Aria's POV
I wake up screaming.
My hands claw at nothing, fighting invisible attackers in the dark. It takes three racing heartbeats to remember—I'm not in the alley. I'm not on the streets. I'm safe.
Or at least, that's what Dominic Cross wants me to believe.
Sunlight streams through unfamiliar windows. I'm in a real bed with clean white sheets that smell like lavender. The ceiling above me is smooth and unmarked, not water-stained and crumbling like the shelters I remember.
One week. I've been in this apartment for one week, and I still wake up expecting it all to be a dream.
I sit up slowly, my body still aching but healing. The bruises have faded from purple to yellow-green. The split in my lip is almost gone. Dominic had a doctor examine me that first night—a quiet woman who asked no questions and left pain medication with instructions.
Everything has been like that. Efficient. Impersonal. Provided without explanation.
I haven't seen Dominic since that night. Since the text message. Since someone—Marcus Vaughn, we both knew without saying—revealed that he knows I'm alive.
The memory makes my skin crawl. Dominic had gone completely still when he saw that photo, his face transforming into something cold and dangerous. Then he'd made three phone calls in rapid succession, speaking in clipped sentences I couldn't fully understand.
By the time we reached this apartment, there were security guards in the lobby and cameras in every hallway. Dominic had walked me inside, handed me a phone with only his number programmed in it, and told me to stay put.
"Don't leave this apartment," he'd said. "Don't contact anyone. Don't even look out the windows for too long. Understood?"
I'd understood perfectly. I was in a beautiful cage, and somewhere out there, Marcus Vaughn was hunting me.
Now, a week later, I'm climbing out of bed and padding barefoot across hardwood floors that feel like heaven after months of concrete and cardboard. The apartment isn't huge, but it's clean and modern. Living room with a comfortable couch. Small kitchen with gleaming appliances. Bathroom with a tub I've used every single day.
And clothes. So many clothes.
I open the closet and stare at the professional outfits hanging in neat rows. Blouses and slacks in my exact size. Dresses for different occasions. Even shoes—real shoes with intact soles and no holes.
On the counter, there's a note I've read a hundred times:
Be ready at 8 AM. The driver will bring you to me. -D.C.
Today is the day. After a week of isolation and healing, I'm finally going to see what I've agreed to. What my five-year sentence actually looks like.
I check the clock: 6:47 AM.
Plenty of time.
I head to the bathroom and turn on the shower. When hot water cascades over me, I do what I've done every morning for the past week.
I cry.
Not sad tears. Not exactly. These are complicated tears—relief and grief and terror all mixed together. I cry for the girl I used to be. The one who had dreams and plans and a future. The one who believed the world was fundamentally fair.
That girl died three years ago in a courtroom when the jury said "guilty."
I scrub myself with expensive soap that smells like oranges and vanilla. Wash my hair with real shampoo, not the watered-down stuff from shelters. Stand under the hot spray until my skin turns pink and the water finally runs clear.
When I step out and catch my reflection in the mirror, I barely recognize myself.
The hollow-eyed skeleton from the alley is gone. A week of regular meals has filled out my face. My hair, freshly cut by a stylist who came to the apartment, falls in soft waves around my shoulders. I look almost... normal.
Almost human again.
I dress carefully in gray slacks and a white blouse. Simple, professional, invisible—exactly what Dominic wants. As I button the shirt, a memory hits me so hard I have to grip the counter.
David's apartment. Three years ago. Morning light streaming through his bedroom window. Me getting dressed for work while he watches from the bed.
"You're beautiful," he says, smiling that easy smile I fell in love with.
"You're biased," I tease, leaning down to kiss him.
"Marry me," he says suddenly.
I freeze. "What?"
"Marry me, Ari. I know it's fast, but I've never been more sure of anything." He pulls a ring box from his nightstand. "Say yes."
I say yes. Of course I say yes.
Six months later, when I'm arrested, David won't even take my calls.
The memory dissolves and I'm back in the present, staring at my reflection with tears in my eyes.
I trusted David. Trusted my parents. Trusted Sienna. Trusted the justice system.
Every single one of them betrayed me.
So why not trust a man who's been completely honest about being dangerous?
At least I know where I stand with Dominic Cross.
At exactly 8:00 AM, there's a knock on my door.
I grab the small purse that was provided—containing the phone, some cash, and a new ID with my photo and name but a different birthday and background—and open the door.
A man in a black suit stands there. He's older, maybe fifty, with kind eyes and a professional demeanor.
"Ms. Quinn? I'm James, Mr. Cross's driver. Are you ready?"
I take a deep breath. "As ready as I'll ever be."
The ride downtown is quiet. James doesn't try to make conversation, and I'm grateful. I press my forehead against the window and watch Los Angeles slide past.
We pass through neighborhoods I used to know. The gallery district where I worked is just three blocks from here. I wonder if anyone I knew still works there. If they ever think about me. If they believe I'm guilty.
Probably.
The SUV pulls up to a massive glass building that towers over everything around it. The letters on the side read: CROSS SECURITY SOLUTIONS.
