In the bathroom, those two red lines burned into my retina like an eternal wound. Time froze as my world shrank to nothing but shallow breaths and my thundering heartbeat. With trembling fingers, I touched my still-flat belly. Inside me, a life was growing—conceived in humiliation, bought with money, born of violence.

It was Damian Blackwood's child.


The realization cut through me like ice. What now? Visit a clinic, erase this "problem," and pretend that night never happened? That seemed the only logical choice—a chance to wipe the slate clean. I could take the million, walk away, and start fresh, treating everything as just a bad dream.

But...

My fingertips traced circles on my stomach. The thought of extinguishing this blood-tied life chilled me to my core. This wasn't just cells—it was my only blood relation since Dad died. A part of my body, my life, regardless of its shameful beginning.


That night had already destroyed me. My art, purity, pride—all shattered by that million-dollar check. I had nothing left to lose. Maybe keeping this child would be my punishment for weakness, for compromise, for foolishness. My cross to bear forever, a constant reminder of my mistake.

Yet wasn't this also resistance? Damian Blackwood thought he'd simply purchased a night, putting a price tag on my entire being. But this child—carrying his blood yet raised by me—was something he couldn't control, couldn't buy, couldn't reclaim. The only thing I'd stolen from his cold empire.


A fierce resolve took root in my heart. I would keep this baby. Take it far from New York, somewhere he'd never find us. I would raise this child to understand true art, genuine dignity, and real love. I would spend my life redeeming its tainted beginning.

Once made, this decision consumed me like wildfire. A surge of strength welled up from deep within, burning away fear and confusion. I stood and faced the pale girl in the mirror, her eyes now blazing with purpose. Yes, Isabella, you will live—and you'll live for someone else now.

First step: escape this soul-devouring city. I needed to withdraw from school.

The academy corridors—once my sanctuary—now suffocated me with their mingled scents of turpentine and plaster dust. Head down, I hurried toward administration, praying to avoid familiar faces. But fate had other plans.

"Bella?"

A gentle, familiar voice stopped me cold. I turned slowly to face the person I least wanted to see—Professor Alistair Finch.

Professor Finch, my oil painting mentor—a man nearing fifty with graying hair but youthful, clear eyes. Always in his faded tweed jacket smelling of books and pipe tobacco. The only person at the academy who truly valued my talent and cared for me—a misfit scholarship student—like a father would.

"Professor Finch," I mumbled, my voice barely audible.

"Where are you going? You've missed several classes." His blue eyes filled with concern as he stepped closer, frowning at my haggard appearance. "Good Lord, child, you look awful. What's happened?"

"I'm... I'm withdrawing from school." The words felt like glass in my throat.

Professor Finch's expression froze, concern instantly becoming shock and pain. "Withdrawal? What kind of joke is this? Bella, you're the most talented student I've seen in a decade! I've already planned your graduation exhibition! And now you're leaving?"

His voice rose with emotion, drawing stares from passersby. Shame burned my cheeks as I wished the floor would swallow me whole.

"I'm sorry, Professor. Something urgent... at home. I have to go immediately." My lie sounded hollow even to me, and I couldn't meet his eyes.

Professor Finch studied me silently, his wise eyes cutting through my facade to the fear and despair beneath. Finally, he sighed, his voice softening. "Bella... if you're having money troubles, you can tell me. The academy has emergency funds, and I personally could..."

"It's not about money!" I nearly shouted, cutting him off. That million dollars burned like a brand on my soul. How could I accept charity now, after selling myself? "It's just family matters. Thank you, Professor. Thank you for everything you've done for me."

My voice broke as tears threatened. I couldn't lose control in front of him or let him see me so broken. I turned and fled toward the administration office, leaving his worried, confused gaze behind.

I felt his eyes following me—a warm, piercing light illuminating my retreat. His care, almost fatherly, became the final blow. I had betrayed his expectations and my father's legacy. I no longer deserved to stand in these hallowed halls.

After completing the paperwork, I drifted off campus like a ghost. Despite the bright sunshine, I felt frozen to my core. I needed a lifeline, a voice to pull me from this abyss. With trembling hands, I dialed a familiar number.

He answered after two rings.

"Bella? Hey! Why are you calling now? Isn't it the middle of the night in New York?" His warm, sunny voice carried that familiar lazy drawl.

Sally. My childhood friend. We'd grown up together in that rundown Pennsylvania town, where he now worked as a firefighter. Tall, strong, with a smile full of dazzling white teeth—like an ever-energetic golden retriever.

