PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

POV: Aurelle

I used to have a good life. The kind people write about in college essays—the kind that makes scholarship committees nod and say, “overcame adversity.”

Aunt May was a teacher who packed me extra sandwiches even when I said I wasn’t hungry. She cut the crusts off until I was sixteen. Uncle Zach was a doctor who checked my fever at 2:00 AM, even after twelve-hour shifts. They chose me when I was seven—orphaned, scared, and small in a courthouse room that smelled of industrial bleach. They never once made me feel like I was borrowed. They made me feel chosen.

And then there was Sythe.

Sythe Andre. My boyfriend since high school. The boy with big dreams, bigger risks, and a smile that could talk his way out of anything.

I warned him. I begged him.

“No more loans, Sythe. Please. Not again.”

He’d pull me into his arms, kissing my forehead like I was the only thing grounding him, and say, *“This is the last one, Elle. I promise. This will change everything.”*

I believed him. I always believed him.

Three nights ago, Sythe’s final business venture collapsed. It wasn't the first. There had been a delivery startup that ran out of gas money in month two. A crypto project that “the market crashed.” An import company that got seized at customs. A dozen promises that were supposed to change our lives, each failing harder than the last. Each failure came with another investor, another sharp-suited shadow, and another debt that got passed up the chain until it landed in one place.

Until there was only one creditor left. Morgan Voss.

Sythe didn’t owe him $100. He didn’t owe him $1,000. He owed him $2.4 million. The number didn’t even sound real when the lawyer said it. It sounded like a movie—something that happened to other people, not to a girl working part-time as a nanny to pay tuition.

The little girl I nannied, Vanya, was five. She had tangled curls and blue eyes like mine, and she trusted too easily. She was the only reason I took that job. For two hours a day, I got to pretend my life wasn't falling apart.

The men who came to our door didn’t ask for money. They didn’t yell. They just stood there in the rain, clad in black, and handed Aunt May a piece of black cardstock with gold lettering: *“His hand. Or you.”*

Sythe didn't fight for me. He didn't even look my way. He just pointed at me, his face pale and cold, and told the men that I was the one they wanted. He traded me like a piece of collateral to settle his own disaster.

The room went silent. Then, Morgan Voss stepped out from behind them. He didn’t look at Sythe. He looked at me for three agonizing seconds—long enough to see everything I was terrified to lose.

Then he said, his voice low and final: *“The girl. She’ll pay the debt.”*

That is how I became property. That is how my life was signed away on paper I wasn’t allowed to read.

Velvet chains. Soft on the outside. Unbreakable on the inside.

And the worst part? When I looked at Morgan Voss, I didn’t see a monster.

I saw a man who looked tired of being one.

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