The bodyguards hauled Deshaun up by his armpits. His right leg hung at a grotesque angle, the foot dragging limply against the polished marble.

Deshaun gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. He violently shoved the guards away, refusing to let them carry him. He grabbed his wooden cane from the floor. His hands were shaking from the blinding pain, but he gripped the handle until his knuckles were bone-white.

He put his weight on the cane and his previously injured leg. Every movement sent a wave of nausea through his stomach. He dragged himself toward the elevator.

As he passed Boyd, Deshaun stopped. He turned his head. The look in the boy's eyes was no longer fear. It was a pure, concentrated hatred that burned like acid.

Boyd saw the look. He smirked, adjusting his left cufflink. The hatred of an insect meant nothing to him.

The elevator doors closed, taking the bleeding boy away.

Boyd turned and walked toward the private staircase. He climbed the steps to the top floor and unlocked the heavy oak door of the cage.

Elinor was lying on the floor beneath the blank television screen. She looked like a discarded ragdoll. Her eyes were open, staring blankly at the carpet, completely devoid of life.

Boyd walked over to her. The sight of her absolute defeat sent a strange, uncomfortable prickle down his spine. He reached down to pick her up.

The moment his fingers brushed her shoulder, Elinor violently flinched. It was as if he had pressed a hot iron against her bare skin.

"Don't touch me!" Her voice was a broken, raspy whisper, but it vibrated with pure venom.

Boyd's face hardened. His jaw ticked. "It seems the lesson wasn't clear enough."

He ignored her weak attempts to push him away. He bent down, scooped her up into his arms, and carried her toward the massive bed in the center of the room.

Elinor thrashed wildly in his grip. She balled her hands into fists and struck his chest, his shoulders, his neck. Her hits lacked power, bouncing off his solid muscles like rain against a window.

Her futile resistance didn't anger Boyd. It ignited a dark, twisted heat in his blood. His grip tightened around her waist.

He threw her down onto the soft mattress.

Before she could bounce back, Boyd leaned over her.

Elinor's survival instinct snapped. The image of Deshaun's broken leg flashed behind her eyes. A primal rage exploded in her chest. She didn't shrink back. She lunged forward like a cornered wildcat.

She opened her mouth and sank her teeth deep into the muscle of Boyd's shoulder, right through his expensive suit jacket and shirt.

She bit down with everything she had, her jaw locking tight.

A sharp, piercing pain shot through Boyd's shoulder. He let out a low grunt. He could feel the fabric tear and the sudden, warm wetness of his own blood seeping into his shirt.

He didn't pull away. He didn't strike her.

Instead, a strange, dark thrill rushed through his veins. His pupils dilated. He looked down at the girl attached to his shoulder.

"Finally grew claws?" he whispered, his voice thick with a sick kind of excitement.

He wrapped his massive arms around her back, pulling her body flush against his, trapping her completely. He buried his face in the crook of her neck.

Elinor refused to let go. She tasted the metallic tang of his blood on her tongue. She wanted to tear the flesh from his bones.

Boyd turned his head. He found the soft, pulsing skin just below her ear. He opened his mouth and bit down.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a brutal, territorial bite. His teeth scraped hard against her tender flesh, breaking the skin just enough to leave a permanent, bruising mark. He tasted her blood, mixing with the scent of her fear.

The sudden, sharp pain shocked Elinor. She gasped, her jaw releasing his shoulder. She stared up at him, her eyes wide with horror and confusion.

Before she could scream, Boyd's mouth crashed down onto hers.

He swallowed her scream completely. The kiss was punishing, tasting of copper and violence. He forced her lips apart, invading her mouth, claiming every inch of her breath.

Elinor pushed against his chest, but his weight was crushing. Her oxygen depleted. Her muscles burned with exhaustion. The fight slowly drained out of her, replaced by a suffocating helplessness.

Her hands fell limp onto the mattress. She stopped moving.

A single, hot tear slipped from the corner of her eye. It rolled down her cheek and soaked into the pillow. Then another.

She wasn't sobbing. It was a silent, broken weeping. The sound of a trapped animal that knew it was going to die.

Boyd felt the wetness against his cheek. He felt the absolute stillness of her body beneath him.

He froze.

The dark excitement in his blood suddenly vanished, replaced by a heavy, suffocating pressure in his chest. The silent tears felt like acid burning through his skin. He pulled his mouth away from hers.

He looked down. Her eyes were closed, tears continuously spilling over her lashes.

Boyd's breath grew ragged. He didn't understand the sudden panic gripping his throat. He abruptly rolled off her. He grabbed the thick duvet and pulled it up, wrapping it tightly around her trembling body, cocooning her.

He pulled her wrapped body against his chest, locking his arms around her so she couldn't move.

