Bought by the Billionaire: The Debt's Price

She stared at her reflection in the darkened window of the subway car. For a second, the tunnel lights flashed, and she didn't see herself. She saw her father. Three years ago. The flashing lights of the police cruisers reflecting off the pavement where he had landed. The sound of the sirens. The screaming. The train jolted to a halt, snapping her back to reality. The doors hissed open. A wave of bodies pushed her out onto the platform. She stumbled, catching her balance just in time. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Kiana: The Dive. Now. Urgent. Elodie navigated the streets of Brooklyn, the wind biting at her exposed neck. The Dive was exactly what it sounded like-a hole in the wall with sticky floors and cheap drinks. It was the only place they could afford now. Kiana was sitting in a booth at the back, two Pabst Blue Ribbons already on the table. She looked up as Elodie approached, her eyes scanning Elodie's face. "You look like hell," Kiana said, sliding a beer toward her. "Did he hurt you?" Elodie slid into the booth, wrapping her hands around the cold glass. "Just the usual. Psychological warfare." "I saw the news," Kiana said, her voice lowering. "The engagement. El, you have to get out." "I tried. He found a loophole." Elodie took a long sip of the beer. It tasted like water and aluminum. "It doesn't matter. What was the urgent thing?" Kiana hesitated. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and unlocked it. She turned the screen toward Elodie. "I didn't want you to see this on a newsfeed." It was an Instagram post. A photo of a man standing against the backdrop of the Golden Gate Bridge, but the caption read Back to NYC. He was older, his shoulders broader, his jawline sharper. But the eyes were the same. Warm. Brown. Kind. Ansel Neal. Elodie's heart hammered against her ribs. Her hand jerked, splashing beer onto the table. "He's back?" "Silicon Valley darling," Kiana said softly. "Rumor is he sold his start-up for nine figures. He's looking for investment opportunities in the city." Elodie stared at the photo. Memories flooded in, unbidden. Senior year. The library. The way he used to look at her, like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. And then the memory of the day she broke it off. The lies she told him. You're a scholarship kid, Ansel. You don't fit in my world. She had done it to save him. Her father's business was already showing cracks, the illegal dealings starting to surface. She didn't want to drag him down with the sinking ship of the Sinclair name. "He can't know," Elodie whispered. "He can't know about... this. About Braxton." "He's going to be in the same circles, El. New money meets old money." Elodie squeezed her eyes shut. "I'm not in those circles anymore, Kiana. I'm the help. I'm the kept woman. I'm invisible." "You're not invisible to him," Kiana said. "Yeah, the picture is from his last day in SF, but look at the location tag on his latest story-The Grind, two blocks from your old townhouse. He's here, El. He's looking for ghosts." A sudden vibration in her pocket made her jump. She pulled out her phone. Braxton: Where are you? Two words. No punctuation. A demand, not a question. Elodie's breath hitched. She looked up at the TV mounted in the corner of the bar. CNBC was playing a clip of Braxton leaving his office building, reporters swarming him about the engagement. He looked calm, in control. She looked back at the text. He was checking on his asset. "Is it him?" Kiana asked. Elodie nodded. She quickly typed back: Home. She turned off the phone. "I need money, Ki," Elodie said, her voice desperate. "Real money. Fast. I need to pay the nursing home without using his allowance. If I can pay for mom myself, he loses that leverage." Kiana sighed. She reached into her bag and pulled out a crumpled flyer. "It's not glamorous. High-end translation agency. They need someone fluent in French and Spanish for a VIP client starting tomorrow. Daily cash pay." Elodie took the flyer. "I'll take it." "Elodie..." "I have to go." Elodie stood up. "If I'm not back at the penthouse when he checks the security logs, I'm dead." She walked out of the bar, leaving the beer unfinished. The night air felt heavier now. She walked to the subway, clutching the flyer like a lifeline. In her other hand, her phone felt like a grenade with the pin pulled out.