"Sally..." Just hearing his voice crumbled my defenses, a sob escaping with his name.

Sally instantly went on alert, the TV in the background going silent. "Bella? What's wrong? What happened? Is someone giving you trouble?" His voice turned serious in a heartbeat.

"No... nothing." I took a deep breath, steadying my voice. "I'm just... tired. Sally, I... I need a change of scenery." My words danced around the truth.

"Change of scenery? Come back home? That's fantastic!" Sally's voice brimmed with excitement. "What's so great about New York anyway? Just stuck-up people with their noses in the air. You should've come back ages ago! When are you coming? Need help moving?"

He didn't ask why or press for details. He simply offered his support without hesitation. His pure, instinctive trust wrapped around my cold heart like a warm blanket.

"I... I haven't decided where yet, but... I'll figure it out soon," I choked out.

"That's fine. Go wherever you want. If you need me, just say the word and I'll be on the next flight out. Don't be scared, Bella. Whatever happens, I'm here for you." Sally's promise was simple but rock-solid—just like him.

"Yeah," I nodded, though he couldn't see it. "Thank you, Sally."

After hanging up, I crouched on a New York sidewalk amid the traffic noise and finally let myself sob. Sally's voice had been a lifeboat, pulling me from drowning despair. I wasn't alone. I still had him.

I wiped my tears, stood up, and gazed at the gleaming towers that so many coveted. Goodbye, New York. Goodbye to my dreams.

Meanwhile, across town, the atmosphere on the top floor of a Midtown Manhattan skyscraper was arctic.

Damian Blackwood sat behind his massive obsidian desk—more altar than furniture—his expression calm as still water. His bespoke dark gray suit, perfectly styled hair, and gleaming Patek Philippe watch all projected absolute control and authority. Yet a rare restlessness churned in his deep, night-dark eyes.

His gaze locked onto the massive surveillance screen before him, divided into dozens of smaller frames.

It had been a week. The girl—that art student, Isabella Rossi—had vanished without a trace.

After that night, he'd assumed it was just business—payment rendered, contract fulfilled. He'd always been drawn to young, stubborn women with untamed spirits, but his interest typically died at conquest. Yet somehow, her face kept invading his thoughts.

He remembered her eyes—tear-filled yet stubbornly refusing to beg as she endured beneath him. The texture of her skin—warm and delicate as finest silk. Her broken moan—that mix of pain and unwilling pleasure—when he finished inside her.

This unsettled him deeply. Damian Blackwood never "missed" anyone, especially not a woman he'd purchased. To him, women were like business deals or stock acquisitions—trophies in his empire. Once obtained, they should be filed away, not consuming his valuable time and mental energy.

He'd retrieved all surveillance footage from that night. Watched her flee his suite like a frightened fawn, barefoot and disheveled. Saw her dash into the elevator and vanish into a camera blind spot. Then—nothing.

She hadn't returned to school or her restaurant jobs. Neighbors in that shabby apartment building hadn't seen her in days. She'd vanished like a drop of water in the vast ocean of New York.

Most irritating of all, the million dollars he'd transferred remained untouched in her account.

She'd taken his money but wouldn't use it. Accepted the deal yet acted as if it disgusted her. To him, this was silent defiance—a possession he'd already claimed trying to escape his control.

It was an unprecedented feeling of losing control.

"Sir." His assistant—capable and expressionless—entered silently and stood by the desk.

Damian didn't look up, just tapped the desk impatiently, his fingers creating a dull rhythm.

"Any news?" His voice was glacial.

"I'm sorry, sir. We've checked all social connections, credit cards, travel records... Nothing. It's as if she's..." The assistant hesitated before choosing his word. "...vanished."

"Vanished?" Damian finally looked up, a dangerous glint in his black eyes. "In this age of data and networks, no one truly vanishes—unless they're dead." He stood, his tall figure casting a shadow across the massive window, as if claiming all of New York. "A 21-year-old girl disappears without using electronic payments or public transport? I don't believe it."

He walked to the window, gazing down at the toy-like city below. This was his hunting ground, and he its king. No prey escaped his grasp.

"Expand the search. Use all resources—family, friends, anyone who's had contact with her." Damian's command left no room for argument.

"Sir, this may require... unconventional methods. The cost will be significant," the assistant cautioned.

A cold smirk twisted Damian's lips. "Cost is irrelevant," he said, stepping closer and fixing his assistant with a predatory stare. "Find her—whatever it takes."

"I don't care if she's hiding in some rat hole. Dig her out."

"Alive."