climbed the steps to her floor, keys already in hand.
The door was open.
Elara stopped. Sheâd locked it this morning. She always locked it. Her hand pushed the door wider.
Inside, her wardrobe was open, clothes thrown across the floor. Drawers pulled out and overturned. Everything scattered.
âNo. No no no.â
She dropped her bag and ran to her bedroom closet. Shoved aside the shoes and boxes stacked at the bottom. Her hands found the metal lockbox she kept hidden in the back corner.
It was open. The small lock was broken.
Empty.
Her heart skipped.
Three thousand dollars. Every cent sheâd managed to save over the past months. Money meant for her motherâs treatment. Money sheâd scraped together from skipped meals and extra shifts and selling anything she didnât absolutely need.
Gone.
Only one person had a key to her apartment.
Luca.
Her father had robbed her.
