2: Watcher Behind the Glass

Bastian Ferretti stood there, a silhouette with arms crossed, gazing at the girl on the stage.

She never raised her head. That was good. She never met his eyes, never twitched, never fought, and never showed even an inch of resistance. Just the way he liked it: clean, quiet, and simple.

He had no business being here for a show; no business being here for fantasy. This was a serious operation: a contract, a name added to a list, and a signature binding her father for ninety days. No sentiment. Just control.

The room was infused with the scent of old money and muted secrets. The air grew thicker with cigar fumes, mingling with an almost unnatural chill—a cold that hides beneath your skin and dwells there permanently. The chandeliers were dimly lit casting just enough glow for elongated shadows to frolic along the walls. Heavy curtains attempted to gild the place, but even in their scheme for grandeur, they couldn't hide what it truly was.

Bastian was old school in this environment. He had walked these walls more times than he cared to count. He knew how strange the air felt the deeper you went. The silence was not calm; it churned with power, making you feel so small. It listened and it spoke. After a while, you ceased to be surprised by anything.

He moved to a different spot, his shoes making no sound. The crowd continued murmuring behind him, like the gently moving, soft waves of the ocean. Men in sharp suits stared at the stage, not kindly, but as if they were already gambling. Some whispered numbers. Others chuckled in a way that suggested they owned too much and cared too little.

The girl, the file had said, was young—an awkward amount of youth to already bear such brokenness in her shoulders. In that white dress, she stood still, sweat clinging to her skin, her hands dropping as if even those limbs had already given up.

He watched her, but there was no desire curling in his chest. There was something else, something softer, something more than before. She reminded him of someone. Was it because she didn't cry? Or because she stood frozen but not defeated? At least not yet.

She was scared. He could feel it, smell it. And maybe this was the last thing that truly bothered him: that fear, the way it didn't develop overnight. It was trained into you, rehearsed. And, worse, granted permission.

He took a breath and reminded himself: this is business. A transaction. Nothing more. Not a damn thing more.

"Pretty thing like her?" came a voice, low and close. "Rare catch."

Bastian turned to find Marco watching him with a crooked smile, his fedora lowered. Marco was one of his best men. And easily the most reckless.

"She's not a catch," Bastian said darkly. "She's a contract."

Marco raised an eyebrow. "You collecting... or protecting?"

"Don't start," Bastian snapped. "I paid to make my point. Her father owed. I'm collecting, that's all."

Marco snickered, the kind of laugh that barely touched his lips. "Still sounds like you care, boss."

Bastian offered no response. He didn't need to. Marco held his stare for a second longer before shrugging. "Car's ready," he said. "Are you sure you want to go with this one? She's not like the others."

Bastian's jaw clenched. "Every contract has strings. I cut through them."

He stepped back from the edge of the viewing area, the smoke drifting around his thoughts. For a fleeting moment, he thought of his estate beyond the city, that modest house with stone floors and tall windows where nothing ever felt warm. He called it home, but only out of convenience.

That was where Anaya would be taken for ninety days. This was not her decision, he knew. Not his either. This was an agreement he had with a father so desperate or selfish that he didn't care what it meant.

A father who had something to hide or something to gain. Bastian didn't care which.

A woman's voice broke into his isolation—crisp, measured, familiar.

"Mr Ferretti."

Bastian turned to watch Sofia approaching, her gait graceful, each step timed. She was always ten seconds ahead of everyone else in the room, and he had kept her close.

"They cleared the back room," she said. "The papers are on the table. The father already signed. We are only waiting on you."

He nodded once.

"Bring it."

Sofia waved to one of the guards, and shortly, he appeared before them with a briefcase. The handoff was smooth and professional, just the way Bastian preferred it.

He opened the case and skimmed the details, and didn't bother to pretend there was any enthusiasm. He'd already read it a few days prior. Now it was just a formality.

Ninety days, supervision, silence. No interference from the girl's family. No chance of exit until the terms of the agreement were met.

Bastian picked up a pen and signed; the ink flowed without a hitch across the document.

He sealed it and handed it to Sofia. "Don't forget to deliver a copy to legal."

She nodded, but then hesitated.

"You know, she reminds me of..." Sofia said, her voice lower this time. It didn't sound like teasing; more like a subtle observation.

Bastian's eyes flicked to her face sharply.

"It doesn't matter," he said bluntly.

Still, if she even creates that hint of relation..."

"It will be clean." Bastian cut in.

Sofia tilted her head and showed him a slight frown. "Will it?"

On reflex, Bastian's jaw tightened.

"I'll make it so."

She offered him the faintest smile and stepped back. "Of course you will, Mr Ferretti."

He turned his back to the stairs, and she didn't follow. Years of working with him had taught her not to press him when the tone of his voice dropped like that.

As he ascended the stairs, the noise from the auction faded away, replaced by the cold stillness of business. He was walking into a situation that was necessary yet not unfamiliar. Contracts work like chains; you have to be the one who holds the key.

Bastian paused at the top of the steps. He gripped the banister, his gaze lingering a bit too long; not that it meant anything.

There was something about the girl.

Anya Castellanos.

She hadn't said a word, and he hadn't even seen her move much, but her restraint held a sharp intensity.

She had brought something with her; not fight, not rebellion. He could sense the fire inside her, suppressed, but very much alive.

Still, part of him felt tense deep inside, a place he rarely explored.

He didn't want to identify the reason for that tension, not yet. But it didn't matter.

The deal was done. Her father had handed her off like a receipt.

Bastian had no use for her beyond the message. She would stay in his house, closely watched and patiently kept. Her father owed and this was the cost.

He had already buried the feelings that had begun to surface, locking them down so tightly that they were out of reach.

Now, all he had to do was wait.

The girl would arrive.

The clock would start.

And she would be gone by day ninety.

But just before he turned away—just before the door closed behind him—he spoke to no one in particular:

"Get me the footage. The auction. Her part only."

Sofia stiffened.

That had never happened before.