"Sleep," he ordered. His voice was harsh, but his grip was strangely careful.

Elinor was too exhausted to fight. Surrounded by his scent and the lingering terror, her brain finally shut down. She slipped into a heavy, dreamless unconsciousness.

Boyd lay there in the dark. He listened to her breathing slow down. He slowly reached up and touched his own shoulder. His fingers came away sticky with blood. He stared at the red stain on his fingertips, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

Elinor woke up to the smell of butter and toasted bread.

Her entire body ached as if she had been beaten with a baseball bat. She slowly opened her eyes. The heavy curtains were pulled back, letting the bright morning sun flood the cage.

Boyd was gone. The space beside her on the bed was cold.

She sat up, wincing as the bruised skin on her neck stretched. On the mahogany nightstand beside the bed sat a silver tray.

On the tray was a plate with a perfectly fried egg, shaped exactly like a heart. Next to it sat two slices of golden toast and a crystal glass of milk. Beside the plate was a small tube of expensive medical-grade bruise ointment and a piece of heavy cardstock.

Elinor picked up the card. Boyd's sharp, aggressive handwriting slashed across the paper: Apply it. School today.

A wave of pure nausea hit her stomach. The combination of the brutal violence from yesterday and this twisted, domestic 'heart-shaped' breakfast made bile rise in her throat. It was the ultimate psychological torture. A carrot and a stick.

She threw the note onto the floor. She picked up the silver tray. Her hands were steady.

She walked straight into the marble bathroom. She stood over the toilet, tilted the plate, and watched the heart-shaped egg and the toast slide into the water. She poured the milk in after it.

She hit the flush handle. The water swirled, sucking the food down into the pipes. She watched it disappear, her face completely blank.

An hour later, Frank Gallo, Boyd's head driver, was waiting for her in the underground garage. He drove her to the New York University campus in silence.

The moment Elinor stepped out of the black SUV, she felt the shift in the air.

Students walking past her stopped and whispered. Eyes tracked her every movement. She heard fragments of sentences floating in the cold air: "...sugar baby..." "...old billionaire..." "...bought her..."

Elinor tightened her grip on the straps of her backpack. She bit the inside of her cheek and kept her eyes locked on the pavement. She needed this degree. It was the only raft she had in this ocean of debt and control.

She walked toward the main plaza in front of the library.

Suddenly, a loud screech of microphone feedback echoed across the quad.

Elinor looked up. Standing on the steps of the library was Preston Vance. His father sat on the university's board of trustees. Preston was wearing a designer sweater, holding a massive bouquet of ninety-nine red roses in one hand and a red megaphone in the other.

"Elinor Richardson!" Preston's voice boomed across the plaza.

Hundreds of students stopped. Cell phones were immediately pulled out, camera lenses pointing directly at her.

Preston smiled, a confident, arrogant smirk. "I like you! Be my girlfriend!"

The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles. Preston walked down the steps, holding the roses out toward her. He looked like a prince in a movie. He expected her to melt.

Elinor didn't melt. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin the color of chalk.

She didn't see romance. She saw a death sentence.

Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew Boyd. She knew his paranoia. Somewhere, somehow, Boyd was going to see this. If he thought she was entertaining another man, the punishment wouldn't fall on her-it would fall on Preston, or worse, Deshaun again.

She had to stop this immediately.

Elinor pushed through the crowd. She walked right up to Preston. The cameras flashed around them.

Preston's smile widened. He held the roses out further.

Elinor looked him dead in the eyes. Her voice was ice-cold and loud enough for the front row of students to hear. "I do not like you. Do not ever bother me again."

Preston's smile froze. The confidence shattered, replaced by instant, humiliating shock. He had never been rejected in his life, let alone in front of the entire campus.

The crowd gasped. The cheers turned into loud, mocking whispers.

"Did she just reject Vance?"

"Guess the billionaire pays better."

Elinor didn't wait for his reaction. She turned on her heel and walked away fast.

Preston's face flushed a dark, angry red. He dropped the megaphone. "You'll regret this, Richardson!" he screamed at her back.

Elinor ignored him. She practically ran into the library, seeking the darkest, quietest corner in the back stacks.

She collapsed into a wooden chair, her chest heaving. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. She pulled her cheap, cracked phone from her pocket. She needed to know if Deshaun was alive. She opened her messages and typed: Deshaun, please tell me you are at the hospital.

Her thumb hovered over the send button.

She leaned her head back against the window, trying to catch her breath. As she looked out the glass, her eyes focused on the tall, glass-fronted office building across the street from the library.

On the roof of the building, a tiny, unnatural flash of light caught her eye.

It was the sun reflecting off a long-range camera lens.

The phone slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the desk. A paralyzing cold seeped into her bones.

