The Hideaway is in the industrial district. No sign. Just a door between a shuttered warehouse and a place that sells restaurant equipment. I walked past it twice before a man in a black coat opened the door and nodded me inside.
I'd worn my best clothes. That's a joke—my best clothes are still thrift store. Black pants that fit okay. A sweater without stains. My father's watch, which is the only thing I own that matters.
The man led me through a hallway, past a kitchen, into a back room. Booth seating. Low light. One table with two glasses—water and whiskey, neither touched.
Alexander Voss didn't stand when I entered.
He watched.
That's the thing I noticed first. He watched like I was something being presented to him. Like he was evaluating. Not creepy—clinical. Like a doctor with a new patient.
"Sit down, Maren."
I sat.
He was older than I expected. Forty, maybe. Good suit. No wedding ring. Eyes that didn't move much.
"You're wondering how I know your name." Not a question.
"I'm wondering why I'm here."
"Fair." He pushed the whiskey toward me. I didn't touch it. "Your mother's bill. Forty-seven thousand. You can't pay it."
"I can pay it."
"In two years, if you never sleep, never get sick, never buy anything. And that's just principle. Your mother's charging interest—did you see that? Back of the page. Eight percent compounded monthly."
I hadn't seen that.
"She showed me the document," Alexander said. "She's proud of it. Thinks it's fair."
"What do you want?"
He smiled. Small. Not warm. "I want to make you an offer. I pay your debt. I pay your education—you're at University of Washington, right? English major, planning to transfer to art history. I pay your housing. Provide a stipend for expenses."
"Why?"
"Five years of your presence."
I stared at him.
"Not your labor. Not your body. Your presence. You accompany me to events. You learn what I teach you. You're seen with me. That's all."
"Do I have to sleep with you?"
He blinked. First genuine reaction I'd seen. "No. I don't purchase that. I purchase presence."
"Same thing."
"No. It's not." He leaned back. "I collect interesting people, Maren. I invest in them. Some become artists. Some become business partners. Some just... become. You have something. I saw it in your admissions essay—the one about your father's watch. You wrote about objects carrying meaning. About how things outlast people. That's not typical."
"You read my college essay."
"I read everything about you before I made this offer." He said it simply. No shame. "Your grades. Your work history. Your mother's remarried to Brent Hallowell—steel import, medium success, treats you like furniture. Your stepsister has a Mercedes and a trust fund. You have a part-time job and a dead father's watch."
I didn't say anything.
"The debt is forty-seven thousand. I'll pay it tomorrow. You'll move into my building—separate apartment, your own space. You'll finish school. You'll accompany me to approximately forty events per year. After five years, you're free. No further obligation. No strings."
"What's the catch?"
"The catch is you have to trust me." He said it like it was funny. "And you have to sign a contract. Forty-seven pages. Very specific. Very enforceable."
I thought about the couch I slept on. The golf clubs in my closet—Tatum's old ones, taking up space. My mother's turned back when I walk into a room. Brent's handshakes instead of hugs.
"What's the interest rate?"
"On what?"
"On the debt. If I leave early."
He smiled again. Different this time. Almost appreciative. "Eight-point-nine percent APR. Compound. Full debt reinstatement plus interest from date of signing."
"That's high."
"You won't leave early."
I looked at my father's watch. He'd worn it every day. Died wearing it. My mother gave it to me in the hospital, like it was nothing, like it was just a thing.
"How do I know you're telling the truth?"
"You don't." He stood. Dropped a card on the table. "Think about it. Call me tomorrow by noon. After that, the offer expires."
He left.
I sat in the booth for twenty minutes. The whiskey untouched. The water sweating on the table.
At 9:15, I picked up the card.
Alexander Voss. No company name. Just a phone number and an address in Belltown.
I put it in my pocket.