"You can do this. You can-"

My courage vanishes the second I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

"I can't," I whisper.

My hair is twisted into a messy bun, damp strands clinging to my neck. I spent the last thirty minutes in the bathtub, scrubbing my skin raw like I could wash tonight away if I tried hard enough.

The silk pajamas I'm wearing feel impossibly soft against my skin. I've slept in stretched-out tees for the past five years. This is the kind of luxury I've only seen in magazines.

And yet I'm hiding in the bathroom.

A bathroom with marble floors and more shower heads than I can count.

Because the moment I step outside that door...

My stomach knots.

Adrian Hawthorne's voice echoes in my head. "You're sleeping in my bed."

I didn't think he meant it,  even when he handed me a folded pajama set and bluntly said I needed a shower. For some reason, it didn't occur to me to ask if it was his bedroom. 

Until I heard the door open and his voice, drifting towards the door. I ducked down in the bath tub as fast I could, almost drowning myself. 

He was on a call, then. I haven't heard a sound since, but I don't want to test my luck. 

I can't. 

The only person I've ever shared a bed with, was my mom. I've never kissed anyone either, much less sleeping in the same bed. 

And I still don't know what he wants with me.  

I slap my hands to my cheeks, groaning. "You need to figure something out, Alina." I glance around the bathroom, but there's nothing but tiles. 

The bath-tub. 

It's cold, but it's big enough to stretch out. "It's just one night," I mumble, psyching myself up. "You're not going to get hypothermia-

A knock sounds on the door. I freeze instantly, stopping with one foot forward.

"Alina."

My heart slams against my ribs. Adrian. "I-just a second," I manage, my voice thinner than I'd like.

There's a pause on the other side of the door. "If you need help with the toilet-"

"No!" I cut in as my face flames. "I-I'm okay." Somehow, the thought of him knowing that I use the toilet is more humiliating than sleeping in the same bed with him. 

There's more silence. "If you're thinking of sleeping in the bath tub, I suggest you don't. It would be a foolish thing to do."

Right. 

"I'm not," I say. "I'll be out in a minute."

I exhale audibly when I hear his footsteps retreating, reaching to the wall for support as my knees turn to jelly. I turn to the tub again, but Adrian's words echo cruelly in my head.  

Foolish. 

One of the many things my step-father called me when I demanded that he transfer some of the company shares to me. 

"You're a foolish, ungrateful child. I should've thrown you out after your mother died. Yet I'm still providing for you."

Tears sting my eyes. I brush them away angrily. 

I wanted to tell him that he hadn't given me a cent since I watched her get lowered into the ground. I was the one bailing him out of trouble. 

The only thing we shared was his house-and my mother paid off his mortgage after she married him. 

She gave everything to him. Until he took her life too. 

I drag my feet back to the mirror, staring hard at my reflection. The tiny scar on my forehead gleams in the overhead light. 

My shoulders straighten. I might've been sold, but won't let Adrian or anyone else bully me. Not the way my step-father did. 

***

Adrian's seated on a low sofa near the foot of the bed, one ankle resting over the opposite knee. A document is in his hand, the pages shifting quietly as he flips through them.

If he heard me walk in, he doesn't say anything. Which is good. I turn away, carefully walking towards the end of the bed-closest to the wall. Far away from him. 

"Alina."

I halt, my heart slamming in my chest. I slowly turn around, to find him watching me. His eyes are different under the warm lights-a shade of blue that darkens as his gaze pins me in place.  

He closes the document.

The soft thud echoes louder than it should in the quiet room.

Adrian sets it aside and rises to his feet. I gulp noisily, frantically searching my brain for something to say. Small talk, maybe. 

I don't get further than that, because my brain completely stops functioning.

He's shirtless. I didn't notice it when I walked in...but he's shirtless. 

My eyes betray me instantly as they trail over him. Broad shoulders. Lean, sculpted muscle across his chest. I knew he was fit even with his suit on, but I didn't think it was this- 

Phew. 

My gaze flickers downward before I can stop it, following the v line travelling from his stomach, down to  where his pants hang low on his waist. It drops a little more. 

Oh.

Oh wow. My mouth goes dry. 

Is that-

I snap my eyes back up so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. Huge. I can see the imprint through his pants, pushing against the light cotton fabric. 

My gaze wanders again, my body humming traitorously. I've seen plenty. On TV and the occasional indecent creep, but nothing as big...

Focus, Alina! 

I pinch myself hard enough for it to sting, my attention snapping back to his face.  

There's an unreadable expression on his face. 

I clear my throat awkwardly, folding my arms like that might somehow hide the fact that my brain just had a full meltdown. "Thank you for the pajamas."

"The personal stylist will be here tomorrow morning. She'll get your closet fitted."

My head bobs. "Okay." I stand there, as if waiting for orders. 

