The Catch

The painting was smaller than I'd expected.

Oil on canvas, 1642. Roughly two feet by two and a half, smaller than most people expected. A Dutch master's interpretation of light falling through a window onto a woman reading a letter. Worth thirty million dollars according to the auction records. Worth my brother's life according to the men who'd threatened to take it.

Steady hands. That surprised me. That surprised me. Everything else about tonight had been shaking, my lungs, my pulse, my conviction that this was the only way.

The security system had been almost insultingly easy to bypass. Sebastian Black's private gallery had state-of-the-art everything, but state-of-the-art still had blind spots if you knew where to look. I'd spent three weeks studying the rotation of guards, the placement of cameras, the moments when the system cycled between checks.

I'd been a good student.

Apparently not good enough.

The lights blazed on. I froze. Alarms began their shriek a half-second later, too late for me to run, too loud for me to think.

And then he appeared.

Sebastian Black stepped from the far doorway like he'd been standing there the whole time. Maybe he had. Later, I'd wonder about that. But in the moment, all I could process was the cold assessment in his stare as it tracked from my face to the painting in my shaking hands.

"Miss Reyes," he said. Not a question. He already knew my name. "That's a Vermeer."

I couldn't speak. My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth, my lungs refusing to expand properly.

"Not one of his better-known works, but authenticated nonetheless." He moved closer, unhurried, every step deliberate. "Thirty million dollars, give or take. You'd have to sell it on the black market, of course, which means you'd get a fraction of that. But even a fraction would cover your brother's debts."

He stopped six feet away. The alarms cut off abruptly, leaving a silence that felt louder.

"The question is," he continued, "why a former PhD candidate in Art History, a woman with no criminal record, no history of theft, no apparent connections to the underground art market, would risk everything for a painting she couldn't hope to sell without being caught."

I found my voice. "How do you know who I am?"

"I know everything about you, Miss Reyes." His tone was conversational, almost pleasant. "Calla Reyes, twenty-six. Former doctoral student at Columbia, specializing in Dutch Golden Age painting. Your thesis on Vermeer's use of light was rather impressive, by the way. Withdrew from the program two years ago when your brother Noah's gambling debts became unmanageable. Your mother passed when you were nineteen. Your father is unknown."

Each word landed like a blow.

"You've been living in a one-bedroom apartment in Washington Heights, working three jobs to keep your brother out of the hands of Dante Corsetti's collectors." He hadn't blinked. "Who sent someone to threaten him two days ago, I believe. Gave you a week to come up with $300,000 you couldn't possibly have."

"How..."

"Money makes information easy to acquire." He tilted his head slightly. "What made you think you could steal from me?"

I should have been planning my escape. Should have been calculating the distance to the door, the likelihood of reaching it before security arrived. Instead, I stood there holding a three-million-dollar painting and told the truth.

"I was desperate. And I thought your security had gaps."

"It does. I left them there deliberately."

The words took a moment to penetrate. "What?"

"I knew you'd come, Miss Reyes. I've known since the day you started your preliminary research on my collection." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "You were clumsy about it. Leaving digital footprints everywhere. Anyone with my resources could have tracked you."

"Then why didn't you stop me?"

"Because I wanted to see what you'd do. How far you'd go." He stepped closer, close enough now that I could smell his cologne, sandalwood and something bitter underneath. "And because I wanted to make you an offer."

My pulse hammered against my ribs. "What offer?"

"The kind you can't refuse." He pulled a folded document from his jacket pocket. "Your brother owes Dante Corsetti $300,000. If he doesn't pay within the week, Dante's men will kill him. You don't have the money. Your only option was this, a theft that would have failed even if I hadn't been waiting."

"Get to the point."

"I'll pay your brother's debts. Tonight. By morning, Dante Corsetti will have his money and Noah will be free."

The relief was so intense I nearly dropped the painting. "Why would you do that?"

"Because in exchange, you're going to give me something."

"I don't have anything you want."

"That's where you're wrong." He took another step, and now we were close enough to touch. "I want you."

I stepped back before I knew I was moving. "I'm not a prostitute."

"I'm not looking for a prostitute." His voice was cold enough to freeze blood. "I'm looking for a personal assistant. Someone competent, educated, and sufficiently... motivated to do exactly as I say."

"A personal assistant."

