Chapter 2

Josie Barnett POV:

She stood there, mascara streaking her pale face, her designer dress rumpled and torn. She looked like a broken doll. The whispers started instantly, cruel and hushed.

"Look at her," someone snickered. "She really fell from grace."

Christopher' s jaw clenched. His eyes, usually so calculating, burned with a raw fury I rarely saw. He turned, his voice low and dangerous. "Get out. All of you."

The crowd scattered, like roaches exposed to light.

I instinctively reached out a hand to her, a gesture of shared understanding, a silent offering of help.

"Don't you dare." His voice was a whip-crack. "Don't you ever interfere."

My hand fell. My face burned. He' d humiliated me again, in front of the very woman who had broken his heart.

I turned away, choking back the sudden sting in my eyes. As I walked, I heard their voices. A low murmur, then hers, sharp and wounded.

"Don't touch me," she spat. "Don't pretend you care."

Then Christopher's voice, softer, pleading. "Chaney. Please."

A pause. Then a choked sob. He wrapped his arms around her. A desperate, raw embrace. It was unlike anything I had ever seen from him.

"Stay," he begged. His voice was thick with an emotion I couldn't name.

I kept walking. The cold night air didn't cool the fire in my cheeks. I knew then. He had never looked at me like that. Never begged me to stay.

I thought about his words, whispered in the dark, about us never being public. About my place. Don' t be foolish, Josie. I reminded myself. Don' t confuse kindness with love.

I hailed a taxi. The city lights were a blur through my tears. I was just a convenience. A placeholder. A transaction.

Back in the empty penthouse, the silence was deafening. He had rules. Rules about guests, about noise, about my very existence within these walls. I was a ghost he could summon.

I flicked on a dim lamp, the only light in the cavernous space. The room felt colder, larger. I curled up on the sofa, too tired to even change.

Sleep came, a fitful, dream-laced escape. I was back at the beginning. That first meeting.

My father. His illness. The experimental treatment we couldn' t afford. I worked two jobs, studied late into the night. It wasn't enough. It was never enough.

Someone mentioned a way. A shortcut. A means to an end. It sounded ugly. It felt dirtier. But his life depended on it.

Then I met him. Christopher. In a gilded office, sterile and intimidating. I was a supplicant.

"What do you want?" he'd asked, his voice flat.

"My father's life," I'd whispered.

He looked at me, a long, assessing gaze that stripped me bare. "And what do you offer?"

I looked away, tears blurring my vision. "Anything."

He' d smiled then. A chilling, predatory smile. "Anything?"

And then I was here. His secret. His property. His temporary amusement.

A loud slam jolted me awake. The front door. Christopher.

I sat up, my heart pounding. He looked disheveled, his tie askew. His eyes were dark, stormy.

"Christopher? Are you alright?" I asked, my voice small.

He strode towards me, his gaze intense. He grabbed my arm, pulling me up roughly. His mouth descended on mine, hard and demanding. Not a kiss, but a claim. A punishment.

I struggled, pushing against his chest. My hands met hard muscle.

He pulled back, his eyes burning. "What's wrong, Josie? Not eager for your benefactor tonight?"