Chapter Seven
Alexander
I’m sitting here in the blue glow of my monitors, watching the silent footage of Ayla’s house and flipping through the pages of this fucking contract.
My hands are shaking with anger and disbelief.
Holy shit—half of what’s written here can’t possibly be fucking legal, but with Derek’s money and influence, and his father’s reach on top of that, I have no doubt they’d find a way to make it stick.
Ayla told me herself: the police are on his side.
The whole department is dirty. She tried to get out before, but every door slammed in her face.
It’s not just controlling—it’s criminal.
It reads more like a bill of sale than a marriage agreement. Every line makes my blood boil.
PRIVATE MARITAL AGREEMENT
RECITALS: The parties wish to enter into a loving, mutually supportive, and respectful marriage, valuing trust, kindness, and each other’s well-being.
Both parties agree to make reasonable efforts to foster harmony, including open communication, emotional support, and a commitment to resolving disagreements with patience and respect.
The Husband and Wife intend to maintain a stable, nurturing home and encourage each other’s personal and professional growth, including continued education, employment, and hobbies—so long as these pursuits support the goals of the marriage.
The Wife may maintain existing friendships and family relationships, and the Husband will support her social connections, provided they do not disrupt the harmony of the marriage.
The parties agree to make time for joint recreation, companionship, and shared family traditions, such as meals, travel, and annual celebrations, recognizing the importance of mutual respect and quality time together.
TERMS AND CONDITIONS
Authority they're more than friends, they're family.
Dean's been my right hand since high school, but Zayn...
Zayn's always been the wild card, the brother I never had by blood but love just as fiercely.
I trust him with my life, and I know he'd do anything for me—which means for Ayla too.
"Alex, what the hell happened over there?" Dean asks as soon as he steps inside.
I don't answer at first—I just shove the contract at them. They take turns reading, flipping through the pages in heavy silence. The disgust on their faces tells me everything I already know. Dean's jaw clenches. Zayn shakes his head, muttering something under his breath.
"This is... beyond fucked," Dean finally manages. "It's not a marriage contract. It's a prison sentence."
"We can't let her stay in this," Zayn says, voice low and fierce.
But after a beat, Dean sighs. "Okay, but what the hell do we actually do? We could go to the police, but with the department dirty, that’s a dead end. Exposing the contract? Bates would bury us in court."
Zayn rubs his jaw. "Even if we snatch her out, they’ll track us down. It’s not just Derek—his family has resources everywhere."
I pace, tension burning a hole in my chest. “We get proof, we go public. Social media, news, whatever it takes.”
Dean shakes his head. “That’s risky. If you go scorched earth, they’ll come after you—and Ayla. They’d spin it, call you obsessed, unstable."
Zayn grimaces. "We could try to flip someone in the house. Staff, security—maybe somebody hates Derek enough to give us leverage."
"Or we find something on Bates senior—blackmail, dirt, leverage. Make them back off," Dean adds, but even he sounds uncertain.
I lean against the wall, frustration mounting. “Every option feels like a trap. If we do nothing, she’s stuck. If we act, we risk her life, my life, yours."
For a minute, nobody speaks. The weight of it presses in, heavy and hopeless. I look back at the monitor—Ayla’s curled up, so small and alone.
Zayn finally breaks the silence. “We need a plan. A real one. But we can’t rush it. We’ll watch, we’ll dig, and if we get one chance, we take it.”
I nod slowly, torn between rage and fear. "We’re not giving up. Not on her. But we go careful. No mistakes.”
Dean runs both hands through his hair, frustration written all over him. “How the fuck do we get to him? Legal, illegal, it doesn’t matter—he’s untouchable.”
“Nobody is untouchable,” Zayn counters.
We lapse into silence, staring at each other, the enormity of what we’re up against settling in. No one has any good ideas. I turn back to the monitors, watching Ayla on the security feed—her silhouette small and lonely, curled up on the couch, her shoulders hunched like she’s trying to disappear.
How did it come to this? How did Ayla, who seemed so untouchable, so sharp and immune to the bullshit of shitty men, end up trapped here?
How did she—who always seemed so strong, so untouchable, so quick to laugh off a drunk grab or shut down a sleazy comment—end up here, trapped under Derek’s thumb?
Stripping was never perfect, but at least it was freedom.
She could deal with bullshit all night, but she left it at the door with her heels in hand.
It was gritty, it was exhausting, but it was hers.
Compared to this—the contract, the control, the gilded cage—those nights on stage had to be better.
But maybe that’s the thing. Maybe Ayla thought Derek was her ticket out.
Maybe she thought he was a way to escape a life that had started to feel like hell behind closed doors.
Maybe the loneliness, the grind, the pretending got to be too much, and Derek’s promises sounded like hope.
He told her he loved her. She believed him.
Now she’s more trapped than ever—and I can’t figure out how to get her back.
I'm glued to the monitors for hours, watching Ayla on the grainy security feed while Derek clatters around in the kitchen. Now, she’s curled on the couch, exhaustion written all over her, eyelids drooping as she fights off sleep.
For a split second, I almost let myself hope she might get a moment’s peace.
But then her phone buzzes, the sharp vibration jolting her awake.
She glances at Derek—making sure he’s distracted—then slips her phone from her pocket.