Boyd hadn't let her go to school out of mercy. He had put her on a larger stage, and he was watching every single second of it. The cameras were everywhere.

She slowly picked up her phone. She deleted the message to Deshaun. She couldn't contact anyone. She was entirely, hopelessly alone in a transparent prison.

The consequences of rejecting Preston Vance arrived the very next morning.

Elinor walked into her Economics 101 lecture hall. Usually, a few girls in the front row would smile or nod at her. Today, as she walked down the aisle, heads turned away. People actively shifted their bags onto empty seats to block her from sitting next to them.

She found an empty desk in the very back corner and sat down.

Professor Harrison, a strict man with thick glasses, stood at the podium. "Listen up. The midterm group project accounts for thirty percent of your final grade. You must form groups of three. Submit your names to my desk by the end of this hour."

The lecture hall instantly erupted into chaotic chatter as students scrambled to form teams. Chairs scraped against the floor.

Elinor stood up. She walked over to a girl named Jessica Adler, whom she had shared notes with last week. "Jessica? Do you have a third person for your group?"

Jessica looked at Elinor, then glanced nervously toward the middle of the room. Preston Vance was sitting there, leaning back in his chair, watching them.

Jessica quickly shook her head, grabbing her backpack. "Sorry, Elinor. We're full." She hurried away as if Elinor had a contagious disease.

Elinor tried two more groups. Both gave her immediate, flimsy excuses and turned their backs.

From the center of the room, Preston and his friends let out a loud, intentional burst of laughter. Preston caught Elinor's eye and smirked, tapping his pen against his desk.

The message was clear. Preston had ordered the entire class to freeze her out.

By the end of the hour, the classroom was empty. Elinor stood alone in the quiet hall. She walked down to the podium where Professor Harrison was packing his briefcase.

"Professor," Elinor said, her voice tight. "I couldn't find a group. Can I complete the project independently? I'll do the work of three people."

Harrison didn't look up. "The syllabus is clear, Miss Richardson. The objective is teamwork. I cannot make exceptions. Especially not when Trustee Vance is reviewing my department's funding proposal this week. Find a group, or take a zero for thirty percent of your grade." He snapped his briefcase shut and walked out.

Elinor gripped the edge of the podium until her fingers hurt. A zero meant she would lose her academic standing.

She walked out of the building into the biting wind. Her stomach growled, a sharp reminder that she hadn't eaten since the tequila shot two nights ago.

She pulled out her phone and opened her university email, hoping her work-study application had been approved.

There was a new email from the Financial Aid Office.

Dear Miss Richardson, Your application for the Need-Based Poverty Grant has been reviewed and denied. Reason: Applicant failed to provide sufficient evidence of genuine financial hardship.

Elinor stopped walking. The wind whipped her hair across her face.

Denied. That grant was three thousand dollars. It was her food, her subway fare, her textbooks for the entire semester. She knew her adoptive father's medical bills proved her poverty. The only way this was denied was if someone on the board of trustees intervened. Preston's father.

She was completely cut off.

"Elinor."

She turned. Sarah Jenkins, a quiet girl from her history class, was standing a few feet away, looking around nervously. Sarah stepped closer and lowered her voice.

"Elinor, just go apologize to Preston," Sarah whispered. "You can't win against him. He bragged about getting your grant pulled. Is your pride worth failing the class and starving?"

Elinor looked at Sarah. She felt the heavy, invisible chain of Boyd's billion-dollar debt around her neck. She refused to ask him for anything beyond the bare minimum he provided. Buying her own food, paying her own subway fare-these small acts of financial independence were her last shred of dignity.

Elinor bit her inner cheek. "I didn't do anything wrong, Sarah. I won't apologize for saying no."

Sarah sighed, looking at her with pity. "Suit yourself." She walked away quickly.

Elinor stood alone in the middle of the bustling campus. The world felt like it was closing in on her, brick by brick.

Suddenly, her phone vibrated in her hand.

She looked at the screen. It was an unknown number. Her thumb hesitated before swiping to answer. She pressed the phone to her ear.

"Little bird," Boyd's voice slithered through the speaker. It was smooth, lazy, and laced with dark amusement. "Are you having fun at school?"

Elinor's heart stopped. The blood rushed out of her head. Did he know? Did he see the rejection? Did he see the grant denial?

She gripped the phone, her knuckles white. She couldn't force a single word past her frozen vocal cords.

Boyd didn't wait for an answer. "Eight o'clock tonight. The Pinnacle restaurant. I have something to discuss with you."

The line went dead.

Elinor lowered the phone. The Pinnacle. The most exclusive restaurant in the city. A summons from Boyd was never just a dinner. It was an interrogation. It was a punishment.

A deep, violent shiver ran down her spine. She had no money, no friends, and a monster waiting for her at eight o'clock.