Sold To The Possessive Billionaire In A Suit

Sophia Rose’s POV

“Sophia, you’re getting married,” my dad’s resolute voice replays in my head, like a gnawing, splitting headache. It’s been over twenty-four hours since I found out; over twenty-four hours since I last slept. 

My breath deep and shaky, I sit in my bright closet, quickly rolling a slip dress with trembling hands. My blurred gaze flicks to the white sleeping pills littering the closet floor. They’ve been there since midnight, and I’ve been staring at them for hours. In the end, I chose the suitcase instead.

I dump the rolled dress in it and grab the next cloth, folding faster than I can take two breaths. 

After spending five and a half years in London earning two degrees, I returned last month and have been trying to map out a one-year plan for my life, only to find out that I’m just a bargaining chip for my father’s failing company.

“I’ve been the perfect daughter…” I choke, hurriedly stuffing my suitcase as tears leak out of my eyes. “Always saying yes to all their demands… always doing as I’m told… they won’t see this coming.”

They chose my school, chose my degrees, chose where I lived in London, chose when I came home, chose what I should do. Monitor my movements. Now, they’re choosing who and when I marry.

I’ve always wondered how much worse it could get—my parents’ control over me. My greatest mistake is that I waited to find out. Now 23, and the worst has happened. No usual set-up dates, no permission from me, just a decision. I should have known it would come to this.

All I’ve ever wanted is freedom to live a life, to live for myself, to find out what I like and want to do. But we’re in debt up to our eyeballs; it’s swallowing everything; we’ve got a ‘reputation’ to maintain as the dignified Rose family, and somehow, selling me off – their only daughter – to a business mogul whose name they’ve withheld from me and who’s going to wipe clean our debts is the perfect solution to this family crisis. 

He’ll be here in an hour, and I’m supposed to be getting dressed up for him while my parents prepare for his arrival downstairs. But I won’t be here. I can’t.

“Dad? Dad! DADDY*?! Please… I don’t want to get married*.” The memory of me pleading, stumbling on the floor of my bedroom as I went after my dad last night, flashes in my head. Crying desperately, I’d sunk to my knees, but he pulled me right up, stroked my hair, and said with remorse in his eyes, “I’m doing this for you, my love. I’m so sorry.”

No. I’m sorry for not choosing myself all this time. Not anymore. 

I may not know what I want yet, but I know it’s not this.

Done packing, I force my suitcase shut and rise with it.

My phone buzzes on a shelf. I snatch it up, my thumb flying across the screen. It’s my best friend, who lives in London. 

Layla: {Sure about this?}

Me: {Yes.}

Since I have no close friends in New York, Layla connected me to a friend of hers, who’s supposed to pick me up in twenty minutes. His text comes in.

Layla’s Friend: {Almost at your place}

Me: {Great.}

I step into my shoes and drag my suitcase out of my closet. Then I rush to my vanity, where my purse full of cash waits, and I wear it across my shoulder. I pick up my passport, throw it into my purse, throw my phone in, too, and without looking back, march toward my door.

Knock. Knock.

I freeze, tightening my grip around my suitcase’s handle. 

“My love?” My dad’s voice echoes behind the door. “Can I come in for a bit? I want to talk with you…”

A ball solidifies in my throat. Fighting back tears, I stare at the doorknob, knowing I’m trapped for life the minute he walks in.

He knocks again, softly. “Sophia? Are you there?”

“Dad?” I croak.

“My love,”

With a trembling breath, I lie, “I’ll… I’ll come to your study in twenty minutes. I have to get dressed for my fiancé’s arrival.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then he says, “I’ll be waiting.”

“Mm,” I mumble loud enough, choking in pain. 

As soon as I hear him leave, my body crumbles. I palm my eyes. The tears spill out uncontrollably.

He promised.

After the last one, he promised never to set me up with any man again, yet he’s done this. I’ll always love my dad. But I have to pick myself. I have to. 

Three minutes later, I wipe my tears, pull my suitcase, and slip out of my room. My dad’s study is downstairs, but I wheel my suitcase across the hallway to his bedroom. There’s a secret exit out of this mansion. Or cage. It leads to our backyard.

Everyone is distracted and busy downstairs, so no one sees me.

Now outside, I take my phone out. 

There’s a text from Layla’s Friend: {I’m at the back wall by the woods.}

Me: {Look for the tall beech tree tipping over the high walls. That’s where I’m jumping.}

Layla’s Friend: {All right. Can see the tree from here. Stay safe}

I zip my phone in my purse and move.

Quickly, I step out of my shoes and throw them over the wall. Then I pick up my suitcase and stagger, yet I manage to drag it up two sturdy branches, my muscles straining against the awkward weight.

Now, it sits precariously on my shoulder as I gasp for air, trying to figure out how to send it over the ledge without losing my footing. I tremble, pushing with all my might.

My foot slips on a wet patch of bark. 

My breath catches. I lunge forward, gripping the tree trunk as the suitcase plummets backward. It hits the ground on my side of the wall with a splintering crack. The zippers burst, and I watch my dresses, shoes, and jewelry pour out onto the dirt.

I’m going to be sick. 

“I’m here.” A deep voice cuts through the mess, coming from the other side of the wall.

I shut my eyes tight for a second. Sweat drips down my skin as if I’ve been in an oven. I have to leave with nothing.

“Are you there?” Layla’s friend speaks again.

My phone starts to vibrate violently in my purse, buzzing against my ribs. It has to be my mom calling. I know it. They’re looking for me already.

Desperate, I abandon my ruined suitcase, haul myself up the remaining branches, and scramble onto the top of the brick wall. Pain radiates from my core. Rough stones scrape against my bare thighs and arms. I breathe shakily. But there’s no going back. Carefully, I peer down at him in the dark, kneeling and gripping the ledge.

“Y-you have to catch me.” My voice cracks as a painful lump forms in my throat—a clear realization that I want to live. 

“Trust me.”

Do I have a choice?

I swing my legs over the brick ledge. My heart hammers against my ribs. I shut my eyes tight, let go of the stonewall, and release myself into the empty air, onto him.

My insides suspend. 

The wind engulfs me for one terrifying second.

The impact is heavy.

He catches me, absorbing my weight with effortless strength. He doesn’t stumble or move a foot. I’m squashed flush against his chest, my hands instinctively gripping the fabric of his clothes.

I’m panting, shaking uncontrollably in his grip. My hair is in my face. Yet my eyes flick open to thank Layla’s friend. 

The words dissolve in my throat.

“Were you trying to run away from me?” He utters in my face, lips shifting into a slow smirk—a charming yet terrifying one.

My pulse slams. Fear paralyzes every muscle in my body as I stare into sharp, familiar dark eyes.

This is not Layla’s friend. I can tell instantly because I know this man. 

“A-Alexander?” I gasp.

“Hello, Sophia.”

My breath seizes.

“Escaping, I see…” he murmurs, brushing my tangled hair from my face, “And here I was, looking forward to dinner with my bride.”