Seven

H E R

It wasn't long before the sun began to pierce through my blinds, burning away what was left of the night.

I hadn't slept. My nerves were wrecked, my mind tangled in what tomorrow might bring. Every turn on my pillow only made the night longer.

"Nat."A hand pats my hip. "Nat," Yaris repeats, sharper this time, before tossing a pillow at me.

I blink into the light. "What?"

"Someone's on the phone for you. Been calling for a while," she mutters, arms crossed, tone dry and unimpressed.

Dragging myself from bed, I brush past her, half-awake. The faint buzz of the phone hums down the hall—steady, insistent. I press the receiver to my ear.

"Hello?" I croak.

"Well, good morning," a calm but commanding voice replies. "Someone sounds like they're just waking up."

His voice slices through my fog—smooth, deliberate. Too familiar.

I freeze. I never gave him this number.

"Explains why you missed my calls," he continues, unbothered.

"I had trouble sleeping," I whisper, glancing toward Yaris peeking from the doorway. My voice shrinks. "Sorry."

"No need to be sorry," he says smoothly. "You can apologize by being ready in fifteen minutes. I'm sending for you. Breakfast? We need to tie up some loose ends talk more about my offer."

My throat tightens. "O-okay... I'd love to."

"Good. Fifteen to twenty minutes. A driver will be waiting. Leaving him waiting is leaving me waiting. And I don't like to wait."

"...Right." I swallow. "Do you... need my address?"

He chuckles quietly. "Trust me, I don't need it. But there are a few things you need to know before stepping into my world."

My grip tightens on the receiver. "Yes?"

"Rules," he says, voice dropping an octave. "There are only four."

The word rules lands like a cold hand on the back of my neck.

"Number one—don't talk to anyone. Your ties are to me alone. Number two—don't reveal your age. It's our business, no one else's. Number three—don't lie to me or withhold anything. Number four—you do not disclose your connection to me, nor when you come to see me. Your movements toward me stay between us. Any rule-breaking will result in punishment. Understood?"

Punishment.The word hangs heavy—dark, deliberate. My breath hitches. I can't tell if it's fear or curiosity that makes my pulse quicken.

"...Understood," I whisper.

I hang up slowly, still holding the receiver long after the dial tone hums out.Yaris is watching me from the doorway, her brow furrowed.

"Who was that?"

Rule Four: Do not disclose your ties to me.

Lies—like feathers in the wind. Soft. Floating. Bound to land somewhere uncertain.

"My sponsor," I say quickly. "For school."

Her eyes widen, all confusion fading into joy. "School? Chica, why didn't you tell me? That's amazing!"

"Surprise?" I grin weakly.

She squeals, hugging me tight. "I'm so proud of you. You finally did it!"

I nod into her shoulder, forcing a smile. If only you knew.

When she heads back toward her room, I slip quietly into mine and shut the door.The silence hits different now—louder somehow.

I move quickly. The fifteen-minute countdown runs like a clock inside my head.

I pull open drawers, grabbing a fitted cream turtleneck, a tan midi skirt, and my black ankle boots—the ones with the modest heel he once said "fit a lady, not a girl." My fingers shake as I fasten the zipper. I smooth my hair into a neat bun, applying a faint layer of gloss and a brush of mascara. Not too much. Not too little.

I pause in the mirror, staring at the woman looking back.Is this what obedience looks like?

I grab my bag, stuffing in my ID, lip balm, and the small notepad I always keep tucked under my pillow.As I zip it closed, my eyes catch on the photo of me and Yaris on the nightstand—two smiles, carefree, before any of this started.

"I'll tell her when it's over," I whisper. "She'll understand."

The knock comes sooner than expected—three firm taps against the door.

Yaris's voice echoes from the kitchen. "Nat! Someone's here for you!"

My chest tightens. I check the time—exactly fifteen minutes.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, take one last look around the room, and step into the hall as Yaris meets me halfway.

At the door stands a tall man in a tuxedo, posture straight, expression unreadable.

"Natalia?" he asks.

"Yes," I answer quietly.

"I'm Dean—Mr. Jackson's driver. I'll be taking you to your destination today." His smile is polite but distant, all professionalism.

