Chapter 3

Alina's POV

The words landed like a stone dropped into still water. Every face in the room went blank with shock — including mine.

Lowell's expression gave away nothing. He reached into his card holder, drew out a black card, and held it out with the calm of someone settling a restaurant tab. "Whatever the price. Run it."

The aide standing beside him looked as though his jaw might actually detach from his face. He recovered quickly, rearranging his features into the neutral compliance of someone trained to receive instructions without reaction, and took the card. "Understood."

In the silence that followed, Lowell walked toward me. He spoke to the two men holding me up, his voice flat and cold. "Let her go."

My leg had been broken in the beating. The moment their hands released me, my knees buckled.

Lowell moved fast. He opened his arms without thinking and caught me before I went down.

Pressed against the solid wall of his chest, I felt something I hadn't expected — a strange, involuntary sense of safety. Of warmth.

But his words were still turning in my ears. I'm buying this woman. I didn't know who he was or what he wanted. Both things frightened me.

I pushed him away.

"I'm — I'm fine. I can manage."

"Let me take you to a hospital."

"No." I stepped back instinctively. "The money — tonight — I'll pay you back, I promise—"

"We can talk about money later. Hospital first."

He moved to take my arm again. I stepped back again.

Lowell went still. The wind off the street cut between us. He was standing with the light behind him, and I couldn't read his face.

After a long moment, he spoke again, his voice unhurried. "Where do you live? Get in the car. I'll take you home."

I looked up at him warily — and felt something settle across my shoulders. He had taken off his coat without my noticing and draped it over me.

In the cold of late autumn, the coat carried the faint warmth of his body and the ghost of expensive cigar smoke. Something in my chest shifted in a way I hadn't expected.

I had been on my own since I was nine. No one had done something like that for me in a very long time.

I was still somewhere inside that thought when Lowell put an arm around my shoulders and steered me toward the car. "Come on."

He closed the door for me, walked around the hood, and took the front passenger seat. Once the driver pulled out, he turned and asked me for my address.

It was only then that I took stock of where I actually was.

New York. I was in an entirely different city.

The only place I could think of here was the apartment my foster father had given me years ago — a reward for obedience, a property I had never once lived in. He had so many holdings that he had almost certainly forgotten this one existed. A small unit on the Upper West Side.

"The Dakota," I said, my voice rougher than I expected. "Fifth Avenue and Seventy-Second."

Something shifted in Lowell's face — the first real expression I'd seen from him, a flicker of surprise. "That's a coincidence," he said, his voice low and unexpectedly easy. "That's very close to where I live."

My throat tightened.

I was still working out how to respond when he continued: "The Upper West Side is one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city. How did someone with an address like that end up at an auction tonight?"

I looked down and said nothing.

I still didn't understand why he had stepped in. Pity? Something else? I wasn't going to talk about my situation — not until I understood what he was.

"I won't be staying there long," I said carefully. "I'll be renting somewhere soon." I reached for my phone. "Can I get your contact information? For the money — tonight — I'll pay you back when I can."

Lowell studied me for a moment, as though turning something over in his mind. Then he gave a quiet exhale — not quite a sigh, more like a small concession — and pulled out his phone. "All right."

After we exchanged contacts, I glanced at his profile photo. He was sitting on what looked like a submarine, the horizon behind him an unbroken line of sea and sky. It looked like it had been taken when he was a teenager, though he couldn't be much older than twenty-five now, maybe twenty-six.

I stole a glance at him. He had already turned away.

I braced myself and typed out the next message before I could talk myself out of it: Would you mind sending me your bank account details? So I can transfer the money when I have it.

The corner of his mouth lifted. It looked slightly unfamiliar on him, as though his face wasn't entirely used to it. "Is there really such a rush?"

I felt a flush of awkward heat and looked down, assuming that meant he wouldn't bother.

Then my phone chimed.

Here's my number. Bank details are below.

A moment later he added: "Don't stress about it. I'm not a creditor who needs the money."

I nodded.

He slid his phone back into his jacket pocket.

The car moved through the lit grid of midtown Manhattan, and eventually Lowell had the driver pull over in front of a fast food place. He got out alone and came back a few minutes later carrying a paper bag — burger, fries — which he passed to me through the window. "They made an extra by mistake in the back."

I took it without thinking. The bag was still warm. When I looked up to say thank you, I met his eyes.

He wasn't old. Up close, he looked no older than his mid-twenties, with the kind of direct, unhurried gaze that I had never encountered in anyone I'd known before — sharp, but without the edge of cruelty. Composed without being cold.

I found myself turning the question over despite myself: Who is this person?

The chair of a sex trafficking auction and the man sitting in front of me did not add up. The contradiction was almost too large to hold in one thought at once.

Was it an act?

I caught myself speculating and felt a dim prick of guilt. I looked down at the burger in my hands and decided to let it go.

The car turned into the underground garage of the building. A security guard bowed as we passed. I hadn't been here before, but the place had the same quiet, effortless weight of money as the home I'd grown up in with my foster father.

I didn't dwell on it. I was more aware that Lowell had glanced at me in the rearview mirror with a look I couldn't quite name — appraising, maybe. When he noticed I'd caught it, he looked away.

The driver produced an access card as we reached the inner parking area. The implication was clear: Lowell had a residence here too.

The car stopped. I moved to get out.

"Hold on."

He unbuckled his seatbelt, came around to my side, and opened the door.

"Thank you," I said quietly, and stepped out without taking the hand he extended.

"I'll walk you up."

"That's not necessary." I kept my voice level. "You've already done more than enough tonight."

He withdrew his hand. I moved past him and made my way to the elevator, favoring my good leg.

As the security guard by the elevator reached over to press my floor, I glanced back. Lowell was still standing beside the car, watching me go.

---

Back in the apartment, I sat with everything that had happened and tried to think clearly.

My foster father had almost certainly known about the auction. A man with his reach doesn't miss something like that. If it hadn't been sanctioned, it had at least been permitted.

If he had already cut me loose, there was no reason to go back to him.

I hadn't wanted to be anywhere near that man in years. The idea of returning to him on my own — voluntarily — was absurd. That would require a level of desperation I hadn't reached yet.

Or a complete loss of judgment.