Chapter 3: Pawn and Prize

My family used to be well-off.

We lived in a brick ranch on a cul-de-sac, lawn always mowed, fridge always stocked. Sunday afternoons meant iced tea on the porch and the hum of cicadas. It wasn’t wealth, but it was comfort—the kind of ease I thought would never end.

We weren’t rich, but at least we never worried about food or clothing.

There were Christmas mornings stacked with gifts and summers at the lake. I never wondered about bills—until, suddenly, I did.

Everything changed when I was eighteen.

The world crashed down in slow motion. Calls from creditors. Shouted arguments behind closed doors. My adoptive father’s shoulders hunched deeper each day.

My adoptive father’s business ran into trouble and was on the verge of bankruptcy.

The family store closed, the sign in the window faded and crooked. We pawned what we could, but it was never enough. The bank’s letters piled up like snowdrifts.

He begged many people, but no one was willing to help.

I watched him work the phones, pride slipping away call by call. Old friends stopped answering. Even distant relatives disappeared.

So, he set his sights on me.

It happened over a dinner of cold leftovers, his voice tight, eyes refusing to meet mine. I knew what he wanted before he said it.

He gave me photos of four men and told me to pick one.

The images were glossy, the men all strangers—except for the one whose eyes seemed to burn through the photograph. My hands shook as I laid the photos out, picking the only one who looked young, strong, unbroken.

I picked Derek at a glance.

He was different—still young, sharp jaw, a kind of danger in his eyes that made my heart stutter. He looked like someone who wouldn’t ask questions. Someone who wouldn’t judge me for being desperate.

He had strong features and good looks, in his twenties and kept himself fit—he stood out among the other men in their forties and fifties.

The choice was clear. I tried not to think about what it meant.

My adoptive father nodded, and after learning that Derek was going out on a fishing trip, pulled some strings to send me to his bed.

I felt like a pawn on a chessboard, pushed from square to square by hands bigger than mine. The drive to the marina was silent; the only sound was my heartbeat drumming in my ears.

That night, I was terrified.

The room smelled like salt and whiskey, the ocean wind rattling the windows. I sat on the edge of the bed, hands clamped tight in my lap, wishing for a miracle that would never come.

But I had no choice.

Hope was a luxury I couldn’t afford. It was either him, or the unknown—something worse, something I couldn’t bear to imagine.

If I couldn’t win him over, my adoptive father would send me to other wealthy families, maybe even to married men.

He’d made it clear: if Derek said no, there were others who wouldn’t. The threat hung over me, heavy and suffocating.

So, I tore off my clothes and, trembling, wrapped my arms around Derek’s neck.

I moved on autopilot, tears blurring my vision. My breath came in hiccups as I tried to be brave—to do what was expected of me.

He was resistant at first, wanting to throw me out.

His hands were cold, voice sharp. He tried to push me away, but I clung tighter, desperation making me reckless.

But I cried and begged him, nervously and clumsily kissing his lips and neck.

I’d never felt so exposed, so small. My words were half-pleas, half-apologies, dissolving into the hollow of his throat.

He’d never been with a woman before and just froze.

His surprise was palpable, his breath coming in shallow bursts. We were both lost, both grasping for something neither of us understood.

After a long, stiff moment, he finally cupped my face and wiped my tears with his fingertips.

His thumb was gentle, tracing salt tracks down my cheek. I felt something shift—a crack in the armor he always wore.

"Don’t cry. I’ll try to be gentle."

His voice was low, rough—almost tender. For the first time that night, I felt less like a commodity, more like a person.

That night is still vivid in my memory.

Every detail burned into my brain—the sound of the rain, the hush of his voice, the feel of his hands. I replayed it for years after, trying to find meaning in the chaos.

He took me over and over, brushing my sweat-soaked hair aside, his gentle kisses trailing over my body.

There was hunger, yes, but also a strange kindness. It was the first time I’d ever felt wanted, even if only for a night.

The next morning, I woke up in his arms.

The sunlight fell across our tangled bodies, the air thick with the scent of salt and sex. For a moment, I let myself believe in the illusion of safety.

He’d already investigated me. He knew I was the adopted daughter of the Carter family, and why I’d approached him.

He was always three steps ahead—never one to be surprised. I realized then I could never truly fool him.

He asked me coolly, "Natalie, do you want to stay with me?"

He didn’t say love, didn’t promise forever. Just a deal—a contract written in the spaces between his words.

"For three years. In return, I’ll invest in your adoptive father’s business—enough to get him through this."

I nodded, because what else could I do? My options were running out, and this was the best I could hope for.

I had no reason to refuse.

Relief flooded me, weak and dizzying. For a while, it felt like maybe things would be okay.

I just breathed a sigh of relief, forgetting that he’d used the word "stay."

It wasn’t love—it was survival. But I clung to it anyway, because at least it was something.

The years with Derek were actually pretty good.

They were easy, in their own strange way. We fell into a rhythm—work, dinners, the quiet nights when the world seemed to shrink to just the two of us.

In bed and out, we were compatible.

We moved together like two sides of a coin—never quite touching, but never truly apart.

He liked to blindfold me with his tie and lean down to nibble my ear.

There was a playfulness to him in private—a side no one else saw. It was a secret world, just ours.

Every time he came back from a business trip, he’d bring me piles of luxury goods and hold me until dawn.

Suitcases overflowing with French perfume, handbags in every color. Sometimes, he’d just pull me close and say nothing, letting silence speak for him.

Once, he was invited to a gala. I wanted to go too, and begged him for ages.

I twirled in front of his mirror, pouting until he laughed and relented. He taught me the steps, over and over, until I had them memorized.

