Chapter 1 The Price of Desperation.

The hum of fluorescent lights along the hospital corridor was barely sufficient to mask the silence Isla Grant had grown used to. She sat alone in a worn vinyl chair, her hands trembling around a clipboard. The bill in front of her was the same one she had been studying yesterday-and the day before-but somehow, today it looked worse than ever.

$198,450.32.

And climbing.

Isla panted and looked up through the little glass window. Her father lay motionless in his bed, wires drawn out of his chest, an oxygen tube in his nose. The machines beeped steadily across him, a strange kind of rhythm that had become her substitute heart.

She'd already sold the car. Cashed out what was left of her 401$. Called every distant relative who still picked up when she called. Nothing.

The soft buzz of her phone in her coat pocket jolted her. She pulled it out quickly, desperate for a miracle.

"Hello?" she whispered.

"Miss Grant. This is Human Resources at PenMark & Associates." The voice was clipped, emotionless. "We've sent three formal warnings. Due to your ongoing absences and missed deadlines, we're terminating your employment, effective immediately."

Isla sat frozen. "Please-wait. My father's in critical condition. I've submitted notices-"

"I understand. But this is not negotiable. We apologize."

The phone clicked dead.

Her phone slipped from her grasp, falling to the floor with a clatter. Isla didn't move. She didn't even blink. Her livelihood was gone. Her father's bills weren't paid. Her life was falling apart before her and she could only sit and see it burn down around her.

A few blocks down, Alexander Milton sat silently on the top floor of his Manhattan skyscraper. Dusk seeped through windows that ran floor to ceiling, casting shadows across his angular face. He leaned back in his leather chair, gazing down into the open file on the desk in front of him.

It was thorough. His private investigator had delivered, as always.

Isla Grant. Age: 24. Occupation: Administrative assistant (presently fired). Current occupation: Waitress in Eden Bistro.

Alexander's gray eyes turned darker upon reading the name of her father. Daniel Grant. The man who had changed his life forever. The man who'd taken his mom.

He remembered the crash easily-his mother's car around a lamppost, her body pulled from the wreckage. Alexander had been fifteen. Daniel Grant had walked away from the crash with cracked ribs and a suspended license.

Alexander never had walked away at all.

Daniel Grant was dying now, and his daughter-Isla-was on the brink of poverty. This was the moment Alexander had spent years waiting for.

He picked up his phone. "Booked a table at Eden Bistro, private. Tell them to speak to the manager. Get them to have a specific waitress wait on me tonight-Isla Grant."

"Yes, Mr. Milton," came the swift reply.

Alexander closed the folder and fussed with his cufflinks. Time to spring the trap.

The scent of grilled sea bass and garlic butter lingered in the back hall of Eden Bistro. Isla tied her apron tightly around her waist, pulling her hair back with fingers that still trembled from her earlier phone call.

Her manager, Tony, met her at the staff entrance, arms crossed. "You're late again."

"I'm sorry-my dad-"

I don't hear excuses. You're lucky I didn't fill in for you tonight. We have a VIP table. Man requested you in particular."

Isla blinked. "Me? That's not possible."

Tony shoved a notecard into the palm of her hand. "Table 7. And for once, please don't screw this up."

Her pride stung, but she nodded. This job-her sole remaining source of income-was all she had left.

She weaved her way around the bistro, skirting close-clumped tables and muffled chatter. At Table 7, she saw him.

He sat alone, leaning against a leather booth as if he owned the establishment. His charcoal-colored suit hugged his broad shoulders. His black hair was slicked back, and a heavy gold watch reflected the light on his wrist. But his eyes stopped her-gray, cold, impenetrable.

He refused to look up as she approached.

"Evening. I'm Isla, I'll be waiting for you tonight. Would you have me-"

"I'll have a bottle of Château Lafite. 2000 vintage."

She hesitated. "That's not something on our-"

"Look at your reserve list. You'll see it," he commanded, voice firm but measured.

She smiled tactfully and moved away, flustered. There was something about him that flustered her. Like he knew her. Like he'd been watching her for a very long time.

It took fifteen minutes for Isla to return with the bottle clutched in her hand. She set it down gently on the table and raised the label.

Alexander barely glanced at it. "Open it."

She carefully uncorked the wine, praying her shaking hands wouldn't screw up. As she poured the glasses, he spoke.

"How long have you worked here?"

She glanced up. "Two years."

He hummed, as if the fact was a statistic that mattered to him.

"You must be bone-weary," he said. "Working two jobs. Running back and forth to a hospital all the time. And the debt... "

Her hands slipped. The wine spilled. A dark red splatter marked the white tablecloth.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry-" she cried.

The manager was there in seconds. "Mr. Milton, we apologize deeply. Isla-into the kitchen. Immediately."

"It was an accident," she whispered.

Tony's voice became icy. "I said immediately."

She obeyed. Again. Swallowing her humiliation step by step.

Isla sat outside the restaurant, legs tucked under her, apron folded in her lap twice. Her eyes were brimming with unshed tears. Things were slipping out of her hands, and she didn't even have the energy left to fight it.

The door opened behind her. Tony emerged, massaging the back of his neck.

"Come on, Isla. That guy is important. He made it clear he didn't want you around anymore after that fiasco."

Her voice cracked. "So I'm fired?"

His silence was enough.

She nodded, then stood on legs that barely held her up.

The cold night air bit through her coat as she walked toward the hospital, hands shoved deep in her pockets. Every step was heavier than the last.

No job. No money. And now the only thing she had left was hope-and even that was hanging by a thread.

She made it to the corner outside the hospital just as a black sports car stopped next to her. The window rolled down.

"Get in."

Isla turned slowly. Alexander was behind the steering wheel, one arm draped over the door.

"You got me fired," she croaked.

He didn't blink. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you need to experience rock bottom before you'll accept what I'm offering."

"I don't want anything from you.".

He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a gold-trimmed folder. He held it out to her.

"This is a contract," he said. "Marriage. Two years. I'll pay for everything-your father's treatment, the debts, even a monthly stipend. But you'll be mine. Publicly. Legally. Exclusively."

She didn't take it.

"I'm not for sale."

He leaned forward. "You are now."

Her eyes burned with fury and confusion. "Why me? Why this?"

His jaw hardened. "Because your father owes me something that cannot ever be paid back. And this is how I get it."

She stared at him. At the man who held her future in his palm like a contract.

Alexander said no more. He closed the folder and placed it beside her on the seat.

"Take all the time you need. But not too much. Your father doesn't have it."

And so, the car door had closed, and he was lost.

Leaving Isla in the dark street. Cold. Shivering. Holding a contract that could save her father-and destroy her.