15. The Call
FIFTEEN
The Call
It registers on Day Nine, standing at his windows watching rain streak down the glass: Sebastian York hasn't left this penthouse since I arrived.
Nine days. The man who builds empires, who has developments and deals and meetings worth millions, has been trapped in these walls alongside me.
The Protocol required proximity for the first week, he said.
But the first week ended two days ago. My body has reached steady state.
The constant thrum of awareness no longer builds or fades but simply is.
So why is he still here?
I turn from the window. He's in his office, visible through the open door, and the tension in his shoulders tells me something is wrong before he ends the call and emerges with his jaw set like concrete.
"Problem."
"Carlo Moreno." He crosses to the bar, pours whiskey, doesn't drink it. "He's targeting one of my developments. Trying to edge into territory that isn't his."
My stomach drops. I don't ask the obvious questions. We both know who Carlo is and what he wanted from my brother. What he wanted from me.
"Revenge," I say instead. "For losing out on the debt."
"For losing out on you." Sebastian's eyes meet mine. "In his mind, you were promised to him. That makes you stolen property."
"What does he want now?”
"To prove I can't take things from him without consequence." He finally drinks, a long swallow. "The development is worth fifty million, but that's not the point. The point is making me pay."
I process this. The man who would have broken me in ways that don't heal is circling, looking for weaknesses. And I'm the weakness. The thing Sebastian took that Carlo still wants.
"The dinner," I say. "Two weeks from now. Will he be there."
"Yes."
The word hangs between us.
"So he'll see me. With you."
"Yes." Sebastian sets down his glass. "Which is why we need to discuss preparation. And the collar."
My hand goes to my throat before I can stop it. He notices, he notices everything, and something in his expression shifts.
"I was going to present you formally. But I've reconsidered." He moves toward me, stops close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath. "You're not ready for a permanent collar. Neither am I."
Before I can respond, he produces a velvet box. Inside is a necklace. Delicate gold chain, a compass rose pendant that matches my bracelet, matches the tattoo over his heart.
"A placeholder," he says. "You can remove it whenever you want. It marks connection without declaring ownership."
He fastens it around my neck, and the pendant settles against my collarbone like it was made to rest there. His fingers linger on the chain.
"The real collar comes later. When we're both certain what this is."
I don't ask what he thinks this is. I'm not sure either of us knows.
"I want to call Bennett."
The words come out before I've decided to say them. Sebastian's hands still on my shoulders.
"No."
"You said I could have supervised calls. Weekly. It's been nine days."
"And I said at my discretion." His voice has gone flat. "My discretion says no."
"Why?”
"Because it will hurt you." He releases me, steps back, putting distance between us. "Because your brother is an addict who will say whatever he needs to say to make himself feel better about what he did, and that will involve making you feel worse."
"You don't know that."
"I know addicts." Something dark moves behind his eyes. "I know what they do to the people who love them. How they take until there's nothing left, then blame you for being empty."
"He's my brother."
"He tried to sell you to Carlo Moreno."
The words land like a slap. Not because they're cruel. Because they're true. Because I've spent nine days not thinking about that, not letting myself feel it, and now it's here in the room with us.
"Five minutes." I hold his gaze. "Supervised. You hear everything. But I need to talk to him. I need to understand."
"Understand what?”
"If any of it mattered." My voice cracks despite my best efforts. "Eight years. If any of those eight years meant anything to him, or if I was just a resource to be spent when things got desperate enough."
Sebastian is silent for a long moment. He's weighing something. Risks and benefits, control and whatever else governs his decisions about me.
"Five minutes," he says finally. "And when it goes badly, you remember that I tried to protect you from this."
"It won't go badly."
"It will." He moves toward his office. "Come on. Let's get this over with."
The call happens at his desk. I sit in his chair; he stands by the window, arms crossed, face unreadable. The phone rests between us like something that might explode.
"Remember," he says. "Five minutes. I end the call when time is up, regardless of where the conversation is."
I nod. Pick up the phone. Dial.
It rings three times before Bennett answers.
"Hello."
His voice is rough with sleep or alcohol or both, and something in my chest cracks at the sound of it. "Bennett. It's me."
Silence. Then: "Chloe. Oh my God, Chloe. Is it really you?”
"Yeah. It's me."
