Bought By The Coldhearted Media Mogul

The numbers on the screen were red. Not just a dull, rusty red, but a vibrant, screaming crimson that seemed to pulse against the cracked glass of Cinthia's phone. Negative four hundred and twelve dollars.

She sat on the edge of her mattress, the springs groaning in protest, and stared at the banking app. Outside the thin walls of the Brooklyn apartment, a siren wailed, growing louder and then fading, a Doppler effect of someone else's tragedy passing her by. Her tragedy was right here, stationary and suffocating.

Her chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a belt around her ribs and pulled it one notch too far. She closed the app, only to open it again three seconds later, hoping for a glitch. The negative sign remained.

Then the phone vibrated.

The name "Carter" flashed on the screen.

Cinthia's stomach twisted into a hard knot. She didn't want to answer. Every time Carter called after 10 PM, it wasn't to ask how her day was. It was to ask for money she didn't have, or to tell her about a problem she couldn't fix. Her thumb hovered over the decline button.

The phone stopped buzzing. Silence returned to the room, heavy and thick.

Two seconds later, it started again.

She pressed answer.

"Cinthia!"

The scream pierced her eardrum. It wasn't a word; it was a raw sound of terror.

"Carter? What-"

"You have to come! Now! The Onyx! They're going to kill me, Cinthia! Or call the cops! If the cops come, I'm done. Aunt Linda will kill me if I go back inside!"

Background noise flooded the line. Glass shattering. A woman's high-pitched, hysterical shrieking. A deep voice shouting something about security.

"Carter, slow down. The Onyx? That's a private club in Manhattan. How did you even-"

"Just come! Bring the credit card! The emergency one!"

The line went dead.

Cinthia stared at the phone. The emergency card had a limit of five hundred dollars. It was for medical emergencies for their younger brother, Casey. Not for whatever hell Carter had unleashed in a club where a glass of water cost more than her shoes.

She stood up. Her legs felt heavy, like she was wading through wet cement. She grabbed her trench coat from the hook-the beige one with the missing button she had been meaning to sew back on for three months.

She ran out the door, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. In the hallway, she nearly tripped over a bag of trash a neighbor had left out. The smell of rotting banana peels and stale beer hit her, grounding her in the reality of her life.

She couldn't let Carter go to jail. Not because he didn't deserve it-God knew he did-but because if he went to jail, the debt collectors would turn their full attention to her and Aunt Linda. And Aunt Linda didn't handle stress well. She handled it with screaming matches and thrown plates.

Cinthia hailed a cab on the corner. It was a miracle one stopped. She gave the driver the address, her voice trembling.

Thirty minutes later, the cab pulled up to The Onyx.

It looked like a fortress. Black stone, minimal signage, a velvet rope that seemed to judge her net worth and find it lacking.

Cinthia paid the driver, her hands shaking as she handed over the cash. It was her grocery money for the week.

She walked up to the entrance. The bouncer was a mountain of a man in a suit that cost more than her entire wardrobe. He crossed his arms, his eyes scanning her cheap coat and messy hair.

"Members only," he rumbled.

"My brother is inside," Cinthia said. Her voice sounded thin, swallowed by the city noise. "Carter Wise. He... he called me."

The bouncer's expression shifted. It wasn't kindness. It was a smirk. A cruel, knowing twist of the lips.

"Ah. The Wise kid." He unhooked the velvet rope. "Go on in. They're waiting for someone to clean up the mess."

Cinthia didn't ask what he meant. She stepped past him, pushing open the heavy mahogany doors.

The air inside changed instantly. The humidity of the street was replaced by a dry, conditioned chill. The smell of exhaust vanished, overtaken by the scent of aged leather, expensive scotch, and a perfume so floral it made her nose itch.

She followed the sound of shouting down a dimly lit corridor.

She pushed open the double doors at the end of the hall.

The VIP room was a disaster zone.

A crystal chandelier hung above a scene of absolute chaos. A glass coffee table lay in shards on the Persian rug. Amber liquid soaked into the intricate patterns of the wool.

And there was Carter.

Her brother was on his knees. His shirt was torn open, buttons missing. There were three long, red scratches running down his cheek, oozing blood. He looked pathetic. Small.

"You rapist!"

The scream came from a woman standing on the pristine leather sofa. She was beautiful in a terrifying way-blonde hair perfectly disheveled, a silver dress that clung to her like a second skin. Yvette Quinton. Cinthia recognized her from the tabloids Giana read at the office.