"Nice to meet you," I murmur, following him down the steps.

"You didn't tell me you had a ride!" Yaris calls from the doorway, hand on her hip.

"It was last minute!" I lie easily, forcing a cheerful wave before turning away. The door clicks shut behind me, and the lie settles like dust in my lungs.

Dean opens the car door with practiced ease, guiding me inside. His cologne smells faintly of mint and soap.I sink into the seat, heart drumming.

He starts the engine. "So," he begins casually, "you new to Mr. Jackson's circle?"

Rule One: Do not talk to anyone.

I glance out the window, saying nothing.

"You shy?" he chuckles. "Promise I don't bite."

I force a small smile, still silent. The road hums beneath the tires as we merge onto the highway.

He tries again. "Well, he must think highly of you. Mr. Jackson doesn't invite just anyone to his home."

His words make my pulse skip. The memory of Michael's hand on my back flashes through me—his quiet authority, the way his gaze lingered like it knew too much.

"Can I ask—how long have you known him?" I blurt before I can stop myself.

Dean glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Who, Mr. Jackson?"

I nod.

"About five years now," he replies. "Started young. I'm thirty-two."

I blink. "Really? You don't look it."

He smirks. "Gotta make a living. Especially with a kid." He hands me a photo from the dash. "That's my Maddie."

A little girl in pigtails beams at me from the picture. I smile faintly. "She's precious."

"Thanks. You got any kids?"

I laugh awkwardly. "No."

He studies me for a second. "Then what are you—twenty—"

Rule number 2, Don't disclose your age.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to ask a woman her age?" I interrupt quickly.

He grins. "Fair point. You just look... young."

I turn back to the window. Too close.

The rest of the drive unfolds in silence, my mind twisting with questions. What loose ends? What else could he want?

"We'll be there shortly," Dean says, taking an exit off the main road.

The city vanishes behind us. Woods stretch endlessly on both sides, sun filtering through branches as the sky fades to pale amber. Then—his house.Or mansion. Or fortress.

Glass, stone, and silence.

"Wow," I breathe. "This is it?"

He nods. "Mr. Jackson owns everything you see. Acres in every direction."

It's stunning—and isolating. A place built to keep secrets.

Dean parks and steps out, opening my door. And there he is.

Michael stands at the top of the steps—hair slicked back, robe draped over silk, hands clasped behind his back. Calm. Controlled. Watching me like he's been expecting my every move.

"Good morning, Angel-face," he says, voice low. "Feels refreshing to see that pretty face of yours."

I can barely breathe. "Morning," I whisper.

"Thank you, Dean. I'll handle things from here."

Dean nods once, silent, and leaves. The air shifts as his car disappears down the drive.

"Come," Michael says, gesturing toward the open door.

Light floods through wide windows, touching every surface. The décor is warm—Mediterranean style, muted golds and soft greens. It smells like roasted chicken and fresh herbs, grounding yet unfamiliar.A home.Something I've never really known.

"Your house is beautiful," I murmur.

"Thank you, sweetheart." His lips curl faintly. "Give your bag to Marie and meet me in the yard."

He disappears before I can answer.

"Your bag, ma'am?"A soft voice startles me. An older woman—petite, gentle—reaches for my bag. I hand it over, nodding. She walks away without another word.

Following the sunlight through the hall, I step outside. The backyard opens wide—lush, quiet, surreal. He's there, seated beneath a shaded gazebo, reading the LA Times like he hasn't just rearranged my world.

I sit across from him, silent.

"Are you hungry?" he asks from behind the paper.

"Just a little," I whisper.

"Good. Marie's making breakfast." He folds the paper, eyes meeting mine. "Until then, let's talk."

I brace myself as he leans forward, that subtle smile flickering.

"So," he begins lightly, "were you able to convince your little roommate—or did you have to sneak out?"

"I told her I was meeting my sponsor for school."

"Cute," he says, sipping his coffee. "Did she believe you?"

I nod.

He hums, studying me. "Good girl. Now..."He tilts his head, his voice dropping to that familiar commanding tone."Remind me—what's rule number one?"