Chapter 3 Watcher Behind the Glass

Bastian Ferretti stood in the dark, arms folded, watching the girl on the stage.

She never once lifted her head. That was good. She didn't try to meet his eyes, didn't flinch or fight, didn't offer a flicker of resistance. Just the way he liked it, clean, quiet, and simple.

He wasn't here for a show. Wasn't here for fantasy. This was business. A contract. A name on a list and a signature that would bind her father to him for ninety days. Nothing more.

The room smelled like old money and quiet secrets. The air was thick with cigar smoke, mixing with a cold that didn't come from the weather. It was the kind of cold that sank into your skin and stayed there. The lights from the chandeliers were dim, just bright enough to make long shadows dance across the walls. Thick curtains tried to make the place look grand, but they couldn't hide what this place really was.

Bastian had been here many times before. He knew how the air felt different the farther in you went. The silence wasn't calm, it was power. The kind that made people feel small. The kind that listened and waited. After a while, you stopped being surprised by anything.

He shifted where he stood, but his shoes didn't make a sound. Behind him, the crowd murmured like soft waves at sea. Men in sharp suits stared at the stage, not with kindness, but like they were already placing bets. Some whispered numbers. Some chuckled, the kind of laugh that came from people who owned too much and cared too little.

The girl, Anaya her file had said, was young. Too young to already carry that kind of brokenness in her shoulders. She stood still in that white dress, skin damp, hands hanging by her sides like even they had given up.

He watched her, but it wasn't desire that curled inside his chest. It was something quieter. Deeper. She reminded him of someone. Maybe it was the way she didn't cry. Maybe it was the way she stood, frozen, but not defeated. Not yet.

She was afraid. He could feel it. Smell it. And maybe that's what bothered him most. Fear like that didn't grow overnight. It was trained into you. Rehearsed. And worse, permitted.

He took a breath and told himself again-this was business. A transaction. Nothing else.

"Pretty thing like her?" a voice murmured near his shoulder. "Rare catch."

Bastian turned to find Marco watching him with a crooked grin, fedora tilted low. One of his best men, and one of his most reckless.

"She's not a catch," Bastian said, low. "She's a contract."

Marco raised a brow.

"You collecting... or protecting?"

"Don't start," Bastian snapped. "I paid to prove a point. Her father owed. I'm collecting, nothing more."

Marco chuckled, the kind of sound that barely touched his lips. "Still sounds like you care, boss."

Bastian didn't answer. He didn't need to. Marco held his gaze a moment longer, then shrugged.

"Car's ready," he said. "You sure about this one? She's not like the others."

Bastian's jaw flexed. "Every contract has strings. I cut through them."

He stepped back from the viewing edge, the smoke curling around his thoughts. His mind wandered briefly, to his estate outside the city, that quiet house with stone floors and tall windows where nothing ever felt quite warm. He called it home, but only because he didn't know what else to call it.

That's where Anaya would be taken. For ninety days. Not by her choice. Not by his either. But by the agreement inked by a father too desperate, or too selfish, to care what it meant.

A father who had something to hide. Or something to gain. Bastian didn't care which.

A woman's voice interrupted his thoughts. Smooth. Measured. Familiar.

"Mr. Ferretti."

Bastian turned to see Sofia approaching, her stride elegant, every movement calculated. She always looked like she was ten seconds ahead of everyone else in the room. That's why he kept her close.

"They've cleared the back room," she said.

"The papers are on the table. The father already signed. We're waiting on your end."

He nodded once.

"Bring it," he said.

Sofia gestured, and within seconds, one of the guards appeared, a briefcase in hand. The exchange was quiet. Professional. Exactly how Bastian liked it.

He flipped open the case, scanned the details, made no effort to hide his disinterest. He'd already reviewed it days ago. This was formality.

Ninety days. Supervision. Silence. No interference from the girl's family. No exit until terms were met.

Bastian signed, pen gliding in a smooth stroke.

"Seal it and deliver a copy to legal," he said, handing it back to Sofia.

She nodded-then paused.

"You know who she reminds me of," Sofia said, voice lower now. Not teasing. Just cautious.

Bastian's gaze cut to her.

"Doesn't matter," he said simply.

"Still," she said, "if she even sparks that kind of resemblance..."

"It will be clean."

Sofia tilted her head slightly. "Will it?"

Bastian's jaw tightened. "I make it so."

She gave the faintest smile and stepped back. "Of course you do, boss."

He turned toward the stairs. Sofia didn't follow. She knew better than to push when his tone shifted like that.

As he climbed, the noise from the auction faded, replaced by the cold hush of business. He was walking into something binding, but not unfamiliar. Contracts were like chains. You just had to be the one holding the lock.

At the top of the steps, he paused for a moment. His hand curled around the banister.

There was something about the girl.

Anaya Castellanos.

She hadn't said a word, hadn't moved much, but her silence had teeth.

She carried something with her. Not fight. Not rebellion. Just a quiet fire, buried but burning.

And still, part of him flinched, deep inside where he rarely looked.

He didn't want to name why. Not yet.

But it didn't matter.

The deal was done. Her father had handed her off like a receipt.

Bastian would honor his end. She would stay under his roof. Watched. Contained. Nothing more.

He'd already buried the emotion that tried to rise. Locked it down tight. Out of reach.

Now, he just had to wait.

The girl would arrive.

The clock would start.

And by day ninety, she'd be gone.