"I've been going crazy." He's breathing hard, words tumbling over each other. "I didn't know if you were okay, if he was hurting you, if you were even still—I tried calling the penthouse but they wouldn't put me through, and I didn't have any way to reach you?—"
"I'm fine." The words come out flat. "I'm alive. I'm fine."
"Are you sure. Because I've heard things about York, about what he does, and I've been sick thinking about?—"
"Bennett." I cut him off. "Why did you do it?”
The silence that follows is different. Heavier.
"Do what?”
"Don't." The word comes out sharper than I intend. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm asking. Carlo. The deal you made. Why?”
"Chloe, I didn't have a choice." His voice has changed—higher, more desperate. The voice he uses when he's making excuses. "You don't understand what was happening. Carlo had guys following me. He said if I didn't pay up, he was going to?—"
"So you offered me."
"I was going to die." He's crying now, or pretending to cry. I can't tell anymore. "He was going to kill me. What was I supposed to do."
"Come to me." The words burn in my throat. "Tell me what was happening. Let me help you figure something out, the way I always help you figure things out."
"You couldn't have fixed this. It was too big. The debt was too much."
"So instead you went behind my back and promised me to him like I was—" I stop. Breathe. Force myself to continue. "He wanted one night. That's what you told me. One night and the debt was clear."
"That's what he said."
"And you believed him." I laugh, and it sounds nothing like me. "You believed Carlo Moreno would take one night with me and walk away satisfied. You believed he'd just let me go when he was done."
"I didn't know what else to do."
"You could have told me the truth. Before it got that bad. Before you'd already made the deal."
"I was trying to protect you."
The words hit like ice water. I grip the edge of the desk so hard my knuckles go white.
"Protect me." My voice has gone very quiet. "You were trying to protect me by selling me to a cartel."
"I was trying to keep you out of it for as long as I could. I didn't want you to worry."
"Bennett." I close my eyes. "Do you hear yourself?”
"I know it sounds bad. I know. But you have to understand, I was scared, I was so scared, and I thought maybe if Carlo got what he wanted he'd leave us both alone."
"What he wanted was me." I open my eyes. Sebastian is watching from the window, his face unreadable. "What he wanted was to do things to me that would have broken me. And you thought that was an acceptable trade for your life?”
"I didn't think about it like that."
"How did you think about it?”
Silence.
"Bennett."
"I thought—" His voice breaks. "I thought you'd understand. You always understand. You always find a way to make things okay. I thought if I could just get out from under Carlo, you could handle whatever happened after. You're stronger than me. You've always been stronger."
There it is.
The truth I've been running from for eight years. The thing I knew but refused to see, buried under layers of love and obligation and the fierce protective instinct that kept me working double shifts and emptying my savings and putting myself last.
Bennett doesn't see me as a person. He sees me as a solution. A resource. Something to be deployed when his problems get too big to handle alone.
"I'm stronger than you," I repeat slowly, "so it was okay to sell me?”
"That's not what I meant."
"That's exactly what you meant." My voice has gone dead. Empty. "You meant that I'm the one who fixes things, so it's fine if I get broken in the process. As long as you're okay. As long as Bennett is safe and comfortable and taken care of."
"Chloe, please." He's sobbing now. "Please, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. I just—I was in trouble, and I didn't know what else to do. I thought?—"
"You thought I'd sacrifice myself for you?” I finish his sentence. "And you were right. I did. I'm here, aren't I? In Sebastian York's penthouse, doing exactly what you needed me to do."
"But it's not what I wanted. I didn't want this."
"What did you want, Bennett? Specifically. What outcome were you hoping for when you offered me to Carlo Moreno?”
He doesn't answer.
"I need to go," I say.
"Wait. Chloe, please wait." His voice is desperate, grasping. "I need—can you ask York for money. Just a little. I'm behind on rent. I don't have enough for?—"
Sebastian ends the call.
The click of disconnection sounds like a door closing. I stare at the phone for a long moment, waiting for something. Grief, rage, the shattered feeling I expected.
What comes instead is hollow.
Empty, scraped-out, like someone has reached into my chest and removed something vital. Eight years. Eight years of sacrifice and worry and putting him first. And at the end, when I'm locked in a gilded cage paying for his mistakes, what he wants is money for rent.
"Chloe."