The penthouse wasn't a home but a cold temple hovering above Manhattan. Beyond the windows, city lights sparkled like diamonds on black velvet, stretching endlessly to the horizon. I was the sacrifice laid upon this altar.

Damian Blackwood offered no tenderness or foreplay. He pinned me to the massive bed like a corporate raider executing a hostile takeover—precise, efficient, emotionless. His powerful hands tore my cheap waitress skirt, the ripping fabric screaming through the silence like my dignity's final protest.


"Don't tremble, Isabella," he whispered, his voice low and calm as currents beneath winter ice. "This was our deal. Now fulfill your part."

His body burned against mine, hard and unyielding. When he entered me, I gasped in pain, nails clawing into silk sheets. This wasn't intimacy—no love, no shared desire—just conquest. Like a machine with one purpose, each thrust aimed to break me. His eyes, black gems in the dim light, coldly studied every flicker across my face—the pain, shame, and the traitorous flush my body couldn't control.

He seemed pleased by my conflicted responses. His lips curled into a faint, icy smile as he gripped my chin, forcing my eyes to his. "Look at me," he commanded. "I want to see you fall apart."


I tried turning away, but his strength was overwhelming. Forced to face him, I stared at his striking features—sharp contours, high nose, thin lips—a Michelangelo sculpture too perfect to be human. His scent—expensive cigar, aged whiskey, and raw masculinity—enveloped me like a net. My traitorous body trembled and arched beneath him as shameful pleasure surged through me like electricity.

"Yes, just like that," he whispered, breath heavy but eyes still cold. Like a scientist observing a lab specimen, he noted every moan and gasp as experimental data. He explored and conquered, marking me mercilessly. My mind emptied—my father's face, the smell of turpentine, the red letter—all shredded in this violent storm of sensation. The world vanished, leaving only my possessed body and the man dominating it.


I lost track of time during this "acquisition." When he finally finished, releasing deep inside me with a satisfied growl, he withdrew immediately—like an athlete completing a workout. Without a glance back, he walked straight to the bathroom. Soon, water rushed behind the closed door.

I lay there like a discarded doll, aching and sticky. The air hung heavy with the scent of sex. I stared at the ceiling, feeling my soul hovering above, watching this broken shell on the bed. This was what a million dollars bought.

Eventually, the bathroom door opened. Damian emerged wrapped in a towel, his upper body exposed—broad shoulders, defined chest and abs testifying to years of discipline. He dried his hair and walked past me like a stranger, pulling a silk robe from the wardrobe and slipping it on.

"You can stay overnight," he said, pouring water, his voice back to business-like monotony, "or leave whenever." Without waiting for a response, he walked out. I heard the outer door close softly, leaving the suite in deathly silence.

I didn't move until dawn light seeped through the curtains. The bedroom came into view—minimalist black, white, and gray, expensive and cold like its owner. I sat up slowly, every joint protesting. Then my eyes fell on the nightstand.

There lay a check. Ivory paper with a bold, sweeping signature in black ink: Damian Blackwood. In the amount column, a number that could change my life.

In that moment, humiliation more intense than anything from the night seized me. The check was a price tag, coldly marking my value. A stark reminder that everything had been merely a transaction. I wasn't his lover or even his prey—just merchandise he'd purchased.

Nausea overwhelmed me. I rushed to the bathroom—larger than my entire apartment—and knelt before the toilet, but only bitter acid burned my throat. In the mirror stood a stranger—pale, hollow-eyed, hair wild. The reflection asked: Isabella, is this what you wanted? Your body and soul for this?

No. I don't want this.

I didn't bother wiping my tears. I stumbled out, grabbed my torn dress from the floor and pulled it on, not caring how I looked. I avoided glancing at the check as if it might burn me. Snatching my handbag, I fled that gilded prison barefoot, jabbing the elevator button frantically. When the doors opened, I rushed in like hell itself was at my heels.

Only when I reached my shabby apartment, slammed the door, and collapsed against it did I finally breathe. The familiar smell of turpentine and dust—always there—now felt like sanctuary. I was back. I had escaped.

I sat dazed until sunlight filled the room. Eventually, I rose like a sleepwalker and checked my banking app, wondering what little money remained and what I should do next.

When I saw the balance, my brain froze.

My account held exactly one million dollars. No more, no less.

He hadn't even given me the chance to refuse. He'd bypassed the symbolic check—that illusion of choice—and forced the money into my life in the most direct, brutal way. This "thoughtfulness," this non-negotiable "fulfillment of contract," was more humiliating than anything. A silent declaration: you have no right to refuse; from the moment you nodded, you became my possession.

"Ah—!"

A scream tore from my throat. My legs buckled, dropping me to my knees as tears flooded out. I stumbled to the bathroom, cranked the shower to scalding, and let the water cascade over me. I scrubbed frantically with soap and body wash, as if I could erase his scent, his touch, his mark on my body and soul.

But it was useless. No matter how hard I scrubbed, the violation clung like a shadow. I slid into the tub, submerging myself until my lungs burned for air. Breaking the surface, I watched water stream from my hair and face, then hugged myself tight and howled in despair beneath the rushing water.

For days after, I moved like a zombie. I used the money to pay tuition, rent, and buy expensive art supplies. I locked myself in the studio, trying to numb myself through frantic creation. But each night, when the world quieted, his face returned—his icy gaze, the weight of his body—haunting me like a ghost.

Until that morning.

A wave of intense nausea hit without warning. I rushed to the bathroom and vomited until I couldn't stand. At first, I blamed gastritis from my irregular eating. But the persistent fatigue and sudden sensitivity to smells planted a terrifying seed in my mind.

My period was over a week late.

My heart stopped. A fear colder than anything I'd felt in that penthouse gripped me. Trembling, I threw on a coat, hat, and mask, then slipped into a pharmacy like a thief. Avoiding the cashier's eyes, I grabbed a pregnancy test, tossed down money, and fled.

Back home, I locked myself in the bathroom, hands shaking so badly I could barely hold the plastic stick. I followed the instructions and set it on the sink. Those minutes of waiting stretched longer than eternity. My heart slammed against my ribs, each beat a desperate roar.

I couldn't look. I stared at the floor, praying desperately. Please, no... please...

Finally, I took a deep breath and raised my head.

In that tiny window, two clear red lines—like twin knives—pierced my vision, shattering my last hope.

Positive.

My world collapsed in silence. All sound vanished except the rush of blood in my ears. I staggered back until I hit the wall, then slid slowly to the floor.

I was pregnant.

Carrying the child of that man. The man who had bought me for a night with a million dollars.

Trembling, I placed my hand over my still-flat stomach. Inside, a life conceived from humiliation and transaction was growing quietly. I stared blankly ahead, drowning in fear, confusion, anger, and shame. Yet amid that chaotic storm, a faint emotion—like a seedling pushing through ruins—emerged.

It was the primal pulse of life itself.

My hand, of its own accord, gently caressed my abdomen.