"I didn't!" Carter sobbed, his hands raised in surrender. "She invited me in! She said-"

"Liar!" Yvette screeched. She grabbed a heavy crystal ashtray from the side table and hurled it.

It missed Carter's head by inches and smashed into the wall behind him.

Cinthia froze in the doorway. Her brain couldn't process the violence. It was too raw, too fast.

Then, she saw him.

In the far corner of the room, seated in a high-backed leather armchair, was a man.

He was in the shadows, but his presence filled the room more than Yvette's screaming or Carter's sobbing. He held a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, resting it casually on the arm of the chair. He wasn't looking at the drama. He was looking at the amber liquid in his glass, swirling it gently.

Adrian Clemons.

Cinthia's breath hitched. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

It was him. The CEO of Clemons Media Group. Her boss's boss's boss. The man whose face was on the cover of Forbes in the lobby of the building where she worked as a junior executive assistant.

He looked bored.

While her brother was bleeding and a socialite was throwing furniture, Adrian Clemons looked like he was waiting for a tedious commercial break to end.

Cinthia forced her legs to move. She rushed to Carter, dropping to her knees beside him. The glass shards bit into her jeans.

"Carter," she whispered, grabbing his arm. "What did you do?"

"Cinthia!" Carter grabbed her hand, his grip painful. "Tell them! Tell them I'm not like that!"

Yvette jumped down from the sofa. She marched over, her heels stabbing into the rug. She shoved Cinthia hard.

"Who the hell are you?" Yvette spat.

Cinthia stumbled back but kept her balance. "I'm his sister. Please, just tell me what happened. We can fix this."

"Fix this?" Yvette laughed. It was a sharp, brittle sound. "Your trash brother tried to rip my dress off!"

"You pulled me in here!" Carter yelled back, his voice cracking. "You said you wanted to make him jealous!" He pointed a shaking finger toward the corner.

Toward Adrian.

At the mention of his involvement, Adrian finally moved.

He stopped swirling his drink. He lifted his head.

His eyes were dark, almost black in the dim light. They swept over the room, cold and precise as a scalpel. They passed over Yvette, over Carter, and landed on Cinthia.

There was no recognition. Why would there be? To him, she was just a pixel in the background of his empire. But the look he gave her wasn't blank. It was filled with a profound, exhausted disgust.

He set the glass down on the side table. The sound of the heavy crystal hitting the wood was quiet, but it silenced the room instantly.

"Clean this trash out," Adrian said. His voice was low, a baritone that vibrated in the floorboards.

Two security guards stepped out from the shadows near the door. They moved toward Carter.

"No!" Carter scrambled back on his hands and knees. "Mr. Clemons, please! It's a misunderstanding! It's not me!"

The guard grabbed Carter by the collar of his torn shirt.

"It's her!" Carter screamed, pointing at Cinthia. "She set it up! My sister! She told me to come here! She wanted money!"

Cinthia felt the blood drain from her face. The room spun. She looked at her brother, at the desperation twisting his features. He was selling her out. To save his own skin, he was throwing her to the wolves.

"Carter..." she breathed, the word barely audible.

Yvette saw an opening. She grabbed a silver ice bucket from the bar cart. "You little schemer!"

She swung the bucket at Carter.

Cinthia didn't think. It was instinct, honed by years of stepping in between her aunt and her brothers. She lunged forward.

"Stop!"

She threw her body in front of Carter.

The heavy bucket didn't hit her, but Yvette's momentum did. Yvette crashed into Cinthia, sending her stumbling sideways.

Cinthia's foot caught on the thick edge of the rug. She flailed, her arms grasping for purchase.

She fell.

Not toward the floor.

She fell directly toward the armchair in the corner. Toward the man who was watching them with the cold detachment of a god watching insects drown.

Gravity was a cruel mistress.

Cinthia hit the floor hard, her knees slamming into the rug, but her upper body didn't find the carpet. Instead, her hands landed on warm, firm fabric.

She was sprawled across Adrian Clemons's legs.

Her palms were pressed against his thighs, feeling the hard muscle beneath the immaculate wool of his trousers. The scent of him-sandalwood, expensive scotch, and something sharp like winter air-filled her nose, overpowering the stench of spilled alcohol.

For a split second, time suspended. She looked up, her chin grazing his knee.

Adrian froze. His entire body went rigid, as if he had been touched by something contagious.

Then, the reaction came.

