The intercom rang like a fire alarm in the sepulchral silence of the penthouse. My hand froze in mid-air. The doorman's voice, restrained but urgent, echoed in the void: "Mrs. Vance, there's a man at reception. He says he's your uncle. He insists it's a… family emergency."
The word "emergency" pierced my chest like an icy knife. It could only mean one thing: mother.
Her face—pale, wrinkled with suffering, but always smiling at me—invaded my mind. Two days ago, on my last visit, she had seemed stable. "I'm fine, my dear," she lied, while her trembling hands held the teacup. But "stable" in our world was a fragile condition, one that could crumble in hours.
The image of Alexander in the kitchen, hours before, emerged like a warning ghost. "Don't try to help your uncle. You'll only make things worse." An order. A reminder that my despair, my fear, my family… were no longer mine. These were variables in his control equation.
But this was my mother. The woman who worked three jobs to raise two daughters alone. Who silently fell ill so as not to be a burden. The ultimate, pure, and bitter reason why I was there, in that glass cage, with a man who had bought my time.
The promise I whispered to myself the day I signed the contract burned in my throat: "It's for her. Everything, for her."
I took a deep breath. The filtered air of the penthouse, always perfect, now felt poisonous. If I ignored it, I would be choosing obedience to Alexander over my own mother's blood. I would be becoming the porcelain doll he might truly desire. If I complied, I would be dragging the dirty, sick, and chaotic world he had paid to isolate, straight to the door of his fortress.
My hand, moved by an instinct older and deeper than any contract, pressed the button.
Tell him to wait in the lobby's waiting room. Five minutes.
I hung up before fear could stop me. In truth, there was no choice. There was only Isabella Moretti, daughter.
I dressed quickly—jeans, a sweater, sneakers. None of Mrs. Vance's clothes. An armor of normalcy. In my bag, I checked: ID, cell phone, hospital card. The black credit card Alexander had given me was on the bed, gleaming in the light like an all-seeing eye. I wouldn't touch it. Not for this.
The elevator descended, and with it my stomach. The lobby was a temple of cold marble. The "visiting room" was a discreet cubicle. Marco was there, and the sight of him confirmed every one of my worst fears.
He looked like a broken man. His coat was dirty, his eyes, red and sunken, bulged in a pale, sweaty face. It wasn't the look of a vagrant begging for money. It was the look of a cornered man.
"Bella! Thank God!" He stood up, stumbling. "It's your mother."
— What happened? Speak! — I demanded, closing the door behind me.
— The hospital debt collectors, Bella. The ones from the lawsuit. They showed up at the house this morning. They say that if we don't pay at least twenty thousand of the old debt by tomorrow, they're going to foreclose on the house. Seizure, auction, the whole package.
The old debt. The mountain of hospital bills that had consumed us for years, the same one that had led me to Alexander. The contract stipulated that he would pay it, in installments, throughout the year. But the debt collectors didn't want to wait.
— And that's not all — Marco's voice broke. — The hospital called. The next dose of Remicor… they won't release it without advance payment. Thirty thousand. They know the plan never covered it, and now they're demanding it upfront.
Remicor. The specialized medication that kept my mother's illness away from unbearable pain. Thirty thousand dollars. Per month. That was exactly the amount Alexander was "paying" me monthly under the contract. Every penny I received already had a destination: to pay off the old debt and pay for this medicine. And now the deadlines collided in an explosion of urgency.
— Thirty thousand… per month — I repeated, feeling the ground give way beneath my feet. — And the old debt being forcibly collected. Marco, how are we going to…
— I don't know! — he exploded, his hands in his hair. — I don't know, Bella! Your mother… she doesn't know anything. I said I would sort it out. But the guys are serious. And without Remicor, in a week she… you know how it gets.
I knew. I had seen it once, before Remicor. Her body writhing in pain, her eyes glazed, moans that didn't sound human. Never again. I had promised myself: never again.
— The health insurance never covered this, Marco. You know — I said, my voice sounding flat and dead.
— I know, damn it! But what do I do? They're threatening to take what's left of her house! And if she runs out of the medicine… — he didn't finish. He didn't need to.
The despair, dark and familiar, began to rise in my throat. The contract with Alexander was my only lifeline. But I still hadn't received any payment. The agreement was clear: I "worked" the month, and at the end, he deposited the money. I was at the beginning of the second month. I didn't have a penny of his money. And using His card would be like turning on a beacon. He monitored every transaction. He would know in seconds.
And clause 7.3 of the contract flashed in my mind: "Any unauthorized expenses that may constitute financial or publicity embarrassment to party A (Alexander) will be considered a serious violation." Paying a gigantic hospital debt and a thirty-thousand-dollar medicine bill through his card would be exactly that.
— We can't use his money, Marco — I said, more to myself.
