Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Stella’s mouth curls up at the edge, and she sets her cereal bowl on the coffee table, where it immediately seeps a ring of milk into the wood. “Well, you’re not allowed to die tragically until at least I find someone,” she says. “Otherwise, I’m stuck paying the rent on this palace solo. Plus, who will kill all the bugs for me?”
I collapse next to her, let the exhaustion of the last 48 hours settle into my spine. The couch has a rut in it that fits my body perfectly, and for a moment I just sit there, listening to the muffled hum of the radiator and the scrape of Stella’s spoon on ceramic.
After a minute, Stella speaks, voice low and conspiratorial. “So is it weird being alone with him?” She doesn’t have to say who.
I blink and pretend confusion. “Who, Trevor? No. He barely notices I exist unless something is on fire or needs to be signed in triplicate. It’s like living with a very tall Roomba who occasionally yells at the stock market,” I fib.
Stella snorts again, then leans in. “Kay, you realize you’re basically moving in with a billionaire. Like, does he have a golden toilet? Antiques and collectibles all over the place? Will you get health insurance and dental?”
I laugh, but it sounds a little off in my own ears. “I’m not sure, honestly, because it’s all pretty new. But I assume so, in addition to, like, free meals and stuff.” It comes out sounding like a weak cover story, which, to be fair, it is.
Stella’s eyes are bright and a little wild. “And what about, you know, the rest of it? I mean, he’s not just your boss, right? He’s your stepbrother. Are you guys …?”
She lets the question hang, her eyes not leaving mine. There’s a tension in my chest, a coil of dread and anticipation. I can feel my face burning.
“God, Stella,” I say, and try to laugh it off, but the sound is tinny. “He’s my brother. You make it sound like we’re—”
She doesn’t let me finish. “But you and Trevor aren’t actually related. And you’ve had a crush on him for like two years. It’s always been Trevor this, Trevor that. Don’t deny it, Kayleigh, you blab about him a lot.”
I feel my mouth go dry. The sunlight on the carpet looks like spilled lemonade. I swallow and decide, fuck it. She’s going to know eventually. Maybe she already does.
“I mean,” I say slowly, “yes, maybe I have a thing for him. But it’s not, like, a thing-thing. He’s just impossible to ignore.” I say it soft, not sure if I want her to hear.
Stella grins, then leans back, triumphant. “I knew it. You’re obsessed.”
I make a face, but it’s only half a protest. The silence grows, and then, finally, I blurt:
“We have a kind of arrangement now. I mean, he bailed me out of jail, and then he bought himself at the auction after I bid a million, and now—” I wave a hand in a circle, as if to summon the appropriate word from thin air. “Now, I guess I’m his. Or he thinks I am.”
Stella’s jaw drops. “You mean, like… you’re his girlfriend?”
I shake my head quickly. “No. Not like that. More like…” I search for the phrase, and when it comes, I say it quietly, but with the weird clarity that comes from speaking your own doom: “I’m basically a fuck on demand. Like a sex slave.”
The silence is absolute, except for the soft whir of the vent fan and the distant shriek of a city bus.
Then Stella opens her mouth, shuts it, and then says, “Yeah, but you can’t be a slave if you’re getting paid. Are you getting paid?”
I laugh for real this time, loud enough to spook the pothos on the window. “Actually, yeah, I think I am. He offered me a salary to be his personal assistant, so I’m expecting some direct deposits.”
Stella squeals and flings a pillow at me. “You bitch! You’re living the dream!”
I double over, and for a minute, we’re just two girls in a falling-apart apartment, howling with laughter, all the bad shit gone for a moment.
But when the giggles die down, Stella glances at my wrist. The right one. The faint red mark is still visible there, a soft ring like the world’s smallest tattoo. Her eyes narrow.
“Is he into, like, BDSM shit?” she asks, voice soft.
I jerk my sleeve down, heart skipping. “No,” I say, but I can’t make it sound convincing.
Stella leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Listen to me, Kay. If you ever see a hidden room, or a weird hallway, or a closet that seems deeper than it should be, you GTFO, okay? You know about those guys? The ones with red rooms and, like, soundproof walls? Some of them have literal torture dungeons.”