Amelia's mind reeled. His words, delivered with such calm, chilling confidence, had stripped away the last vestiges of her composure. "Your time. Your attention. Your company. For as long as I deem necessary... You will be available when I require it. You will perform when I desire it. Not just on a stage... But for me. Alone." The weight of his gaze, the light, yet inescapable, brush of his thumb on her throat, was suffocating. This was not a proposition; it was a decree.
Her body trembled uncontrollably, a raw, primal fear bubbling up from deep within her. This was worse than the mob. Far, far worse. They wanted money, and failing that, crude, brutal violence. Alexander wanted her. He wanted to own her, mind and body, with a terrifying, refined cruelty that felt infinitely more violating.
"Service?" Amelia finally managed, her voice a thin, reedy sound, barely recognizable as her own. "You mean... you want me to be your... your property? Your toy?" The word "whore" screamed silently in her head, though she couldn't bring herself to utter it. "After you just 'saved' me from men who wanted to do exactly that? You're no different!"
Alexander's eyes narrowed fractionally, a flicker of something that might have been annoyance, or perhaps disappointment, at her bluntness. "I assure you, Amelia, my intentions are vastly different from those thugs. I have no interest in... 'brutal violence' or 'crude displays.' My interest is in cultivating potential. In witnessing beauty. In... fulfilling a very specific desire that only you can satisfy." He paused, his gaze dropping to her trembling lips. "And I guarantee, you will be treated with the utmost respect. Protected. Provided for. In a manner far beyond anything you've ever known."
He let his thumb slide from her throat down to the delicate curve of her collarbone, a whisper of a touch that made every nerve ending scream. "Think of the studio, Amelia," he murmured, his voice a dangerous lullaby. "The grand building. No more debt. No more club. You could teach. You could dance as you were meant to, without the judgment, without the constant fear of a precarious existence. All of it, within your reach. All you have to do... is agree to my terms."
The lure of her dream, presented so vividly, so tantalizingly, clashed violently with the utter horror of his unspoken demand. She saw the bright, sunlit studios, the happy faces of children, the freedom to dance purely, beautifully. But attached to it was the chilling image of Alexander, watching her, demanding her time, her "service," her very self. He was offering her the heavens, but at the cost of her soul.
"No," Amelia whispered, shaking her head frantically. Tears finally spilled over, tracing hot paths down her bruised cheek. "No! I can't. I won't. I won't do that. I won't. I'd rather go back to the club. I'd rather... I'd rather fight those men every night than be... be yours."
A cold, hard glint entered Alexander's eyes. His patience, thin as it was, seemed to wear through. "You have no choice, Amelia," he stated, his voice losing its silken quality, becoming sharp, unyielding. "You heard the loan sharks. They will be back for you, regardless of the payment, if they sense weakness. And if they don't, others will. Your father is a liability, a walking magnet for trouble. Do you think you can hide from me? From the kind of people I know? From the reach of my resources?"
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a harsh, inescapable whisper. "You owe me 1.5 million pesos, Amelia. A debt you could never repay in a lifetime. I could ruin you. I could ensure you never work again. I could make sure you starve on the streets. Or," he paused, allowing the weight of his power to settle over her, "you can accept my generosity. My protection. And my terms. You think I saved you tonight for nothing? I told you, Amelia. You are mine. And whether you accept it or not, you already are."
He removed his hand from her, stepping back, and the sudden absence of his touch felt like a chilling void. He then turned, gesturing to one of his bodyguards. "Take her home. Ensure she gets inside safely. And ensure no one bothers her. No one." His tone left no room for argument.
Amelia stood there, shivering, watching him turn and walk towards his waiting car, his dark silhouette against the dim streetlights, an image of absolute power. He hadn't asked. He had commanded. Her "no" was irrelevant. The trap had sprung shut. The debt of freedom was truly an unbreakable chain. And in that moment, Amelia realized the terrifying truth: her life, her body, her very autonomy, had just become the property of Alexander Sterling.
The first sliver of dawn bled through the flimsy curtains of Amelia's tiny apartment, painting the familiar room in a sickly, gray light. She lay on her thin mattress, rigid and unmoving, her eyes wide open, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling. She hadn't slept. Not a wink. Every nerve ending in her body hummed with a raw, unbearable tension.
Her cheek throbbed, a constant, dull ache that was a brutal, physical reminder of last night's horror. She reached up, her fingers tentatively brushing the still-tender skin. The slap from the mob leader was real. The knives, the bats, her father's betrayal – agonizingly real. But even more real, more terrifying, was the memory of Alexander Sterling's cold, possessive gaze, the subtle, intimate brush of his thumb on her throat, and his chilling words: "You are mine. And whether you accept it or not, you already are."
The light outside deepened, but the darkness within Amelia only grew. Her brain, usually her steadfast ally, now turned into her cruelest tormentor, whispering things she desperately fought to silence.
Private whore. The words echoed, sharp and stinging, bouncing off the walls of her mind. She had just survived being assaulted by thugs, only to be branded by a millionaire. She had danced for countless men, endured their leering stares, all to protect her body, to ensure her choices were her own. And now? Now, she felt utterly stripped, defiled not by touch, but by the undeniable fact of ownership.
