Chapter 3 No.3

"I am not a library book," Cinthia said. Her voice was shaking, but the words were clear. She pushed herself up from the floor, her hands stinging from where the glass dust had pressed into her palms. "You can't just 'borrow' a person."

Adrian arched a brow. It was a micro-movement, the only sign that he had heard her at all. He didn't look at her. He kept his gaze fixed on Carter.

"This is the only offer on the table," Adrian said flatly. "Take it, or I have Miles dial the precinct. The NYPD response time for this district is under four minutes."

Carter scrambled up from his knees and grabbed Cinthia by the shoulders. His fingers dug into her flesh through the thin trench coat.

"Are you crazy?" Carter hissed, spit flying onto her cheek. "That's Adrian Clemons! Do you know who he is?"

"I know who he is," Cinthia snapped, trying to pry his hands off. "That's why I'm saying no! Carter, he's talking about human trafficking!"

"He's talking about saving my life!" Carter shook her. "Think about the debt, Cinthia! Think about Mom and Dad's loans! Think about Casey! If I go to jail, who pays for his meds? You? With your assistant salary?"

Cinthia went still.

Casey.

Her little brother. He needed the insulin. He needed the specialized therapy. Carter was a mess, a gambler, and a liar, but his income-however shady the source-covered half the bills. If he went away, the house of cards would collapse. Aunt Linda would throw Cinthia out. Casey would suffer.

She looked at Carter's face. It was twisted with fear and selfishness. There was no love there. He was looking at her like she was a winning lottery ticket he had just found in the gutter.

"Please," Carter whispered, dropping his voice to a pathetic whine. "Just one year. It's probably just... cleaning or something. Look at him. He doesn't want you for... that."

Cinthia felt a wave of nausea. She looked at Adrian.

He was checking his watch. A Patek Philippe. Worth more than her life insurance policy.

"I'm on a schedule," Adrian said. "Miles?"

Miles raised the phone again, his thumb hovering over the call button.

Cinthia closed her eyes. She took a breath that tasted of stale whiskey and despair.

"Fine," she whispered.

"Speak up," Adrian commanded.

She opened her eyes and glared at him. "I said fine. What do you need me to do?"

Adrian didn't smile. He didn't show triumph. He just nodded to Miles, who lowered the phone.

"Come with me," Adrian said. He turned on his heel and walked toward the door, not waiting to see if she followed.

Cinthia hesitated. She looked back at Carter one last time. He was slumped against the wall, wiping sweat from his forehead, already pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He didn't look at her. He was safe. That was all that mattered to him.

Something inside Cinthia broke. A small, fragile tether that had bound her to her older brother snapped cleanly in two.

She turned and followed the black suit out of the room.

The cold air outside the club hit her face like a slap. A black Rolls Royce Phantom was idling at the curb, its engine a low, purring beast.

Miles opened the rear door.

Cinthia paused. The interior was cavernous, upholstered in cream leather. Adrian was already inside, sitting on the far side, typing on a tablet.

"Get in," Adrian said without looking up. "Or go back inside and wait for the handcuffs."

Cinthia climbed in. She pressed herself against the door, putting as much distance between them as the luxury car allowed.

The door thudded shut, sealing them in a vacuum of silence.