You're crazy."
The laugh that followed was short, sharp, and jagged with disbelief. Avana gripped the handle of her mop as if it were a weapon, her knuckles white against the plastic.
"I'm nineteen," she snapped, her voice echoing off the gold-leafed ceilings of the Genesis Altruism executive suite. "I'm trying to get into community college, not… not be a 'vessel.' I'm not a participant. I just work here."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush.
Twelve of the most genetically "perfect" women in the world stood in a diagonal line, frozen in their designer neutral tones. Sterling, the head of the elite agency, looked like he was about to have a stroke, his face turning a mottled shade of purple.
But it was the man standing three feet away who made the air feel like it was vibrating.
Francis, the thirty-four-year-old Global CEO of Veridian Corp, didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just stood there, a predator in a five-thousand-dollar suit, his dark eyes tracing the smudge of charcoal on Avana's cheek as if it were a rare mark on a piece of fine porcelain. He had ignored the PhDs, the marathon runners, and the models. He had looked at the girl in the oversized gray uniform and decided she was the future of his empire.
"Avana, shut up!" Sterling finally hissed, rushing forward with his hands trembling. He turned to Francis, his voice a frantic, oily pitch. "Sir, please. A joke. A very good joke! This is just a night-shift cleaner. She hasn't been screened, she isn't in the system, she hasn't—"
"I don't care about your system," Francis interrupted. His voice was a low, melodic growl that silenced the room. "The system gave me those twelve failures. I want her."
He stepped into Avana's personal space, the scent of sandalwood and cold power rolling off him. He looked down at her worn sneakers, then back into her startling, amber eyes—eyes that weren't filled with the hunger of the other candidates, but with the raw, sharp defiance of someone who had survived the streets.
"To carry my child," Francis said, as simply as if he were discussing a corporate takeover. "You will be provided with a private estate, the best medical care, and a financial settlement that will ensure you never have to touch a mop for the rest of your life."
Avana felt a cold shiver run down her spine. Behind her, the floor-to-ceiling windows showed the city she was struggling to survive in—a city of rent hikes, eviction notices, and her mother's mounting medical bills.
"My life isn't for sale," she whispered, her voice shaking despite her bravado. "I said no."
"Fifty million dollars," Francis whispered back.
The room gasped. Sterling actually staggered, hitting the mahogany doors with a dull thud.
"Five million upon signing," Francis continued, his gaze hypnotic, pinning her in place. "Ten million at the end of the first trimester. The rest upon delivery. Your life as a cleaner ends the second you say yes."
For a heartbeat, the numbers danced in Avana's head—a way out, a way up, a way to breathe. But then she saw the look in his eyes. They weren't the eyes of a father; they were the eyes of a collector who had just found a priceless artifact in a junk shop.
"I quit," Avana yelled, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "I quit this job, and I quit this conversation!"
She spun on her heel, abandoning her mop bucket. She bolted for the double doors, her sneakers squeaking on the polished marble.
"Avana! Get back here!" Sterling screamed, starting to give chase, his greed overriding his common sense. "You're a girl from the streets! This is your only chance to be somebody!"
"Let her go," Francis commanded.
The words stopped Sterling mid-stride. The CEO didn't move. He didn't chase her. Instead, he calmly reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a gold-embossed checkbook, and scribbled a number that would have bought the building they were standing in. He tossed the check onto the table like it was trash.
He walked to the doorway, watching the distant, frantic figure of Avana as she sprinted toward the elevators, her dark hair falling out of its knot and flying behind her like a banner of rebellion.
"She thinks she can run," Francis murmured, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips for the first time. "She thinks 'no' is an option I accept."
He watched the elevator lights count down.
"Let her go for now, Sterling. She's just making the hunt more interesting."
Outside, as Avana burst into the biting evening rain, she felt a sickening sense of dread. She had run from the room, but as the skyscraper loomed over her like a shadow, she realized the world had just become a very, very small place.
The rain in Ottawa didn't fall; it needles, a cold, sharp reminder that April in the capital was a miserable transition. Avana didn't stop running until her lungs burned and her thinning soles had soaked through with the grey slush of Vanier.
High above the city, in the sterile, gold-rimmed silence of the executive suite, Francis didn't move. He stood by the window, watching the tiny, ant-like movement of the city below.
"Sir," Sterling stammered, clutching the million-dollar binder check like a life raft. "I can have the police bring her back. Or the agency's security. She's technically under contract until her shift—"
"No." Francis's voice was a low, dangerous vibration. He didn't turn around. "You've already proven your incompetence, Sterling. You tried to cage a bird that hasn't even learned it's being hunted. You'll only make her fly further."
He adjusted his cufflinks, the silver glinting like a blade.
"Vance," Francis said, not raising his voice.
From the shadows of the hallway, a man in a charcoal suit appeared. He was the shadow to Francis's light—silent, efficient, and utterly devoid of empathy.
"Follow her," Francis commanded. "I don't want her touched. I don't want her scared. I want a map of her life. Every crack in the wall, every person she loves, every debt she owes. Go."
Three hours later, the rain had turned into a persistent, ghostly mist. Francis sat in the back of his armored Bentley, the interior smelling of expensive leather and cedarwood. The door opened, and Vance slid into the passenger seat, his tablet glowing in the dark.
"Report," Francis said.
"Her name is Avana Reed," Vance began, his voice clinical. "Nineteen. No criminal record. She lives in a low-rise walk-up in Vanier, just off Montreal Road. It's… bottom-tier, sir. High crime, failing infrastructure."
A series of photos flickered onto the screen in the headrest. A cramped living room filled with sketches. A kitchen table cluttered with pill bottles.
"She isn't alone," Vance continued. "She's the primary breadwinner for a family of five. Her father is a former laborer, currently disabled. Her mother works part-time at a laundromat when her health permits. There are two younger siblings—a brother, twelve, and a sister, eight."
Francis leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he looked at a grainy long-lens photo of the apartment's exterior. The paint was peeling, and a "Final Notice" sticker was visible on the utility box.
"The brother is gifted," Vance added, "but the school district is failing him. The sister has chronic asthma. They are currently three months behind on rent. The landlord is scheduled to file for eviction on Monday."
Francis felt a surge of cold, dark satisfaction. He didn't see a family in struggle; he saw a series of levers. He saw the exact points of pressure required to snap her "no" into a "yes."
"She thinks she can hide in the noise of the poor," Francis murmured, his fingers tracing the image of the apartment door on the screen. He could almost smell the desperation through the pixels.
"Do we pick her up, sir?" Vance asked. "The extraction team is on standby."
Francis watched the flickering lights of the Vanier skyline, a sharp contrast to the gleaming towers of the downtown core. A slow, predatory smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"No," Francis said, his voice dropping to a silken, terrifying hush. "An extraction is for assets. This is personal. I want her to see the face of the man who owns her future."
He tapped the glass of the window, dismissing the driver.
"We won't snatch her from the streets like common kidnappers," he whispered. "Tomorrow, I'll be paying her a visit."