He finally agreed, pulling me to practice in front of the living room windows in the middle of the night.

The city lights glimmered outside, music drifting through the speakers. I wore his old college sweatshirt, bare feet on cold tile, spinning in his arms.

Later, I got to go to the gala like I wanted, even picking a dress that matched his, hanging on his arm.

We were a picture-perfect couple, if only for that night. Cameras flashed, people whispered. I felt like I belonged, if just for a moment.

But when people asked about me, he said I was just his new dance partner.

I forced a smile, teeth clenched, as the words stung. The truth was always there, just beneath the surface.

Just a dance partner. Nothing more.

The words echoed in my head all night, making the world tilt and blur.

That night, after we got home, I lost my temper with him for the first time.

I slammed the bedroom door, voice shaking. I demanded answers, threw his tie across the room, tears streaming down my face.

Derek didn’t get angry. He lounged lazily on the sofa, looking at me calmly:

He watched me from across the room, arms folded. There was a kind of patience in him—a willingness to let me burn out on my own.

"Natalie, what are you mad about?"

His voice was soft, almost mocking. He knew exactly what buttons to push.

"You know exactly how you came to me. Don’t tell me you still expect to be my girlfriend?"

The words were a knife, twisting deep. But he was right, in his way. I’d sold my heart, and this was the price.

By then, I’d already been with Derek for three years.

Three years of secrets and half-truths, of pretending I didn’t care when I cared too much. I’d watched the Carter name disappear from mailboxes, watched my own sense of self slip away.

A lot had happened in those three years. My adoptive father died in a car accident, the Carter family fell apart, and I’d long since cut ties with them.

After the funeral, I packed my bags and never looked back. The house was sold, the family scattered. I became an orphan for the second time.

Young and too proud, I hardened my heart and told Derek I wanted official status.

I wanted a title, a reason to stay. I wanted to stop feeling like a secret shame.

If I couldn’t have that, I’d leave him.

I braced myself for a fight, but all he did was sigh, like I was a child asking for something impossible.

He looked a little surprised, then nodded indifferently, saying casually:

"It’s up to you, Nat. Stay or go—your call."

No fireworks, no pleading. Just those words, flat and final. The world felt smaller, colder.

So, I cut off all contact and moved to another city.

The first night in my new place, I cried until the sun came up. I scrubbed every trace of him from my phone, but his ghost followed me everywhere.

Having grown up in comfort, it was only after leaving the Carter family and Derek that I realized how important money was.

No amount of pride could buy groceries or keep the lights on. I learned to ration, to go without, to hustle harder than ever.

With no money, I moved into a cold, damp basement apartment.

It smelled of mildew and regret. The walls sweated, the heater rattled, the mattress sagged. But it was mine.

With no money, I hit walls everywhere and suffered a lot of bullying.

Landlords leered, bosses barked. I learned to swallow my words and keep my head down.

With no money, my youthful spirit was worn down, and I easily accepted Noah’s confession.

His kindness felt like a reprieve, a chance to start over. I let myself believe that maybe, this time, it could be different.

On many quiet, lonely nights, I’d think of Derek.

His memory crept in with the chill, filling the empty spaces in my bed. I’d lie awake, wondering what might have been.

I’d ask myself: If I had another chance, would I still leave Derek?

The answer changed with the seasons—sometimes yes, sometimes no. It depended on how hungry I was, how much I missed being held.

The answer was still yes.

Even as the years passed, I clung to my choice, reminding myself that pride, at least, couldn’t be bought.

No matter how it started, the truth was, I’d fallen in love with him.

I tried to deny it, but it haunted me, lingering in every song on the radio, every couple holding hands in the park.

Because I loved him, I was always hard on this relationship, always having unrealistic fantasies.

I wanted him to fight for me, to declare his love in public, to make me more than just a well-kept secret. But fairy tales weren’t made for girls like me.

Noah’s voice pulled me from my thoughts.

He was always cheerful, always steady. His optimism was a balm, even if it never quite reached my bones.

He looked me up and down and suddenly sighed softly:

"Natalie, you look beautiful tonight."

His gaze was warm, and for a moment, I almost believed him. The music and laughter faded, and the world narrowed to just us.

Ignoring the guests around us, he suddenly pinched my chin, leaned down, and kissed me.

His lips were soft but insistent, the move bold and unexpected. I stiffened, caught off guard, but let him have the moment.

The music reached its climax, and the noisy voices faded away.

It felt like we were suspended in time, the ballroom lights blurring into constellations above our heads.

Then the noise came back, even louder—everyone jeering.

A chorus of whoops and wolf whistles ricocheted through the crowd. I felt my cheeks burn, but Noah only smiled wider.

Noah was always gentle and polite in public, but today he was different. He gripped the back of my head, forced my mouth open, and bit my lower lip until it bled.

His passion surprised me—a little too much, a little too rough. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, and I struggled to breathe.

In his suffocating embrace, I opened my eyes.

The world was spinning. I searched the crowd, looking for an anchor, and found it in the one place I shouldn’t have looked.

Just then, I met Derek’s gaze.

He sat alone at the table, face unreadable. His eyes were twin storm clouds, dark and swirling.

He sat a few steps away, watching us coldly.

His expression was carved from stone, but the knuckles gripping his wine glass were bone white, veins bulging.

His face was as indifferent as ever, but the hand holding his wine glass was veined and tense.

For a split second, I thought he’d say something—do something. But instead…

He turned away, not looking at us anymore.

He stood, slow and deliberate, and walked out of the room without a backward glance.

He got up and left amid the laughter and jeers.

The door swung shut behind him. The laughter faded, replaced by an uneasy silence.