"For one year. You'll live in this house. You'll work at my side. You'll follow my rules, attend the functions I require you to attend, and perform whatever duties I assign." He produced a pen from his pocket. "In exchange, your brother's debts disappear, you remain free from criminal prosecution, and at the end of the year, you walk away with a substantial severance."

"And if I say no?"

"Then I call the police." His expression didn't change. "And when they arrive, they'll find not only tonight's attempted theft but evidence of three others you've allegedly committed over the past two years. Fabricated evidence, of course, but extremely convincing. You'll spend the next decade in prison while your brother is killed by loan sharks you couldn't save him from."

The room tilted.

"Those are your choices, Miss Reyes." He held out the pen. "One year of service, or ten years in prison. What will it be?"

I looked at the pen. At the document. At the cold, calculating face of the man who'd just destroyed every option I had.

I took the pen.

"Good," he said. "You're mine for 365 days. Starting now."

The contract was twenty-three pages long.

I signed every one of them in Sebastian Black's private study, under the watchful eye of his head of security, a broad-shouldered man named Marcus who looked like he could snap me in half without breaking a sweat.

The terms were exactly as described: one year of personal service, residence in his estate, duties to be determined at his discretion. Failure to comply would result in immediate termination and the release of all fabricated evidence to authorities. Successful completion would result in the destruction of said evidence and a severance package of $100,000.

Also included: a confidentiality clause that prevented me from discussing the arrangement with anyone, a non-contact provision regarding my brother (I could communicate with him only with Sebastian's explicit permission), and a behavioral code that gave him the right to restrict my movements, my communications, and my personal freedoms "as necessary for the fulfillment of the contract."

It was, essentially, legalized slavery.

And I had no choice but to sign.

When the last page was completed, Sebastian collected the documents with the efficiency of a man who'd done this before. Had he? Were there others? The thought made my skin crawl.

"Marcus will show you to your quarters," he said. "Your belongings will be collected from your apartment tomorrow. You may call your brother now, one call, supervised, to inform him that you've taken a position that requires you to live on-site. You will not mention the circumstances."

"And if he asks questions?"

"Lie." His gaze didn't waver. "You're good at that, apparently. You convinced yourself you could pull off a heist tonight."

The cruelty was casual, almost offhand. This was a man who'd learned to wound without raising his voice.

"What about my jobs? My apartment?"

"All handled. Your employers have been notified of your resignation. Your lease will be terminated at the end of the month." He tucked the contract into a safe and spun the dial. "You belong to me now, Miss Reyes. The sooner you accept that, the easier this year will be."

I wanted to rage at him. Wanted to throw something, scream, fight back with everything I had.

Instead, I just nodded.

I'd lost before I started. The only move left was endurance.

My "quarters" turned out to be a suite on the third floor. Bedroom, sitting room, private bathroom, and a view of the extensive gardens that surrounded the estate. Beautiful, in that cold, calculated way that everything here seemed to be beautiful.

The door locked from the outside.

"Mr. Black's orders," Marcus said, not unkindly. "Between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m., you'll be confined to your rooms. For your safety, he says."

For his control, I thought.

"Your phone." Marcus held out his hand. "You'll receive a new one tomorrow with approved contacts. This one is now property of Black Industries."

I handed it over without argument. Fighting wouldn't help.

"Breakfast is at seven," he continued. "Mr. Black will see you in his study at eight to discuss your duties. I'd recommend getting some sleep."

"Thank you, Marcus."

He looked at me for a long moment, something almost like sympathy in his expression. "It's not my place to say this. But he's not as bad as he seems."

"Then why does he need to blackmail women into working for him?"

Marcus didn't answer. He just closed the door, and I heard the lock engage with a soft click.

I stood alone in my beautiful prison.

The quiet pressed in from every side.

At 2 a.m., I finally allowed myself to cry.

Not for myself, I'd signed away the right to self-pity the moment I'd agreed to this arrangement. But for Noah, who would never know what his debts had cost me. For my mother, who would have been horrified to see her daughter brought so low. For the girl I'd been before tonight, who'd still believed that life could be fair.

That girl was gone now.

In her place was someone new. Someone harder. Someone who'd learned that survival sometimes meant surrender.

I wiped my tears and lay down on the expensive sheets in the locked room of a man who owned me.

365 days.

I could survive anything for 365 days.

I had to.