The rain came down in icy sheets that night, washing the streets of the city in a cold, silver haze. Daniel Prescott stood at the corner of 6th and Vale, his threadbare coat offering little protection against the chill. He gripped a suitcase with trembling hands, its contents a pathetic reflection of his shattered life—some clothes, a handful of papers, and a photograph of a family he no longer had.

He stared up at the looming building before him, its glass exterior glowing faintly against the storm. It was a beacon of success, wealth, and everything he had lost. Danny hesitated, his breath fogging in the air. He knew what awaited him on the other side of that penthouse door.

Victor Hayworth had been a ghost from his past until recently, a name he’d only heard in passing from mutual friends. Vic had been the ambitious one, the kind of man who turned heads with his confidence and his ruthless charm. They’d never been close—not really—but Vic had been there, in the background, watching. Danny hadn’t understood back then, but he did now.

When Danny had reached out to him two weeks ago, it had been out of desperation. He’d lost everything: his home, his job, his last shred of dignity. Vic had answered immediately, his voice warm and inviting, like an old friend eager to help. “Come stay with me,” he’d said. “We’ll get you back on your feet.”

The offer had felt like salvation.

Now, as the elevator ascended, the knot in Danny’s stomach tightened. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d made a terrible mistake. The penthouse was immaculate, just as he’d expected—marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, and furniture so pristine it looked untouched.

And there was Vic, standing at the far end of the room, his smile as sharp and calculated as Danny remembered. “You’re home,” Vic said softly, his eyes narrowing.

In that moment, Danny understood something he couldn’t quite name. He wasn’t here to be saved. He was here to be owned.