I Traded Eight Nights for His Father’s Fortune

The Hamptons estate was nothing like I expected. I'd imagined something ostentatious, all marble and gold like the penthouse, but this place was different — modern and stark, perched on the edge of the Atlantic like it was daring the ocean to take it. The driver who'd picked me up at the curb hadn't spoken a single word, and the silence stretched out here too, broken only by waves crashing against the private beach below.

Castiel was waiting in the living room, standing by a fireplace that dominated the far wall. He was dressed in dark pants and an unbuttoned shirt that hung loose, and for a moment he looked almost human. Almost.

'I didn't think you'd come,' he said, not looking at me.

'I didn't have much choice.' I set my bag down on the marble floor. 'What happens now?'

He turned then, and the firelight caught the sharp angles of his face. 'Now you get comfortable. There's a guest room upstairs, but I think we both know that's not why you're here. Take your time. I'll be waiting.'

I climbed the stairs with my thumbnail digging into my palm. The guest room was pristine — all white and glass, with a bathroom bigger than my old apartment. I stood in the shower for a long time, letting the hot water run over my face, trying to wash away the feeling of Matthias's penthouse that still clung to my skin. When I came out, I wrapped myself in the hotel-style robe hanging on the back of the door.

I found Castiel in his study, sitting behind a desk with a glass of what looked like whiskey. He didn't look up when I walked in.

'Are you ready?' he asked.

'No,' I said. 'But I'm here.'

He stood up and came around the desk, and I felt myself go rigid. This was the moment. This was the thing I'd sold myself for. I closed my eyes and waited for hands that would grab, for the violence I knew how to survive.

Instead, he stopped in front of me and simply looked. His eyes moved over my face, my throat, the way the robe draped across my collarbone, with an intensity that made my skin feel exposed. He reached out slowly and touched my cheek, his fingers barely grazing my skin, and I felt my breath catch.

'Look at me,' he said.

I opened my eyes. He was standing close enough that I could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath. But he wasn't touching me anywhere else. Just that one finger on my cheek, like he was testing to see if I was real.

'Castiel,' I said, and my voice came out steady, 'I need the first digit.'

Something flickered in his eyes — not anger, something more complicated. He moved his hand to the knot of my robe, and I forced myself to stay still, to not flinch, to let him do what he'd paid for. But he didn't yank it open. He just stood there, his hand resting on the fabric, looking at me like he was waiting for something.

Then he stepped back.

'You're a virgin,' he said.

It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered in that flat, certain voice he used for everything. I felt my face go hot, and I opened my mouth to deny it, to say something, anything, but no words came out.

Castiel went very still.

The silence stretched between us like a taut wire. He was looking at me differently now, his eyes searching my face for something I couldn't name. There was no disgust there, no mockery. Just that same intense focus, sharpened now to something that made my chest tight.

'Your marriage to my father,' he said, each word measured, 'was never consummated.'

I swallowed hard. 'That's not your business.'

'Everything about you is my business now.' His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it I hadn't heard before. 'One night, one digit, Florence. That was our arrangement. But I'm beginning to think there's more to this story than you've told me.'

He stepped closer again, and this time when he reached for the robe, I didn't stop him. The fabric slipped off my shoulder, and I heard his breath catch.

I knew what he saw. The circular scars on my left shoulder, pale now but distinct — cigarette burns, some from months ago, others more recent. The yellowish-green bruises along my ribs that I'd hidden under long sleeves and strategic clothing for two years. Evidence of Matthias's particular brand of cruelty.

Castiel's eyes found them, and something dark and terrible moved across his face. He didn't touch the scars. He didn't ask how they got there. He just looked at them, and at me, for a long moment that felt like drowning.

Then he stepped back and walked to the desk. When he turned around, he held a piece of paper with a single number written on it.

'The first digit,' he said, and his voice was controlled again, but something in it had shifted. 'There are seven more nights, Florence. And I think by the end of them, I'm going to know exactly who you are.'

He handed me the paper. I took it with shaking hands, folded it carefully, and put it in my pocket. Then I pulled the robe back up over my shoulder and stood there, waiting for him to say something else, to acknowledge what he'd seen.

But Castiel Carroll just watched me with those dark, unreadable eyes, and for the first time in two years, I felt truly seen.