The High Price Of Father's Freedom

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse. The entire floor was one massive room, walled in glass. The lights of Manhattan sprawled out below them like a carpet of diamonds, dizzying and cold.

Abbey stood on the marble entryway, afraid to step onto the pristine white rug with her wet sneakers.

Armond walked in like he owned the sky. He stripped off his jacket and tossed it to a gray-haired man who appeared from nowhere.

"Alfred, put Miss Wynn in the East Guest Room," Armond said, unbuttoning his cuffs. "Get her some dry clothes. Burn what she's wearing."

"I'm keeping my clothes," Abbey said, crossing her arms.

Armond walked to the wet bar. He poured a finger of amber liquid. "Drink?"

"I want to sleep."

"You used to drink red wine by the bottle," Armond said, his back to her. "On the roof. Remember?"

"That girl is dead," Abbey said. "I'm Abbey Wynn now. I'm a broke law student who just got kidnapped."

Armond turned. He took a sip of his drink, watching her over the rim. "Kidnapped is a strong word. I prefer... repossessed."

"You can't just buy people's debt, Armond. That's... that's illegal. Or unethical."

"It's perfectly legal. It's a distressed asset purchase." He set the glass down. He walked toward her. "And you are very distressed."

He reached out, his hand hovering near her cheek. Abbey flinched, turning her face away.

Armond's hand froze. He curled his fingers into a fist and dropped his hand to his side.

"The room is to the left," he said, his voice tight. "Don't try to leave. The elevator requires a biometric scan. You're stuck here."

Abbey turned and fled down the hallway. She found the room-it was bigger than her entire apartment. She slammed the door and locked it.

She leaned against the wood, sliding down to the floor. She was shaking.

He bought my debt.

She was trapped.

She stripped off her wet clothes and went into the bathroom. The shower was a waterfall of hot water. She stood under it for twenty minutes, scrubbing her skin until it was red, trying to wash off the feeling of his thumb on her jaw.

When she stepped out, wrapped in a plush robe she found hanging on a hook, she saw a tray on the bedside table.

A glass of warm milk. A tube of arnica cream.

She touched the bruise on her arm where she had hit the velvet rope earlier that night. She hadn't even noticed it was turning purple.

He had noticed.

She sat on the edge of the king-sized bed. The sheets smelled of lavender. She rubbed the cream on her arm. The milk was warm and sweet.

It was a trap. It had to be. He was fattening her up before the slaughter.

But as she lay down, burying her face in the pillow, she couldn't help but remember Paris. The way he used to bring her tea when she was studying. The way he wasn't a monster then.

Was he a monster now? Or was he just a man who had been hurt?

She couldn't sleep. The silence of the penthouse was unnatural.

At 3 AM, thirst drove her out of the room. She crept down the hallway, her bare feet silent on the marble.

The living room was dark. But by the floor-to-ceiling window, she saw a silhouette.

Armond.

He was standing perfectly still, staring out at the city. The glowing tip of a cigarette moved in the dark. He exhaled a plume of smoke that ghosted against the glass.

He looked incredibly lonely.

He wasn't the Titan of Industry. He was just a man in a glass cage, looking at a world he owned but couldn't touch.

Abbey watched him for a long moment. She wanted to go to him. She wanted to ask him why he bought her debt. But fear held her back.

She turned and slipped back into her room, locking the door again. But this time, the lock felt less like it was keeping him out, and more like it was keeping her from doing something stupid.