— So what do we do? Let her die of pain and lose her house? — his voice rose, a mixture of despair and accusation. — You're living in this palace, and your mother is going to become a beggar because you're afraid of your rich little husband?
The word "little husband" fell like a match on gasoline. The anger, hot and justified, exploded.
— Shut up! — I hissed. — Do you think this is life? Do you think I'm here for pleasure? Every second, every lie, every fake smile is FOR HER! I sold a year of my life, Marco! A YEAR! And it's not enough! It's never enough!
My voice broke. Tears, hot and treacherous, threatened to well up. I swallowed them hard.
He stepped back, seeing something in my eyes that silenced him. The Marco who always manipulated me with guilt saw Isabella with her back against the wall. And this Isabella was dangerous.
Listen—he said, lowering his voice, his eyes scanning the room as if he feared microphones. —I know a guy. A loan shark. High interest rates, but he lends quickly. He just needs a guarantor. Someone with… a good name.
A loan shark. My stomach churned.
Are you crazy? Isn't the debt with Tonho enough already?
Tonho is friends with this guy! He can consolidate everything! He just needs a signature, Bella. Something that shows that you, Mrs. Vance, are behind it. Then we pay for the medicine and keep the collectors at bay.
It was a trap. Stupid, dangerous, and suicidal. Signing anything as "Mrs. Vance" would give a loan shark power over Alexander. And Alexander would annihilate anyone who dared threaten him through me. Including Marco.
I looked at my uncle's face, saw genuine panic, and behind it, the image of my mother, frail in a hospital bed, smiling so as not to worry me.
I couldn't sign anything. But maybe… maybe there was another way. If I could get the medicine another way. If I found the doctor, explained, negotiated a direct plan, using my future "income" from the contract as collateral… without Alexander knowing about the aggravating factor.
—You do nothing—I ordered, the voice coming from a cold, determined place inside me. —You go back to the hospital and don't say a word to Mom. NOTHING. Not about the collectors, not about the medicine. You say everything is under control.
—How? "— he pleaded, his eyes filled with tears.
— That's none of your business. Just… give me until noon tomorrow. And, Marco? — I leaned forward, fixing my eyes on his. — If you touch a single loan shark, if you mention the name 'Vance' to anyone, if you sign any paper… I swear on everything that is sacred that I myself will drag you to Tonho. Understand?
He swallowed hard and nodded. He saw death in my eyes.
I left the room before he could answer. I walked through the lobby, my legs trembling, my mind a whirlwind. I needed a plan. I needed money that didn't exist. I needed Alexander, but involving him meant giving him the final key to my captivity.
The elevator went up. When the doors opened in the penthouse, darkness greeted me. He wasn't home yet. There was time.
I ran to my room, straight to my bag." I needed to find the doctor's contact information, call, beg for time. While rummaging through things, my old cell phone—the one I kept turned off and hidden—slipped and fell onto the carpet.
As I picked it up, a foolish impulse made me press the power button. The screen lit up, and after a few seconds, a series of notifications appeared. Several messages. Most from unknown numbers. But one caught my attention. A name that made my blood run cold.
DANIEL.
The message, sent the night before, read: "Bella, I'm sorry. I need to see you. It's urgent. It's about your mother. And about Vance. He's not who you think he is."
The floor gave way beneath my feet. I leaned back on the bed, holding my breath. Daniel. Talking about my mother. Talking about Alexander. What did he know? How did he know? And why now?
The sound of a lock turning on the front door echoed through the silent apartment.
My heart stopped. Alexander.
In a panic, I threw my cell phone under the bed and stood up, trying to compose my face. His footsteps were firm and familiar on the marble. They stopped in front of my bedroom door, which I had left ajar.
He appeared in the frame. He wasn't wearing a tuxedo, but a slightly wrinkled travel suit. His face was tired, but his eyes… his eyes were icy beacons that swept over me from head to toe and fixed on my face, where panic must still have been etched.
"The doorman informed me that you I had a visitor," he said, his voice flat, emotionless. "In the private room. Interesting. I didn't have any visitors scheduled for today."
He entered the room, his gaze taking in every detail. He reached the window, his back to me.
"And then?" he asked, without turning around. "Was the 'family emergency' resolved?"
"It was… it was my uncle," I lied, my voice trembling. "Money problems. I told him not to come back."
"Money problems," he repeated, as if testing the word. He turned to face me. "And your mother, Isabella? How is your mother today?"
The question was a poisoned arrow. How did he know? How could he know it was about her?
"She… is as always," I replied evasively.
"As always," he echoed. He walked to the bed, sat on the edge. His movement was casual, but his eyes never left mine. "You know, Isabella, when you lie, your left eyelid twitches slightly. It's almost imperceptible. But I notice."
He leaned over and, with a sudden movement, grabbed something from under the bed. My old cell phone. He held it in his palm, as if examining a weapon.