A bought slut. The phrase clawed at her, tearing at her last shreds of dignity. He had paid her father's monstrous debt – ₱1.5 million. A sum so astronomical it rendered her own pathetic savings obsolete. He had bought her life, bought her father's life, and in doing so, he had bought her. The grand studio, once a shimmering beacon of hope, now felt like a gilded cage, a luxurious prison where her "talents" would be exclusively for his pleasure, his viewing, his dark satisfaction.
She sat up slowly, the cheap blanket falling away. Her muscles ached, not just from the run or the fight, but from the sheer emotional weight pressing down on her. Her eyes fell on the small, worn practice barre in the corner, the one she had painstakingly saved for. The symbol of her independent dream. Now, it looked pathetic, a child's toy against the terrifying reality of Alexander's monumental offer, his monumental claim.
She got up and walked to the tiny, cramped kitchen, forcing herself to put on the kettle. Her hands trembled, making the mugs clatter. She looked out the window at the familiar, bustling street of Cagayan de Oro City. The vendors were setting up, the jeepneys already rumbling past. Normal life. But her life had been irrevocably altered. She was no longer just Amelia, the dancer struggling for her dream. She was Amelia, the woman whose freedom had been purchased, whose body and spirit were now, by unspoken agreement, bound to a man she barely knew, a man who saw her as something to possess.
The bitter taste of fear and self-loathing filled her mouth, far worse than any physical injury. She had traded one set of chains for another, stronger, more inescapable ones. She was Alexander Sterling's pet. And the thought was a chilling, absolute terror.
She craved release, anything to silence the suffocating echo of his words. Her instinct, always, was to move, to run, to let the rhythmic pounding of her feet on pavement drown out the noise in her head. She pulled on her worn running shorts and a faded t-shirt, grabbing her ancient sneakers. Escape, even a temporary one, felt like a desperate necessity.
She unlatched the deadbolt, pulled open the door, and stepped out onto the narrow landing. And then she froze.
There it was. Down on the street, parked conspicuously amidst the humble tricycles and battered jeepneys, gleamed the familiar, dark, luxurious sedan. Alexander Sterling's car. It looked impossibly out of place, an alien spaceship landed in her gritty, ordinary world.
A cold dread spread through her, replacing the desperate urge to run. He was here. He always was.
As if on cue, the rear passenger door opened, and Alexander Sterling stepped out. He was dressed impeccably, as always, his tailored suit a stark contrast to the faded paint of her building. His gaze, even from a distance, was intense, unwavering, locking onto her like a predator on its prey. He scanned her apartment building, his eyes lingering on its weathered façade, a faint, almost imperceptible frown touching his lips.
He then started walking towards her, his stride purposeful, commanding. He didn't rush, yet he closed the distance between them with an unnerving inevitability.
Amelia's heart pounded. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice flat, devoid of its usual fire. The defiance felt hollow, choked by a rising terror.
Alexander stopped a few feet from her, his dark eyes sweeping over her from head to toe, taking in her worn running clothes, the lingering bruise on her cheek, the exhaustion etched on her face. A flicker of something akin to distaste, quickly masked, crossed his features.
"Amelia," he began, his voice smooth, but with an underlying steel that brooked no argument. "We need to talk. And then, we're leaving."
"Leaving?" Amelia scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her. "Where? To your golden cage of a studio? I told you, I'm not interested in your gifts. And I'm certainly not interested in your 'service'." She braced herself, ready to refuse, to fight.
Alexander's gaze hardened, his patience clearly wearing thin. "This isn't a discussion, Amelia. It's a necessity. Your father's debt is settled, but as you so eloquently put it, you are still indebted to me. And a property of mine is not going to continue living in this... state." He gestured dismissively at her apartment building, the rundown street, the entire humble existence she fought so hard to maintain. His lip curled slightly, a hint of disdain. "It's unacceptable. No property of mine will exist in such squalor. We are moving you."
Amelia's eyes flashed with renewed fury, momentarily overriding her fear. "Property? Squalor? This is my home! And I am not your property, Mr. Sterling! I am a human being! You can't just move me! I refuse!"
Alexander merely raised an eyebrow, a chillingly calm expression on his face. "You refuse? Amelia, you have precisely two choices. You can walk into my car willingly, and we can discuss the terms of your relocation in a civilized manner. Or," he paused, his voice dropping, "my men can carry you. And I assure you, the latter will be far less... dignified. And far more public." His gaze flickered to the two hulking bodyguards who now stood casually by the car, their presence a silent, undeniable threat.
Amelia looked from Alexander's unyielding face to the imposing figures of his guards. The fight, the desperate, futile fight, drained out of her. He wasn't asking. He was telling. Her "no" was just a word against his absolute power. The phrase "golden handcuffs" echoed in her mind. He had bought her freedom from one hell, only to deliver her into a more luxurious, inescapable one. She was being moved, provided for, purchased. A pet.
Her shoulders slumped. A single, hot tear traced a path down her cheek, mingling with the phantom sting of the mob leader's slap. "You truly are a monster," she whispered, her voice broken.
Alexander's expression remained impassive. "Perhaps. But I am a monster who will ensure your safety, your comfort, and ultimately, your potential is realized. Now. Are you coming willingly, or do I instruct my men?" He gestured towards the car, the open door an invitation that felt more like a trap.
Amelia took a shuddering breath, her fists clenched at her sides. She had no choice. None at all. The invisible chains had tightened, pulling her into a gilded cage she couldn't escape.