"Is there something you need?" 

"N-no," I shake my head. "The bed," I mutter after a moment. "I'm not sure where I'm supposed to sleep."

Adrian's gaze flicks briefly toward the massive bed behind him, then back to me.

"The right side," he says simply. 

"Oh." My cheeks go hot. "Right."

I walk toward it slowly, the mattress looking big enough to swallow me whole. I hover beside it for a second, unsure what to do with myself, before sitting gingerly on the edge like I'm afraid it might reject me.

The mattress sinks softly beneath my weight. It's... ridiculously comfortable.

Of course it is.

I tuck my hands into my lap, staring at the floor while I try very hard to pretend the shirtless man in the room with me doesn't exist. Or that my thoughts aren't wandering back to his-

I shake my head, pushing the image out as I climb on the bed and under the covers. 

Sleep. I just need to close my eyes and pretend like I'm somewhere else. 

The other side of the mattress dips a moment later. 

My spine straightens instantly as a musk-rich cologne drifts toward me, sinking into my senses like honey on satin. I hear him sigh softly, the quiet rustle of fabric following as the covers shift.

A strange, unwelcome tension curls low in my stomach. My body betrays me with a soft, restless pulse between my thighs that I immediately try to ignore.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter.

This is ridiculous.

He's just a man.

A terrifying, powerful, shirtless man with a body that looks like it belongs on a Greek statue-but still.

Just a man. That I'm supposed to hate. "A dollar and one cent," I remind myself under my breath, grabbing my end of the covers and shrinking closer to the edge of the bed. "That's how much you were worth to him."

Sleep doesn't come. 

I curl tighter until my knees touch my chest, fighting the urge to open my eyes and look over my shoulders. I can feel him behind me and hear the sound of soft, even breathing, but I don't dare turn. 

Sheep. 

I picture numbers in my head and begin counting down. One hundred... ninety-nine... ninety-eight...

Somewhere along the way, the numbers blur and slip through my fingers. My eyelids grow heavy, my limbs sinking into the mattress as the tension slowly drains out of me.

The sheets are soft. Too soft.

I burrow deeper into them with a quiet sigh, my body relaxing despite everything. "Mmm," I murmur under my breath, shifting slightly, chasing the comfort.

For a moment, I forget where I am. I forget who I'm lying next to.

My hand drifts absently across the bed as I turn, my fingers brushing against something warm. It's not the sheets.

It's warmer. Firmer. 

I frown faintly in my half-asleep haze, shifting closer without thinking, my fingers grazing over it again. "So warm..." I mumble drowsily as I reach further, trying to make out the strange object. 

It's soft in some places, hard in others and it's...wide. 

Very wide.  

My brows knit slightly, confusion flickering through the fog in my head. Still, my fingers wander lower, curious to find an answer. 

I touch something. 

I blink, my lashes fluttering and my eyes slowly opening. My gaze trails over to my hand. 

That's not the bed. That's not the-

I jerk back with a sharp gasp, yanking my hand to my chest like I've been burned.

"And here I thought you were fast asleep."

My head snaps up. Adrian is already looking at me.

His expression is tight as it sweeps over my face. "Were you looking for something?" he asks quietly.

"N-no," I stammer, shrinking away. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-I sleep alone," I rush out, words tumbling over each other. "I forgot where I was. I'm sorry."

Silence stretches between us and my face burns hotter with every passing second.

I wait for a reaction-for irritation, anger, something.

"Perhaps we should reconsider the sleeping arrangement," he says flatly. I watch him get out of the bed. Still shirtless. 

My mind, shameless as it is, wanders far, tracing the firm lines of his abs and the stretch of his shoulders. My tongue darts out without thinking, wetting my bottom lip as I glimpse the veins along his fingers as he curls them against his thigh. 

"You'll sleep here tonight."

"W-" I snap back. "What about you?" 

His brows rise slightly. "I own the house. I'm sure I can find a room where I don't have to worry about being groped in my sleep."

Groped!?? My face turns so red I can feel it flaming. 

I open my mouth to argue, but Adrian's already striding to the door. It opens and shuts with a soft thud. 

Just like that, I'm dismissed.

The sun is directly shining in my face when I wake up the next morning. Not wake up, actually. I open my eyes, to the bright stinging light from the drapes drawn open, grab the pillow and slam it over my head like WWE. 

I used to watch it when I was younger, after my mother died. I thought if I became stronger, I could defend myself from the scumbags my stepdad brought around the house. 

Turns out they wanted nothing to do with his daughter. 

Somehow, the loan sharks and gangsters were more honest than the man my mother left me with. 

My head hurts. 

I groan as I crawl out of bed, finding my way with my hands while my eyes remain shut. Just there...a little bit more...I'm closer to the edge now. 

I miscalculate badly. 

