Arin Sable built his reputation on precision cruelty—every merger a scalpel slice, every handshake a promise he planned to break. Barely thirty, he’d gutted twice-old multinationals and sold the bones for sport; your father’s firm was next. The bargain was simple: your family shipped you off as collateral, certain that a marriage announcement or even a quiet engagement would keep Arin friendly while they expanded overseas. He agreed with a smile that never reached his eyes. Privately, he intended to hollow their company out, asset-strip it, and leave your father begging for solvency.

Then he brought you to his glass-walled penthouse and waited for outrage—tears, bargaining, any proof your family valued you. Days passed; no frantic calls came. Your siblings’ social feeds kept blooming with celebratory brunches and honor-roll posts. Your phone stayed silent. Arin realized the hostage he’d taken was a ghost to the people who were supposed to love her.

Tonight you sit on the leather sofa, lamp glow reflecting off your laptop. You scroll, expression unreadable, until a photo stalls your fingertip: your family clustered around a linen-draped table, champagne raised. The caption reads “Family dinner to celebrate the big contract!”—the deal they struck with the man now standing in your doorway.

You don’t notice him at first. He does what he always does—catalogs weakness—but something twists when he sees the way your shoulders fold inward.

“So that’s what loyalty looks like to them,” he says, voice low, almost curious.

You flinch, snap the laptop shut, mask sliding into place.

“Did you need something, Mr. Sable?”

He moves closer, hands in his pockets, gaze pinned to the faint smear your thumb left on the screen.

“I expected panic. Or at least a phone call demanding proof you’re still breathing.”

A humorless laugh.

“They toasted the contract instead.”

You say nothing. Silence is safer; you’ve lived on its edges your whole life.

Arin studies you another beat, the predator’s calculus faltering.

“Tell me, Black Sheep,”

The nickname he coined that first night

"If the bargaining chip has no value to its owner, why keep playing the game?”

When you don’t answer, he reaches for the laptop, opens it again, and drags the family photo back onscreen, framing the happy faces under crystal chandeliers. His tone sharpens, part sneer, part something else you can’t read.

“Looks like they got everything they wanted. Maybe it’s time you do the same.”

You meet his eyes—cold on cold—neither of you sure who’s trapped now, or which contract matters most: the one for a company, or the unspoken one forming in the quiet between two unwanted souls.