This is it. This is where I'll spend the next five years of my life.
James opens my door and I step out onto the sidewalk. My legs feel shaky but I force them to work. I've survived homelessness and assault and betrayal. I can survive this.
The lobby is all marble and chrome, filled with people in expensive suits moving with purpose. I feel like a fraud in my new clothes, like everyone can see through to the broken homeless woman underneath.
James guides me to a private elevator that requires a keycard. We ride up in silence, the numbers climbing: 10, 20, 30, 40.
The doors open directly onto the fortieth floor.
And there, standing with his back to me looking out at the city, is Dominic Cross.
He turns when he hears the elevator, and for a moment we just stare at each other. He looks exactly like I remember—tall, commanding, wearing power like some men wear cologne. But there's something different in his eyes when he looks at me. Something almost... possessive.
"Aria," he says, my name sounding different in his voice. "Welcome to your new life."
I step out of the elevator on trembling legs. "What happens now?"
"Now, we begin." He gestures to a desk outside his office. "That's yours. You'll manage my schedule, screen my calls, attend meetings with me, and handle any tasks I assign."
"That's it? Just normal assistant work?"
His smile is sharp. "Nothing about this will be normal. Come."
He leads me into his office and closes the door. From a drawer, he pulls out a thick document and sets it on the desk between us.
"Your contract," he says. "Read it carefully. Once you sign, there's no going back."
I sit down and start reading. The legal language is dense, but the meaning is clear: Five years of complete service. Total obedience. Absolute discretion. No questions about his business. No contact with my old life. No relationships without his permission.
And at the bottom, a clause that makes my blood run cold:
In the event of contract violation, breach of confidentiality, or betrayal of any kind, the employee forfeits all compensation and protection. Furthermore, the employer reserves the right to pursue legal action for damages and to revoke any assistance provided.
It's a threat wrapped in legal terms. If I betray him, he'll destroy me.
"This is insane," I whisper.
"This is protection," Dominic corrects. "Sign it, and you're under my shield. Marcus Vaughn can't touch you. No one can. But break it, and you're on your own against some very dangerous people."
My hand hovers over the pen.
"What if I say no? What if I walk away right now?"
Dominic leans back in his chair, studying me with those cold gray eyes.
"Then you walk away. I won't stop you. But you'll be unprotected, and Vaughn already knows you're alive. How long do you think you'll survive?"
He's right. We both know it.
I pick up the pen.
"One question first," I say. "That text message. The photo. How did Vaughn know where I was?"
Something flickers across Dominic's face. "That's what I've been working on all week. And Aria?" His voice drops. "The answer is going to complicate things."
"Tell me."
He pulls out his phone and shows me a series of photos. Me in the alley. Me entering this apartment building. Me at the window yesterday morning.
All taken from different angles. All from the past week.
"Someone's been watching you," Dominic says quietly. "Someone with professional equipment and training. These aren't amateur shots."
Ice floods my veins. "Who?"
"I don't know yet. But whoever it is has been following you since before I found you in that alley." His jaw tightens. "Which means someone knew you were valuable before I did. Someone wanted you found."
"That doesn't make sense. I'm nobody. I have nothing—"
"You have information," Dominic interrupts. "You witnessed Marcus Vaughn commit murder. That makes you either a threat or an asset, depending on who's watching."
My hands start shaking. "So signing this contract won't protect me. I'm already being hunted."
"Signing this contract puts you under my protection and gives me legal authority to guard you openly. Right now, you're a random woman I helped. Once you sign, you're my employee, my responsibility." He leans forward. "Sign it, Aria. Let me keep you safe."
I stare at the contract, then at him.
"And what do you get out of this? Really?"
Dominic's smile is cold and certain.
"I get the key to destroying Marcus Vaughn. And you get to watch him burn."
I sign my name.
Dominic witnesses it, then puts the contract in a safe behind his desk. When he turns back to me, his whole demeanor has changed. More relaxed. Almost satisfied.
"Welcome to Cross Security Solutions, Ms. Quinn," he says formally. "Let me show you your workspace."
He's leading me back to the desk outside his office when his phone rings. He glances at the screen and his expression goes dark.
"Cross," he answers.
I watch his face change as he listens. His knuckles go white around the phone.
"When?" he asks sharply. A pause. "How many?" Another pause. "Lock it down. I'm on my way."
He hangs up and looks at me, and for the first time I see something like fear in his eyes.
"What happened?" I ask.
"Someone just tried to access your old personnel file from the gallery. The one from three years ago."
My heart stops. "Who?"
"I don't know. But they used Marcus Vaughn's credentials." He grabs his jacket. "Which means either Vaughn is getting bold, or someone's trying to frame him. Either way, they're looking for something in your past."
"What could they possibly want? Everything about me was destroyed—"
"Not everything," Dominic says grimly. "Come with me. Now."
"Where are we going?"
He's already heading for the elevator, and I have to run to keep up.
"To find out what you witnessed that night that was worth destroying your entire life to cover up."