Chapter 1

Six years I gave Damien Krest. He gave me back a contract — three years as his secret mistress, on call like a damn escort.

I thought it was a prenup. I'd already picked up the pen, ready to sign.

But the words staring back at me read: Mistress Agreement.

Three-year term. On call at all times. Renewed upon satisfaction.

My fingers tremble. "Damien, what the hell is this?"

He lights a cigarette without looking up, his tone lazy and cruel.

"The family's been pushing. The Don arranged a match — someone from the right bloodline. I have to get married."

"Then what about me?" My voice comes out raw.

He glances up, smiling like he doesn't have a heart. "Baby, let's be fair here."

"Your old man walked out on you and your mom, then limped back when his liver gave out , and you held his hand. Your ex drained your accounts and ghosted , and you still paid off his bookies. So don’t stand there looking at me like I’m the villain."

"All I'm asking is for you to become my side piece. That's not unreasonable, is it?"

…

The terms are printed in black and white, each clause more blinding than the last.

"Party B must be available on demand and shall not inquire about Party A's whereabouts."

"Party B shall not display affection toward Party A in public."

"Should Party B become pregnant, she must handle it on her own…"

I stare at that last line. My hand drifts to my stomach without thinking. My fingers are ice cold.

Damien leans back on the couch, exhaling smoke.

His gaze lands on me, light as air.

"Sign it." He flicks ash off the cigarette. "What are you waiting for?"

I set the contract down.

My voice shakes with fury. "Damien… we've been together for six years."

"And?" He smiles. "Six years, and you still never made it through the front door, did you?"

That sentence is a knife — aimed right at the place I'm most afraid to touch.

He's right. Six years.

He brought me to every family gathering, every gala.

But the introduction was always "my assistant."

Maybe his mother sensed something. More than once she hinted: "You should really think about settling down, dear. It only gets harder as a woman gets older."

I thought she was pushing for our wedding.

Turns out she was just giving me a polite nudge toward the exit.

"Then what were these six years?" I ask.

Damien stubs out his cigarette, stands, and walks over to me.

"They were mutual."

He reaches out, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "Ivy, you stayed with me six years. I took care of you for six years. That little paycheck of yours , how many times would it have covered your dad's medical bills? And those tens of thousands your ex owed the loan sharks, didn't you pay that off with my card?"

He pauses, then smiles. "Baby, be fair. You had no problem using me. Now I'm using you. It's an even trade."

My eyes burn, but not a single tear falls.

He never said these things before. But that doesn't mean they aren't true.

My father did abandon us. Then he got old and sick and came crawling back.

I'm pathetic — too soft-hearted. I spent every penny I had keeping him alive.

As for my ex…

He was nobody. A guy I dated for one month before we split over "incompatibility."

I only found out he'd stolen my identity to take out loans when the sharks showed up at my office.

Damien stepped in and made it go away.

I know I owe him. I just didn't know he was keeping score.

"So," I push his hand away, "you're saying these six years meant nothing to you? I was just an investment?"

Damien laughs. "Not quite. What kind of investment value could you possibly have?"

He pulls out a bank card and sets it beside the contract.

"There's five million in here. Sign, and it's yours."

"Be my mistress for three years. After that, you want to renew, we renew. You don't — the money's still yours."

I stare at the card.

Five million.

Enough to pay off every debt I owe — but not enough to buy me.

That sentence rolls around my throat three times. I never say it.

Because I think of my father's care facility fees.

If I don't pay by next week, they'll send him back to me.

Damien knows I can't afford it.

That's why he can toss that card in front of me so casually.

Like throwing a bone. Waiting for me to gnaw on it.

"Well?" He watches me hesitate, then lights another cigarette. "Not enough?"

I don't speak.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. Six years with me? Half a mil is a little low.” He blows smoke in my face; it stings my eyes. "But that's the rate I pay a mistress. Not a girlfriend. Your current status — that's what it's worth."

He pauses, then smiles. "Of course, you don't have to sign. But if you don't, you can't stay in this apartment either."

My heart feels like someone's squeezing it in a fist.

Six years together. I always thought of this place as home.

The succulents on the balcony , I grew them one by one. The spice rack in the kitchen , arranged exactly how I like it.

The nightstand always held a photo of us together.

I thought this was our home…

Turns out I was just a tenant who could be evicted at any time.