It wasn't a gentle push. It was a shove, fueled by a visceral, almost violent rejection. His hands clamped onto her shoulders, his grip bruising, and he threw her back.

"Get off."

The words were a snarl.

Cinthia scrambled backward, landing awkwardly on her rear on the wet, alcohol-soaked rug. Humiliation burned her cheeks hotter than a fever. She pulled her coat tight around herself, trying to make herself smaller.

Adrian stood up abruptly. He brushed his hands down his thighs, a frantic, repetitive motion, as if trying to wipe away invisible filth. His face was pale, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek.

"Look at that," Yvette sneered, crossing her arms. "The Wise family women are just as cheap as the men. Throwing yourself at him? Really?"

Cinthia ignored her. She looked at Carter, hoping for... something. An apology? A defense?

Carter wasn't looking at her. He was looking at Adrian, and his eyes were wide. Not with fear anymore, but with a sudden, dawning realization.

"Miles," Adrian barked, not looking away from Cinthia. "Call the police. I want them all charged. Trespassing, assault, destruction of property."

A man in a sharp grey suit stepped forward from the shadows-Miles, his executive assistant. He pulled out his phone.

"No! Wait!" Carter lunged forward, grabbing the hem of Miles's trousers. "Please! Mr. Clemons! Don't call the cops! We can pay! We can make it up to you!"

Adrian looked down at Carter with a sneer that could strip paint. "You? You look like you couldn't afford the ice in that bucket."

"My sister!" Carter blurted out. "She'll do anything! Look at her! She's obedient. She's clean. She can work it off!"

Cinthia felt like she had been slapped. The air left her lungs. "Carter, stop," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Shut up, Cinthia!" Carter hissed at her, then turned his desperate grin back to Adrian. "She's never been in trouble. No record. She'll do whatever you want. Just don't send me to jail."

Adrian paused.

His hand, which had been reaching for his own phone, stopped mid-air.

He looked at the sobbing man on the floor, then shifted his gaze to the woman huddled in the mess of broken glass.

She looked pathetic. Her hair was a frizzy mess, her coat was cheap polyester, and she was trembling like a leaf. But her eyes...

They weren't begging. They were furious. Behind the fear, there was a spark of absolute indignation. She was biting her lip so hard it was turning white, refusing to cry.

Adrian's mind flashed back to the morning. His mother's voice on the phone, sharp and relentless. The trust fund vote is next week, Adrian. The board is nervous. They want stability. They want a family man, not a brooding widower. Get married, or Darryl gets the chair.

Darryl. His half-brother. The mistake his father had made with a secretary two decades ago.

Adrian needed a wife. Not a real one. God, no. He never wanted a real one again. He needed a prop. A mannequin. Someone who had no power, no connections, and no ability to fight him. Someone he could buy and discard when the contract was up.

He looked at Cinthia again.

She was desperate. Her brother was a criminal. They were drowning in debt; he could smell the poverty on them.

She was perfect.

Adrian lowered his hand. "Miles. Hold the call."

Miles froze, phone in hand. "Sir?"

Adrian stepped over the broken glass, his Italian leather shoes crunching on the shards. He stopped in front of Cinthia. He towered over her, blocking out the light from the chandelier.

"You're the sister?" he asked. His voice was devoid of emotion. It was a business transaction.

Cinthia looked up. Her neck hurt from the angle. "Yes," she managed to say.

Adrian turned his head slightly toward Yvette. "Get out."

Yvette blinked, her mouth falling open. "What? Adrian, honey, they attacked me-"

"I said get out," Adrian said, his tone dropping an octave. "Miles, escort Ms. Quinton to her car. And ensure she understands that if a word of this leaks to the press, her father's company will lose its credit line by morning."

Yvette went pale. She gathered her skirt and fled, Miles following her to the door before turning back.

The room was silent now, save for Carter's ragged breathing.

Adrian pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket. He wiped his hands again, though he hadn't touched anything, and then dropped the silk square into the trash can beside the sofa.

He looked at Carter. "You want to avoid prison?"

Carter nodded so hard his head bobbed like a toy. "Yes. Yes, sir. Anything."

Adrian pointed a long finger at Cinthia.

"Lend her to me."

Cinthia's heart stopped. "What?"

"One year," Adrian said, his eyes locking onto hers. They were cold, empty tunnels. "You give her to me for one year. I wipe your debt. I fix the damage here. No police."

Carter didn't even hesitate. "Done. Take her."

"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.