Bound To The Devil From My Past

Ashlie led Keenen into the studio. The space was her sanctuary, a chaotic explosion of sketches, fabric bolts, and mannequins. It was a place of creation, and it was entirely unsuitable for a four-year-old.

"Okay, don't touch anything," she said, immediately realizing how impossible that was.

She sprang into action, grabbing the heavy shears from the cutting table and shoving them into a high drawer. She swept the pincushion off the desk, dumping it into a box and pushing it onto a high shelf. She moved with frantic energy, trying to child-proof a room full of sharp objects and expensive silks.

Keenen watched her, his eyes wide. He reached out a hand to touch a swatch of red silk, then pulled it back, looking at her for permission.

"It's okay," she sighed. "Just be careful."

She found a stack of printer paper and a box of crayons in her desk drawer. She cleared a small space on the floor, away from the fabric, and sat him down.

"Here. Draw me a picture, okay?"

Keenen nodded, immediately engrossed in the colors. With him occupied, Ashlie finally allowed herself to collapse into her desk chair. She pulled out her phone, her fingers shaking as she dialed her father's number.

It rang once, twice.

"Ashlie?" Warren's voice was thick with anxiety. "How did it go? Are you alright?"

She walked over to the window, turning her back to the room. She stared out at the street below, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Dad," she said, her voice a tight whisper. "I... we did it. We signed."

Silence. Then a long, shuddering breath. "Did he... did he give you a hard time?"

Ashlie looked over her shoulder at Keenen, who was carefully drawing a circle. She thought of the marriage certificate dropped like trash, the threat whispered in her ear, the child thrust into her arms.

"It's fine, Dad," she lied, the words tasting like glass. "He's... busy. He had to go to a meeting."

She couldn't tell him. She couldn't add to his burden. He was already carrying the weight of the company; she wouldn't add the weight of her misery.

"I have to go, Dad. I'll talk to you later."

She hung up before he could ask any more questions.

Miles away, in the top-floor corner office of the Bradford Group headquarters, Warren Bradford stared at the phone in his hand. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in days. His tie was loosened, his shirt wrinkled.

He paced the length of the room, his mind racing. He couldn't figure it out. How had the sickly boy from fourteen years ago transformed into a financial titan? And why had that boy suddenly decided to save the company that had shunned him?

It had to be a trap. It had to be about Ashlie. The thought made his blood run cold.

A sharp buzz interrupted his pacing.

"Mr. Bradford?" His secretary's voice crackled over the intercom, laced with panic. "Ellsworth Marshall is here. He's... he's on his way up."

Warren's head snapped up. "What? Now?"

He had expected a phone call, a meeting request. He didn't expect that person to appear at his office door just an hour after receiving the marriage certificate.

Warren rushed to the mirror, straightening his tie and smoothing his hair. He took a deep breath, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel. "Send him in."

The double doors burst open. Ellsworth Marshall strode in, flanked by a team of suits-lawyers, accountants, all carrying briefcases. They moved like a swarm, taking over the space.

Ellsworth ignored the outstretched hand Warren offered. He walked past the desk, past the chairs, straight to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Manhattan. He stood there, hands in his pockets, surveying the cityscape as if he already owned it.

He turned back to Warren, his expression cold.

"Mr. Bradford," Ellsworth said, his voice echoing in the large office. "Let's talk about the details of that dowry."

He spat the word 'dowry' like an insult, a reminder of the transaction that had just taken place.

Warren's face flushed, but he remained silent. He had no power here.

Back in the SoHo studio, Ashlie's phone buzzed. She looked down at the screen. A text from the number his driver had taken.

Control your curiosity. Do your job. Also, I'm at your father's office.

Ashlie's blood ran cold. He was with her father. Right now.

She immediately hit redial. The phone rang and rang, eventually going to voicemail.

She imagined her father, cornered in his own office, facing the wrath of the man who had just bought his daughter. She felt sick, helpless.

A small tug on her skirt made her jump. She looked down. Keenen was standing there, a crayon in his hand, looking up at her with those big, worried eyes.

He didn't say a word. He just held onto her skirt, a tiny anchor in the storm.