One minute I'm reaching for the bed frame and the next I'm toppling to the ground in a tangle of sheets. My butt takes the brunt of it, hitting the cold flooring with a thud. 

I bite my tongue-on instinct-as I grab my backside, muffling my shriek of pain. It doesn't help, because the familiar metallic taste of blood fills my mouth. 

Great. 

I'm off to a good start this morning. 

I sit there, for a couple minutes, trying to ward off any more bad luck. Then I slowly untangle myself, standing to my feet. 

I glance around the room, my eyes widening at the dull wall colors and the large space. For a brief moment, my brain floods with panic. And then I'm reminded, as the memories come flooding back, that I'm not in my tiny bedroom in my shoebox apartment. 

No. 

I'm the property of the Hawthorne brothers, specifically Adrian Hawthorne. And he bought me for one dollar and a cent. 

The bed.  

I whirl around as my pulse skips. He was in bed with me last night. I remember holding my breath, pretending I couldn't feel the warmth from his body from my hiding spot. 

Like I couldn't smell him-all musk and masculine-invading my senses. 

And then he left. 

Because I slept off and ended up...

No. 

I race to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. My chest heaves as I stare at the mirror, at my reddened face. I manhandled him. And I could've touched him anywhere, but it had to be down there.  

"Oh god," I moan, slapping my hands to my face. "You should've slept on the floor, Alina."

Now he thinks I'm a creep. I'm the creep he bought from an auction because her alcoholic, gambling stepfather put her up for sale and nobody could spare a dollar. 

I sink to the floor slowly, gloom and doom weighing heavy in my chest. "I'll just stay here," I mumble to myself. "I'll lock the door and live out the rest of my days in this bathroom."

My eyes dart straight for the bath tub. I'd thought about sleeping in it last night and he said it was a foolish idea. 

Well, I doubt he'd say the same thing now. Adrian Hawthorne probably wants nothing to do with me at this point. 

I make it only a minute in before my stomach grumbles loudly. 

"Please." I wrap my arms around my waist. "Go away." It grumbles again, and a sharp, stinging pain tears across my stomach. I double over as my vision goes white, gasping for air.    

I try to breathe, but the pain intensifies, digging deeper into my stomach, as if eating at my intestines. 

I forgot. I have an ulcer. Another gift I got from working three jobs, dealing with a student loan and still having to bail my deadbeat parent. 

I fainted during a class in my freshman year and woke up in a bed, in a room with white walls, wearing an oversized gown. That's when I found out I had an ulcer.  

If I die here, nobody will mourn me.  I'll be forgotten by all. 

I'm not sure what pushes me to my feet-pure spite of my weak self will, but I drag my feet out the bathroom and out of the bedroom, still dressed in pajamas. 

The house is incredibly big. 

I walk down the stairs into a large hallway, then into another one at the end of the first hallway. Paintings line the walls, most of them abstract, but breathtaking nonetheless. 

I forget about my hunger for a bit, before the smell of something warm and rich, with mouthwatering spices, hits me. My stomach makes the demanding noise again. 

"Hi."

I whirl around. 

A woman stands a couple feet away. She looks like she's in her forties, with jet black hair tied into a strict bun and her arms folded behind her back. "You're Miss Wilson?"

I nod. 

She cracks a small, polite smile, tilting her head. "Good morning. I'm Grace, the housekeeper. Mr. Hawthorne is in the dining room already. I'll take you there."

"Dining room?" My lips pull in a tight, confused line. "I'm having breakfast with Adrian?"

Her lips twitch. "Yes. Mr. Hawthorne has ordered that your breakfast be served with his. Although..." she trails off as her brows furrow. Her gaze roams over my body and she purses her lips lightly. "I'm not sure if that is appropriate."

I glance down at my pajamas. "It's-" it's silk,  is what I want to say. It's the most expensive thing I've ever owned. 

"I don't have anything else," I mutter instead.

"Oh." Her eyes soften. "Well, then, we should get you some clothes.  I'll have the fashion designer come around later today. She should be able to get you fitted."

"But," she adds before I can say anything, "you're late for breakfast. Mr. Hawthorne is a very punctual man."

I nod meekly, following behind her. 

She opens a door, then steps back. "You can go in."

"Thank you."

The dining room-unsurprisingly-is more spacious than...well, my apartment. Adrian is seated at the head, holding an open newspaper to his face. 

I clear my throat. "Hi."

He sets it down, slowly. He says nothing for a minute and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  

My stomach growls. My knees weaken and I grab the closest chair to keep from crumbling. 

Adrian's brows crease sharply. He stares at me, an unreadable expression on his face. "You should sit," he says flatly. "Before your legs give out, Miss Wilson."

I feel my face heating up and quickly sink down on a chair, dropping my gaze to the table. Cinnamon scent wafts past my nostrils, from the covered plate two chairs in front of me. 

