The three a.m. rain battered the glass curtain wall of Black Group's headquarters, like shards of broken glass cascading down. Ella clutched the crumpled debt list, her knuckles whitening with the force of her grip. The ink along the edges had bled from the rain, turning the number "300,000 euros" into a smudged black blur—much like the bottomless despair coiling in her chest.
Her father's clock workshop had been sealed by the court overnight. The oak counter that held her entire childhood, the antique pendulum clock on the wall, the workbench her father always said "could hear time breathing"—all were now set to be auctioned off as collateral. Worse, the call from the emergency room had come just half an hour earlier: her father had suffered a sudden cerebral hemorrhage, and the surgery fees needed to be paid immediately, or he wouldn't even get a spot in the operating room.
The rain intensified. Ella took a ragged breath and pushed through the revolving doors of the headquarters. The receptionist's gaze lingered on her with obvious scrutiny—her faded denim jacket, canvas shoes spattered with mud, a stark contrast to the cold palace of marble and metal surrounding them.
"I need to see Mr. Sebastian Black," she said, her voice tight with nerves.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No, but I have to see him. It's about… a debt."
The receptionist smiled politely, but the refusal was unmissable. "Mr. Black doesn't see anyone without an appointment. Especially at this hour."
Ella's nails dug into her palm, and the metallic tang of blood hit her tongue. Suddenly, she remembered her father mentioning that Sebastian handled documents in his private top-floor office every Wednesday morning. She dodged the security guard trying to intercept her, darting into the elevator like a shadow chased by the wind. As the doors slid shut, she jabbed the button for the top floor.
The elevator mirror reflected her dishevelment: rain-soaked hair clinging to her cheeks, the silver nightingale pendant her mother had left her digging into her skin. The cold metal was a strange comfort. It was her mother's keepsake, said to be identical to one owned by a long-dead noble lady. Her father had always insisted it brought "luck in desperation."
Ding—
The doors slid open, and the sharp scent of expensive cedar filled the air, mingling with leather and old books. The office door at the end of the corridor stood ajar, spilling cool white light. Ella walked forward, her heart hammering so loud it felt like it might burst through her ribs. Each step was like treading on shards.
The moment she pushed the door open, a piercing gaze shot toward her from behind the desk.
The man sat behind a massive ebony desk, a lit cigar between his fingers, two buttons of his shirt undone to reveal a sharp, angular collarbone. His hair was a deep linen color, gleaming coldly under the light, and his gray-blue eyes—like ice in the depths of the Baltic—fixed on her without warmth.
It was Sebastian Black. More imposing than in the financial magazines, as if he controlled every breath in the room, even the light bending to his will.
"Who let you in?" His voice was low, with the command of someone born to power, yet not quite angry—more like stating a mistake that needed immediate correction.
Ella clutched the debt list, her trembling finally seeping into her words: "Mr. Black, I'm Ella White. My father is—"
"White Clock Workshop. Debts totaling 310,000 euros. Collateral valuation insufficient. First auction at nine this morning." He cut her off, his tone as flat as reading an irrelevant report. "And your father's surgery consent form? The hospital just emailed it over."
Ella's head snapped up, her shock evident. He raised a faint eyebrow, seemingly pleased by her reaction—this air of total control, as natural to him as breathing.
"I know you need money," Sebastian said, rising to his feet and moving to the floor-to-ceiling window. His back was straight as a pine, but with the isolation of a lone wolf. The city beyond the rain shrank into a blur of light beneath him. "But Ms. White, there's no such thing as a free lunch."
Ella's voice held its last shred of defiance: "I'll work to pay it back. Ten years, twenty… I can repair clocks. I'll take any job in any of your businesses. Just save my father—"
"I don't need a clock repairer." His gaze flickered to her neck, lingering on the silver nightingale pendant. For a split second, his gray-blue eyes narrowed, a flash too quick to catch.
He returned to the desk, pulling a document from the drawer and tossing it in front of her.
"Sign it."
Ella picked it up, her fingers shaking harder. The title read Exclusive Companionship Agreement. The clauses were cold, one after another: Party B (Ella White) must unconditionally comply with Party A (Sebastian Black)'s schedule for the next six months, including but not limited to attending social events, residing in his designated residence, and abiding by his rules. In return, he would cover all her father's medical expenses, erase the White family's debts, and pay her a "service fee" of 50,000 euros monthly.
The final bolded clause burned like a hot iron: During the agreement, Party B shall not have contact with any male beyond professional bounds, shall not leave Party A's sight without permission, and shall not… fall in love with Party A.
"What is this?" Ella's voice wavered—not from fear, but humiliation. This wasn't employment. It was imprisonment.
Sebastian stepped toward her, towering over her, his shadow swallowing her whole. His gaze dropped to the pendant again, his Adam's apple bobbing almost imperceptibly.
"A deal," he said, his finger brushing her jaw. The cold touch made her flinch. "You trade six months of your time for your father's life. And that dilapidated workshop of yours." He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at his lips. "Or walk out now. Watch your father's workbench get sold at auction at nine. And pick up his death notice afterward."
Ella stared into his gray-blue eyes, seeing no mercy, no hesitation—only cold calculation and unshakable control. She knew she had no choice.
The rain still beat against the glass, counting down the seconds to the death of her freedom. Ella picked up the pen. A drop of ink fell on the signature line, like congealed blood.
When the last letter of "Ella White" hit the page, Sebastian's lips curved into a faint, fleeting smile.
"Good," he said, picking up the agreement. His finger tapped the note she'd missed: Additional Clause: During the agreement, Party B must wear this pendant at all times.
"From now on, you're mine."
Outside, the rain had stopped. A faint ray of dawn pierced the clouds, catching the silver nightingale at her throat, glinting like a trapped spark. It flickered on and off—like a bird that had strayed into a thicket of thorns, its wings already tangled in invisible nets, yet still fluttering, waiting for a dawn that might never come.