The line between Mayfair and mercy

The velvet darkness of the backseat and the cold hum of the Mercedes were a gilded cage. I didn't dare breathe too deeply.

My hand was still burning where it had brushed his. A meaningless accident, yet the electricity had been sharp enough to shatter the carefully constructed indifference I wore.

"You will learn to rely on me."

The words of my tyrant-my accidental savior-echoed in the suffocating silence. He had paid for my mother's life with a single, brutal transfer. He had publicly defended my honor with a chilling command.

He had claimed me, and every gesture, every silent watch, every possessive decree was a brand against my skin.

I shifted, pulling my jacket tighter, trying to shield myself from the force of his gaze, which I knew was fixed on my hands in my lap.
£10,000. The debt was a weight.

But the price was heavier.

I remembered the feel of his cold rage in the back room-the heat of his breath on my face, the absolute terror of his eyes demanding my silence.

"You belong to me now, Ava."

I was not a waitress, not a debtor. I was a possession. And as the sleek black car swallowed the distance between my world and his, I knew the chilling, absolute truth:
I had traded my freedom for my mother's life, and Daven Lockwood was not done collecting the interest.