Not For Sale: The Debt Is Paid

Seven years. That was the price tag attached to my father's life. When my father gambled away money he didn't have, Michael Vance paid the debt. He bought my father's safety, and in return, he bought me. I was nineteen then. A peasant girl he polished up to look like a mob wife. I was reapplying my lipstick in the vanity mirror of his armored SUV when I found a diamond choker tucked behind the sunshade. It was a million-dollar piece of jewelry that wasn't mine, engraved with a date that wasn't my birthday. That night at the gala, Michael threw his mistress's heavy fur coat at me. "Hold this, Sarah. Jessica gets hot easily." I stood there like a servant, buried under the scent of another woman’s perfume, watching my fiancé hold her on the dance floor with a tenderness he never showed me. When I stumbled from hunger, he called me a liability to his image. But when Jessica faked a crisis, he abandoned me at the venue to rush her home. I walked to the nearest trash can and shoved the expensive fur down past the half-eaten caviar. As the sugar from a cheap candy bar hit my bloodstream, the fog lifted. I realized I wasn't a wife-in-training. I was a debt that had been paid in full. I left the penthouse, the ring, and the life. But Michael wouldn't let his property go. He cornered me in a parking garage, screaming that I belonged to him, threatening to start a war. He didn't expect me to be standing next to David Chen, the Underboss of the rival Triad faction. And he certainly didn't expect me to take off my Louboutin stiletto and use it as a weapon. "I don't love you, Michael," I said, looking him in the eye as he knelt on the concrete. "And I'm not for sale anymore." Chapter 1 Sarah Miller POV I was reapplying my lipstick in the vanity mirror of an armored SUV, surrounded by twenty armed guards, when I found the diamond choker tucked behind the sunshade. It was a million-dollar piece of jewelry that wasn't mine, engraved with a date that wasn't my birthday. My heart didn't race. It stopped. It was the kind of stillness you feel right before a car crash, when the tires lose traction and you know the impact is inevitable. Seven years. That was the price tag attached to my father's life. When my father gambled away money he didn't have to the Vances, Michael paid the debt. He bought my father's safety, and in return, he bought me. I was nineteen then. I looked at Michael now through the rearview mirror. He was standing on the curb outside the gala venue, his tuxedo sharp enough to cut glass. He was the Capo of the New York faction, a man who ordered executions with the same casual indifference he gave his morning espresso. He looked every inch a king. And I was just the peasant girl he had polished up to look like a queen. He opened the door, letting the humid city air rush into the climate-controlled cabin. "We are late," he said. His voice was devoid of warmth. I held up the diamond choker. The streetlights caught the stones, making them fracture into a thousand little rainbows against the dark leather. "You left this," I said. My voice was steady. I had practiced this steadiness for seven years. Michael didn't flinch. He didn't panic. He simply reached out, his leather-gloved hand snatching the diamonds from my fingers with a casual roughness. "That," he said, tucking it into his breast pocket, "is not for a plain little thing like you." He looked at me then. Really looked at me. His eyes swept over my high-neck dress, the modest pearls, the distinct lack of cleavage. "You look like a librarian," he muttered. "Not a Capo's wife." He turned his back on me before I could respond. A young woman came running up the sidewalk. Jessica. She worked at the front business, a 'club dancer' on the payroll for tax purposes. She was wearing a fur coat that cost more than my parents' house. She was laughing, breathless, her cheeks flushed pink with a vitality I hadn't felt in years. She stopped in front of Michael, whispering something in his ear that made the corner of his mouth lift. I hadn't seen him smile at me in three years. "Here," Michael said. He took the fur coat off her shoulders and turned to me. "Hold this, Sarah. Jessica gets hot easily." He threw the heavy fur at me. It hit me in the chest, a suffocating weight smelling of expensive perfume and Michael's sandalwood cologne. I sat there, buried under the mistress's coat, while my fiancé offered her his arm to walk up the stairs. I followed them. I always followed. Inside the gala, the music was loud, vibrating in my chest. I stood by the wall, holding the coat like a servant. Michael was on the dance floor with her. His hand was low on her back. Too low. I felt the familiar dizziness wash over me. Hypoglycemia. I hadn't eaten since breakfast because Michael liked me to fit into the sample sizes. Black spots danced in my vision. I stumbled, just a little. Michael saw. He stopped dancing, leaving Jessica in the middle of the floor, and marched over to me. He gripped my elbow, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Stand up straight," he hissed. "I need sugar," I whispered. "Michael, please." "You have weak blood," he spat, looking around to see if anyone had noticed my stumble. "You are a liability to my image, Sarah. Pull yourself together." He released me as if I were contagious. Then, his phone buzzed. He looked at it, then at Jessica, who was checking her phone across the room with a feigned look of distress. "Jessica has an emergency," he announced. "Her apartment flooded. I have to take her." "We just got here," I said. "Take an Uber," he said, already walking away. "And fold that coat properly before you give it to security." I watched him go. He placed a hand on the small of Jessica's back, guiding her out of the hall with a tenderness he had never shown me. I looked down at the fur coat in my arms. I walked to the nearest trash can. It was a sleek, silver bin near the catering entrance. I didn't fold the coat. I shoved it inside, pushing it down past the champagne flutes and half-eaten caviar until the expensive fur was stained with grease. Then I walked out the back door. I didn't call an Uber. I walked three blocks to a bodega and bought a Snickers bar. I sat on the curb in my thousand-dollar gown and ate it. The chocolate tasted like wax. But as the sugar hit my bloodstream, my brain cleared. The fog lifted. I wasn't a wife-in-training. I was a debt that had been paid in full.