I avoid eye contact as I reach for it, taking the top off. Warm, fluffy pancakes greet me and a happy sigh slips past my lips. 

I grab one with a fork, then another, serving myself. I whisk the fancy syrup bottle next to it, spreading a generous amount on the small pile.  

My fork sinks in. 

I lift the first bite to my lips, already tasting it. 

"How did you sleep last night?" His tone is mild, almost polite-but there's a sharp edge beneath it. I glance at him, by mistake but he's already staring at me. 

I choke on air. 

"I find it interesting," he continues, setting it down with deliberate care, "how accurate your hands are... even in your sleep."

He pauses as my chest suddenly feels smaller. Then, quieter, Adrian adds, "Tell me, do you always reach for things like that unconsciously, or was last night different?"

I'm tongue-tied.  

"I-" I stammer for the first second, unable to look at him. "It was a mistake."

A genuine one. And it wouldn't have happened if he hadn't said we should sleep in the same bed. "It won't happen again," I tell him, lifting my head to face him. "As long as I have my own room." 

"You have your own room, Miss Alina," he says, with a little frown between his brows, as if the question makes no sense to him. 

My shoulders slump in relief. "Tha–" 

"The sleeping arrangements remain the same, however." 

My jaw drops. I stare at him blankly. "You just said I had my room. To myself. Now you're saying I have to sleep with you?" For some reason, I'm vividly reminded of how firm it felt against my fingers... how big it looked with his towel hanging loose from his waist. A traitorous shiver sinks to my stomach. 

I force the image out, shaking my head firmly. "I can't promise I'm not going to-" I swallow thickly, searching for a safer word, "get on your side of my bed, Mr. Hawthorne. I think it's best if I have the bed all to myself." 

"No." 

That's it. His tone is brief, like he's closed the subject. He picks up the newspaper again, returning to whatever he was reading before I walked in. I sit there, fork dangling from my fingers, my slice of pancake forgotten. 

What is wrong with him? 

I chew on my bottom lip, stewing silently. I'm either being punished for an offense I'm unaware of, or Adrian Hawthorne is the most oblivious person I've ever met. It's not that. 

I grit my teeth as I stab my fork through the pancake, hitting the ceramic plate. My upper lip twitches as I glare at the newspaper, wishing I could give him a piece of my mind. I'd be more than happy to let him know how much of a condescending, egocentric, arrogant asshat he is. 

But–

I sigh audibly, shoving a syrupy pancake bite into my mouth instead. I'd probably end up right back where I started-on a stage, in front of a bunch of wealthy people, wondering how much I'm worth. 

What's the retail value for a dollar and one cent? 

I finish the two slices in minutes, but Adrian doesn't touch his food, not once. Unless he's secretly a vampire who plans on drinking my blood at night-which would make sense with his insane rule...

I clear my throat again. 

He doesn't react. 

"College," I say the first thing that comes to mind. "I'm in my senior year, months away from graduation. I have to resume classes next week." Still nothing. I groan under my breath. "You're not going to take that away from me too, are you?" 

He folds the paper and sets it aside. "I don't plan on depriving you of an education, Miss Wilson," he says, evenly. "I've sent out a message to your faculty. The rest of your tuition and your outstanding loan have been paid off." 

I blink twice. What? 

"You'll be assigned two bodyguards," he continues, "and a driver. They'll take you to school and bring you back when you're done with your classes." 

My hope deflates. I knew it was too good to be true. "I don't need a bodyguard or a driver," I argue. "I used the subway and the bus station for three years. I'm perfectly capable of getting myself to school and back." 

Sometimes I walked when I needed to save cash, but I don't plan on telling him that. 

"That might've been the case, but you're safest where I can reach you." 

My scoff slips out. "Safest? You say it like you have a bunch of enemies waiting to grab me off the street." I fold my arms across my chest.  "You say you don't want me in your personal space, and yet we have to sleep in the same bed. Some people might call that controlling, Mr. Hawthorne." 

My chest rises and falls, frustration grinding at my gears. "You might as well come out and say you own me. "I'm sure you have a contract somewhere and you're just itching for the right moment to whip out your rules." My voice rises sharply. "Or better yet, brand me, Adrian." His name falls out. I barely register it. "After all, I'm worth next to nothing; I probably cost less than the cheapest thing you own." 

I run out of the steam at the end, my breathing loud and echoing through the room. 

The silence that follows from him is deafening. 

For a second, I wonder if he actually heard me. Then his expression shifts. His eyes narrow, darkening as they settle on me.  

"I had no idea we were on a first-name basis, Miss Wilson." His voice is cold, unfeeling. "And I'm aware of your opinion about our arrangement."

"You're free to hate me. You're not free to leave as you please."