Chapter 2

The cold wind cut through my body like knives, until a convenience store clerk kindly gave me an old jacket.

I hugged my arms to my chest, hurrying down the street until I turned into an empty alley. Only then did I lean against the cold brick wall and slowly exhale a breath of white vapor.

I pulled out my phone. Vince's official account had posted an update just one minute ago.

In the photo, he and Sloane were holding hands, fingers laced together. The caption was a single, simple line: "My only one."

I stared at that photograph with an absurd sense of calm.

I had once believed I was loved by Vince.

I was nineteen that year, living in the filthiest slum in this city.

My mother had run off one night with the last few bills we had, leaving me with my brother, who had a congenital heart condition.

My father was a hopeless gambler and drunk. Every time he lost money, he'd whip me with his belt.

To settle his gambling debts, he dragged me into an underground casino reeking of cigars and cheap perfume, intending to sell me to a man in his sixties.

I fought with everything I had. They beat me until my head bled.

Just when I thought I'd be dragged into hell, Vince appeared.

He was like a god descending into a filthy swamp.

His men subdued the thugs with ease. He wore an immaculate trench coat and walked over to me, lifting my chin with a gloved hand.

"Want to live?" he asked.

I clutched at his pant leg like it was the last lifeline I'd ever have, nodding desperately.

He paid off my father's debt. He sent my brother to the best hospital.

I moved into an apartment he arranged, wore the clothes he bought, learned to speak and act the way he preferred.

He never demanded anything from me, yet I gave willingly.

I thought beneath his icy exterior was a tender heart. I thought if I was obedient enough, if I loved him enough, I could eventually melt him.

I thought I was someone special in his life.

Until a year ago, when I overheard a conversation between him and a friend.

"Vince, aren't you getting a little too attached to that commoner girl—Maeve, was it? The old man would never let her through the door."

"Attached?" Vince laughed softly. "She's just a well-behaved canary. She's obedient. As for letting her in? If she ever gets any ideas about feelings or marriage, I'll end it immediately."

That day, I understood my place.

All his kindness had been conditional on how well I performed as a possession.

The so-called salvation was nothing more than a transactional exchange by someone with power to spare. He'd bought my youth and dignity, and I'd received my brother's medical bills. That was all.

Coming back to myself, I took a deep breath and hailed a cab.

By the time I returned to the apartment, it was well past midnight. Every corner of the place bore traces of Vince—the cold-toned furniture he favored, the luxury watch he'd left carelessly on a table, the walk-in closet crammed full of designer pieces sent seasonally by his staff.

I walked into the bedroom and dragged out an old suitcase from under the bed. It was the only thing I'd brought with me three years ago that was truly mine.

I dug out the cheap T-shirt and jeans I'd bought for myself.

The entire packing process took less than five minutes.

I looked around. This gilded birdcage that had held me captive for three years was still beautiful enough to suffocate in.

But I didn't need it anymore.

My brother's condition had stabilized. And two weeks ago, I'd secretly interviewed for an assistant position at an independent gallery.

I left the key on the cabinet in the entryway and closed the door behind me.

Meanwhile, in the penthouse office of Hayes Corporation.

Vince's personal assistant pushed open the door, his voice trembling as he reported, "Sir… Miss Maeve has left the apartment."

Vince's hand, which had been signing documents, paused slightly. The fountain pen bled a dark blot of ink across the paper.

He looked up, a shadow passing through his eyes before it was quickly replaced by a cold sneer.

"Playing hard to get." He tossed the pen onto the desk, his tone certain and dismissive. "Cut off her brother's VIP status at the private hospital. I want to see how many days she lasts in this city without my money. Give it three days. She'll come crawling back."

My life began to fall into a rhythm. Every morning at eight, I squeezed onto the subway, organized catalogs, greeted clients, cleaned the gallery floor.

The pay was modest, but every cent was money I'd earned myself.

Three days passed. I didn't go to beg Vince.

I transferred my brother to an ordinary hospital. The conditions were a little worse, but my salary was enough to cover the routine cost of his treatment.

The gallery work kept me busy, but I felt a steadiness I'd never known before.

Every cent was earned with my own sweat. I didn't need to read anyone's expression, didn't need to sell my soul.

Until that day, when the brass bell above the gallery door chimed softly.

I was standing on a ladder, adjusting the position of an oil painting. I turned my head—and saw the two people standing in the doorway.

Vince and Sloane.