Touched by the Billionaire, Owned by the Devil

The bathroom light flickered when I flipped the switch. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the old refrigerator because Shane was still asleep in the bedroom. I locked the door and sat on the edge of the tub while the cold tile bit through my jeans.

I pulled out my phone and opened the banking app. Zero. My entire paycheck was gone, withdrawn yesterday while I was at work. I refreshed the page, but the screen just blinked at me. I hadn't even logged in since Monday.

I set the phone down and pressed my palms against the cool porcelain. He took it. He wouldn't even mention it. He would just wait to see if I noticed, and then he'd tell me I was wrong or that I owed him. The game was so old I could predict every move, and still I sat here with nothing in my account and a bruise fading on my neck.

I looked at my reflection. Dark circles. Hair that needed washing. The scarf was still tight around my throat, but I pulled it down just enough to check the bruise. Yellow and green edges. Almost gone. I tightened the fabric and grabbed my bag because staring at myself any longer would break something I couldn't afford to break.

The Grand Crescent Hotel sat at the edge of the financial district, and I swiped my badge at the employee entrance. Marcus leaned against the security desk with his coffee, and the moment he saw me, his whole face lit up.

"You look like you could use a vacation," he said, straightening.

"I look like I could use a nap."

"Same thing." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a granola bar. "Emergency rations. You skipped breakfast again."

I took the bar and tucked it into my pocket. "I did not skip breakfast."

"You are lying, and I can always tell." He pointed at me, grinning.

"Fine. I forgot."

"That is what I said." He leaned back, and his eyes flicked to my neck for half a second. "I have never seen you without that scarf. I'm going to start calling you Scarf Girl."

"You're ridiculous." I headed for the elevators while he chuckled behind me, and something about the easy warmth of his teasing settled the tightness in my chest.

The morning passed in a blur of broken minibars and VIP suite restocks. I coordinated with housekeeping while my phone stayed silent in my pocket. No texts from Shane. No demands. The quiet should have been a relief, but it felt like the pause before a storm.

Marcus appeared in the breakroom at noon and set a brown paper bag on the table. "Lunch delivery from the deli on Sixth." He pulled out a chair and sat across from me.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know I didn't, but you looked like you needed a sandwich, and I don't like eating alone." He unwrapped his food with the kind of casual ease that made everything feel normal. Like two friends grabbing lunch. Like my bank account wasn't empty and my husband wasn't waiting at home with flat eyes and a head full of accusations.

I pulled out the turkey sandwich. The bread was still warm. "You eat alone all the time."

"That is a lie. I have my podcasts. Very active social life with them." He chewed, then wiped his mouth with a napkin. "So. How is everything outside work?"

I swallowed and kept my eyes on my plate. "Fine."

"Fine is a loaded word." He tossed his wrapper onto the table.

"It's just a word."

"Sure, but you say it different when you're fine-fine versus fine-not-fine." He stood up, and I stopped chewing. My chest tightened.

"I'm not prying," he said quickly, holding up his hands. "I'm just saying, if you ever need anything, I'm here."

I nodded, and something loosened behind my ribs. "Thank you."

"There we go." He grinned and walked out, leaving the warmth of his words behind.

The afternoon was chaos. A photographer showed up on the VIP floor, and I had to call security to kick him out. Then a guest complained about construction noise for twenty minutes while I stood there nodding and promising solutions I didn't have. By the time I clocked out, my feet were throbbing and my shoulders were locked tight.

Marcus was waiting at his post. "Look who survived." He handed me a cold soda from his stash.

"You're going to spoil me."

"That's the goal." His eyes softened. "Get home safe."

"I will."

I walked out into the cold air. The walk home was the only thing between my work self and my home self. A few blocks where I could just be tired. Where no one was watching or waiting or tallying up my mistakes.

My phone buzzed while I stood at the crosswalk.

'Where is the money I asked you to transfer?' – Shane

I stared at the screen. There was no text like that from him yesterday. I would have remembered. I would have seen it.

I reached my building and climbed the stairs because the elevator was broken again. The hallway smelled like stale cigarettes. I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The apartment was too warm. Beer hung in the air.

Shane sat on the couch with his boots up on the coffee table. He didn't look up from his phone. "I can see that."

I closed the door and set my bag down. "Hey."

Nothing. Just the glow of his screen on his face.

I walked into the kitchen and pulled out a pot. If I didn't cook, he'd ask questions. If I cooked, maybe he'd stay on the couch and let the evening pass without incident.

"Where is my money?" He looked up, and his eyes were flat.

I froze with the pot in my hands. "What?"

"The money I asked you to transfer." He set his phone down, slow and deliberate.

I pulled out my own phone and checked my messages. Nothing. "I didn't get a text." I showed him the screen.

"Bullshit." He stood up, and the space between us shrank to nothing.

"I'm serious." I took a step back because he took up too much room.

"You're lying to me. Hiding money." He stepped closer, and the air tightened around us.

"I don't have any money to hide. You took my entire paycheck." My voice stayed steady, but my heart was slamming against my ribs.

His face shifted. Something dark flickered in his eyes. "Your paycheck." He grabbed my chin and tilted my face up. His thumb pressed into my jaw, and I kept my expression still. I'd learned years ago that reacting only made it last longer.

"I do not like liars." He let go and sat back down. "Make dinner."

I turned and walked to the kitchen. My hands shook as I picked up the knife and started chopping vegetables. The pieces were uneven, and I noticed, but I didn't care. I just needed to get through the next hour.

Shane watched television in the other room. His laugh boomed through the thin walls.

I finished cooking and served the plates. He came to the table and sat down without looking at me. "This is dry." He tapped his fork against the pasta.

"I'm listening."

"Then fix it. Get the sauce."

I stood and walked to the fridge. Pulled out the marinara. Set it on the table. My hand shook against the wood.

"I have to tell you to do everything." He muttered it under his breath and pushed the plate away.

I sat back down and picked up my fork. The metal rattled against the plate. "Sorry the dinner is dry."

He stared at me for a long moment, and then he laughed. "God, look at you. You look like a kicked dog. You're making me feel bad."

I ate while the meal passed in silence. Then I cleared the plates and washed the dishes, standing at the sink with my hands in the hot water, staring out the window at the dark city. The bruise on my neck was almost gone. The money was gone. My husband was on the couch, laughing at something on the screen.

I dried my hands and walked to the bedroom without looking at him. I thought of my life, I would go back to the hotel. Marcus would give me a granola bar and call me Scarf Girl, and for a few hours I would be someone who was good at her job. Someone whose paycheck hadn't been stolen. Someone who wasn't scared of her own husband.