Sold for $1 to the Hawthorne Brothers

I’m tongue-tied.

“I—” I stammer for the first second, unable to look at him. “It was a mistake.”

A genuine one. And it wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t said we should sleep in the same bed. “It won’t happen again,” I tell him, lifting my head to face him. “As long as I have my own room.”

“You have your own room, Miss Alina,” he says, with a little frown between his brows, as if the question makes no sense to him.

My shoulders slump in relief. “Tha–”

“The sleeping arrangements remain the same, however.”

My jaw drops. I stare at him blankly. “You just said I had my room. To myself. Now you’re saying I have to sleep with you?” For some reason, I’m vividly reminded of how firm it felt against my fingers… how big it looked with his pants hanging loose from his waist. A traitorous shiver sinks to my stomach.

I force the image out, shaking my head firmly. “I can’t promise I’m not going to—" I swallow thickly, searching for a safer word, “get on your side of my bed, Mr. Hawthorne. I think it's best if I have the bed all to myself.”

“No.”

That’s it. His tone is brief, like he’s closed the subject. He picks up the newspaper again, returning to whatever he was reading before I walked in. I sit there, fork dangling from my fingers, my slice of pancake forgotten.

What is wrong with him?

I chew on my bottom lip, stewing silently. I’m either being punished for an offense I’m unaware of, or Adrian Hawthorne is the most oblivious person I’ve ever met.

I grit my teeth as I stab my fork through the pancake, hitting the ceramic plate. My upper lip twitches as I glare at the newspaper, wishing I could give him a piece of my mind. I’d be more than happy to let him know how much of a condescending, egocentric, arrogant asshat he is.

But–

I sigh audibly, shoving a syrupy pancake bite into my mouth instead. I’d probably end up right back where I started—on a stage, in front of a bunch of wealthy people, wondering how much I’m worth.

What’s the retail value for a dollar and one cent?

I finish the two slices in minutes, but Adrian doesn’t touch his food, not once. Unless he’s secretly a vampire who plans on drinking my blood at night—which would make sense with his insane rule…

I clear my throat again.

He doesn’t react.

"College," I say, the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m in my senior year, months away from graduation. I have to resume classes next week.” Still nothing. I groan under my breath. “You’re not going to take that away from me, too, are you?”

He folds the paper and sets it aside. “I don’t plan on depriving you of an education, Miss Wilson,” he says, evenly. “I’ve sent out a message to your faculty. The rest of your tuition and your outstanding loan have been paid off.”

I blink twice. What?

“You’ll be assigned two bodyguards,” he continues, “and a driver. They’ll take you to school and bring you back when you’re done with your classes.”

My hope deflates. I knew it was too good to be true. “I don’t need a bodyguard or a driver,” I argue. “I used the subway and the bus station for three years. I’m perfectly capable of getting myself to school and back.”

Sometimes I walked when I needed to save cash, but I don’t plan on telling him that.

“That might’ve been the case, but you’re safest where I can reach you.”

My scoff slips out. “Safest? You say it like you have a bunch of enemies waiting to grab me off the street.” I fold my arms across my chest. “You say you don’t want me in your personal space, and yet we have to sleep in the same bed. Some people might call that controlling, Mr. Hawthorne.”

My chest rises and falls, frustration grinding at my gears. “You might as well come out and say you own me. I’m sure you have a contract somewhere, and you’re just itching for the right moment to whip out your rules." My voice rises sharply. “Or better yet, brand me, Adrian.” His name falls out. I barely register it. “After all, I’m worth next to nothing; I probably cost less than the cheapest thing you own.”

I run out of steam at the end, my breathing loud and echoing through the room.

The silence that follows is deafening.

For a second, I wonder if he actually heard me. Then his expression shifts. His eyes narrow, darkening as they settle on me.

“I had no idea we were on a first-name basis, Miss Wilson.” His voice is cold, unfeeling. “And I’m aware of your opinion about our arrangement.”

“You’re free to hate me. You’re not free to leave as you please.”