"Interesting. An unauthorized communication device. And…" he pressed the button, the screen lit up showing the notifications, "…messages from Daniel Morris. 'It's about your mother. And about Vance.'" He looked up. The ice in his eyes was now volcanic. "Do you want to explain why your ex-boyfriend, the one I'm paying to disappear, is sending messages about YOUR MOTHER on YOUR secret cell phone, on the same day you disobey a direct order to meet your uncle?"
The air completely left my lungs. He knew everything. The lobby audio, the messages, the connection between Daniel and my mother.
— Alexander, I can explain…
— No — he cut off, standing up. His body now blocked the light from the window, enveloping me in his shadow. — You're going to be quiet. And you're going to listen.
He placed his cell phone on the bed beside him and pulled a tablet from inside his jacket. With a touch, an audio recording began to play. It was my Uncle Marco's voice, clear and full of panic, coming from the lobby speakers: "The hospital debt collectors… twenty thousand by tomorrow… Remicor, thirty thousand… she won't be able to stand the pain…"
He had the audio. The entire building was an extension of his ears.
— Twenty thousand of old debt. Thirty thousand a month for the medication — Alexander summarized, turning off the audio. His voice was soft, deadly. — Fifty thousand. This month. And probably next month. And the next. And you thought you could solve this by hiding from me? By asking your ex for help? A gambling addict who owes more than he's worth?
He stepped in front of me. The air became electric, heavy.
"You have until the count of three," he whispered, his voice a growl of a cornered beast, "to tell me exactly what's going on with your mother, what Daniel has to do with it, and why the hell you think you can face this alone. One."
The "one" echoed in the room like a gunshot. My knees trembled.
"Two," he said, even lower, his eyes fixed on mine, relentless.
"SHE'S GOING TO DIE!" The truth exploded from me, raw and unfiltered, before the "three" could be said. "If we don't pay Remicor, the pain will kill her! And if the collectors take the house, she has nowhere to go! I don't… I don't have the money yet. You still haven't paid me. And Daniel… Daniel said he knows something about you. Something about why all this is happening."
The words came out in a whirlwind. I stopped, breathless, tears finally breaking through the barriers and streaming down my face. I was naked. Exposed. Defeated.
Alexander didn't move. His face, for a long second, was an impenetrable mask. Then, something changed. The rigidly contained fury in his eyes gave way to something more complex. Something that seemed… calculation. And, beneath it, a spark of something that could be understanding. Or just a new strategy.
He picked up the tablet again. Not to show more recordings, but to type something. Then, he looked at me.
"The Remicor will be delivered to the hospital tomorrow at nine in the morning. Paid for a year." He spoke as if scheduling a meeting. "The old debt will be settled today. The debt collectors will disappear."
I shook, incredulous. "Why? What's the condition?"
He smiled. Not a gentle smile. A predator's smile that had finally encircled its prey.
"The condition, Isabella, is that from now on, you hide nothing from me. Nothing. Your despair, your fears, your bills… they are mine. Your past is mine. Your medical future is mine." He took another step, now just inches away. His index finger rose and touched my temple, where a vein pulsed uncontrollably. "You no longer belong only to the contract. You belong to my protection. And I protect what is mine tooth and nail. Until the end."
The touch was light, but the possession in his words was absolute.
"And Daniel?" I whispered.
His expression hardened. "Daniel Morris is a problem I will solve Permanently. And you're going to tell me everything he knows. Everything.
He lowered his hand, picked up the old cell phone from the bed, and crushed it under the heel of his Italian shoe with a dry, final snap.
"No ghost from your past will touch you again," he declared, looking at the fragments of plastic and glass. "Now, let's start from the beginning. Sit down." He indicated the bed. "And tell me about your mother. Everything."
And I, with no more choices, no more possible lies, sat down. And I began to speak. As the words came out, I saw in his eyes not only the control of the CEO, but the beginning of something that frightened me even more: a deep, possessive, and dangerously real interest in the chaos that was my life.
He wasn't just buying my time now. He was buying my entire war. And I had no idea what the final price would be.
While I was speaking, Alexander was writing things down on his tablet. When I finished, he looked at me, his expression unreadable. "It's done," he said. "Your mother will get the medicine. The debt is gone. But from now on, Isabella, every tear you shed, every fear, every hospital bill... it goes through me first. You don't carry anything alone. You belong to me, and I take care of what's mine." He stood to leave, but stopped at the door. "Oh, and one more thing. Tomorrow you're coming with me to the hospital. I want to meet the woman for whom you sold your soul. And I want her to meet me. As the man who is saving her life." The door closed. I sat on the bed, enveloped in a sudden silence. The emergency was resolved. My mother was saved. So why did I feel like I had just sold the only part of myself that still had any value?