Bought By The Coldhearted Media Mogul

The numbers on the screen were red. Not just a dull, rusty red, but a vibrant, screaming crimson that seemed to pulse against the cracked glass of Cinthia's phone. Negative four hundred and twelve dollars.

She sat on the edge of her mattress, the springs groaning in protest, and stared at the banking app. Outside the thin walls of the Brooklyn apartment, a siren wailed, growing louder and then fading, a Doppler effect of someone else's tragedy passing her by. Her tragedy was right here, stationary and suffocating.

Her chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a belt around her ribs and pulled it one notch too far. She closed the app, only to open it again three seconds later, hoping for a glitch. The negative sign remained.

Then the phone vibrated.

The name "Carter" flashed on the screen.

Cinthia's stomach twisted into a hard knot. She didn't want to answer. Every time Carter called after 10 PM, it wasn't to ask how her day was. It was to ask for money she didn't have, or to tell her about a problem she couldn't fix. Her thumb hovered over the decline button.

The phone stopped buzzing. Silence returned to the room, heavy and thick.

Two seconds later, it started again.

She pressed answer.

"Cinthia!"

The scream pierced her eardrum. It wasn't a word; it was a raw sound of terror.

"Carter? What-"

"You have to come! Now! The Onyx! They're going to kill me, Cinthia! Or call the cops! If the cops come, I'm done. Aunt Linda will kill me if I go back inside!"

Background noise flooded the line. Glass shattering. A woman's high-pitched, hysterical shrieking. A deep voice shouting something about security.

"Carter, slow down. The Onyx? That's a private club in Manhattan. How did you even-"

"Just come! Bring the credit card! The emergency one!"

The line went dead.

Cinthia stared at the phone. The emergency card had a limit of five hundred dollars. It was for medical emergencies for their younger brother, Casey. Not for whatever hell Carter had unleashed in a club where a glass of water cost more than her shoes.

She stood up. Her legs felt heavy, like she was wading through wet cement. She grabbed her trench coat from the hook-the beige one with the missing button she had been meaning to sew back on for three months.

She ran out the door, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. In the hallway, she nearly tripped over a bag of trash a neighbor had left out. The smell of rotting banana peels and stale beer hit her, grounding her in the reality of her life.

She couldn't let Carter go to jail. Not because he didn't deserve it-God knew he did-but because if he went to jail, the debt collectors would turn their full attention to her and Aunt Linda. And Aunt Linda didn't handle stress well. She handled it with screaming matches and thrown plates.

Cinthia hailed a cab on the corner. It was a miracle one stopped. She gave the driver the address, her voice trembling.

Thirty minutes later, the cab pulled up to The Onyx.

It looked like a fortress. Black stone, minimal signage, a velvet rope that seemed to judge her net worth and find it lacking.

Cinthia paid the driver, her hands shaking as she handed over the cash. It was her grocery money for the week.

She walked up to the entrance. The bouncer was a mountain of a man in a suit that cost more than her entire wardrobe. He crossed his arms, his eyes scanning her cheap coat and messy hair.

"Members only," he rumbled.

"My brother is inside," Cinthia said. Her voice sounded thin, swallowed by the city noise. "Carter Wise. He... he called me."

The bouncer's expression shifted. It wasn't kindness. It was a smirk. A cruel, knowing twist of the lips.

"Ah. The Wise kid." He unhooked the velvet rope. "Go on in. They're waiting for someone to clean up the mess."

Cinthia didn't ask what he meant. She stepped past him, pushing open the heavy mahogany doors.

The air inside changed instantly. The humidity of the street was replaced by a dry, conditioned chill. The smell of exhaust vanished, overtaken by the scent of aged leather, expensive scotch, and a perfume so floral it made her nose itch.

She followed the sound of shouting down a dimly lit corridor.

She pushed open the double doors at the end of the hall.

The VIP room was a disaster zone.

A crystal chandelier hung above a scene of absolute chaos. A glass coffee table lay in shards on the Persian rug. Amber liquid soaked into the intricate patterns of the wool.

And there was Carter.

Her brother was on his knees. His shirt was torn open, buttons missing. There were three long, red scratches running down his cheek, oozing blood. He looked pathetic. Small.

"You rapist!"

The scream came from a woman standing on the pristine leather sofa. She was beautiful in a terrifying way-blonde hair perfectly disheveled, a silver dress that clung to her like a second skin. Yvette Quinton. Cinthia recognized her from the tabloids Giana read at the office.

"I didn't!" Carter sobbed, his hands raised in surrender. "She invited me in! She said-"

"Liar!" Yvette screeched. She grabbed a heavy crystal ashtray from the side table and hurled it.

It missed Carter's head by inches and smashed into the wall behind him.

Cinthia froze in the doorway. Her brain couldn't process the violence. It was too raw, too fast.

Then, she saw him.

In the far corner of the room, seated in a high-backed leather armchair, was a man.

He was in the shadows, but his presence filled the room more than Yvette's screaming or Carter's sobbing. He held a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, resting it casually on the arm of the chair. He wasn't looking at the drama. He was looking at the amber liquid in his glass, swirling it gently.

Adrian Clemons.

Cinthia's breath hitched. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

It was him. The CEO of Clemons Media Group. Her boss's boss's boss. The man whose face was on the cover of Forbes in the lobby of the building where she worked as a junior executive assistant.

He looked bored.

While her brother was bleeding and a socialite was throwing furniture, Adrian Clemons looked like he was waiting for a tedious commercial break to end.

Cinthia forced her legs to move. She rushed to Carter, dropping to her knees beside him. The glass shards bit into her jeans.

"Carter," she whispered, grabbing his arm. "What did you do?"

"Cinthia!" Carter grabbed her hand, his grip painful. "Tell them! Tell them I'm not like that!"

Yvette jumped down from the sofa. She marched over, her heels stabbing into the rug. She shoved Cinthia hard.

"Who the hell are you?" Yvette spat.

Cinthia stumbled back but kept her balance. "I'm his sister. Please, just tell me what happened. We can fix this."

"Fix this?" Yvette laughed. It was a sharp, brittle sound. "Your trash brother tried to rip my dress off!"

"You pulled me in here!" Carter yelled back, his voice cracking. "You said you wanted to make him jealous!" He pointed a shaking finger toward the corner.

Toward Adrian.

At the mention of his involvement, Adrian finally moved.

He stopped swirling his drink. He lifted his head.

His eyes were dark, almost black in the dim light. They swept over the room, cold and precise as a scalpel. They passed over Yvette, over Carter, and landed on Cinthia.

There was no recognition. Why would there be? To him, she was just a pixel in the background of his empire. But the look he gave her wasn't blank. It was filled with a profound, exhausted disgust.

He set the glass down on the side table. The sound of the heavy crystal hitting the wood was quiet, but it silenced the room instantly.

"Clean this trash out," Adrian said. His voice was low, a baritone that vibrated in the floorboards.

Two security guards stepped out from the shadows near the door. They moved toward Carter.

"No!" Carter scrambled back on his hands and knees. "Mr. Clemons, please! It's a misunderstanding! It's not me!"

The guard grabbed Carter by the collar of his torn shirt.

"It's her!" Carter screamed, pointing at Cinthia. "She set it up! My sister! She told me to come here! She wanted money!"

Cinthia felt the blood drain from her face. The room spun. She looked at her brother, at the desperation twisting his features. He was selling her out. To save his own skin, he was throwing her to the wolves.

"Carter..." she breathed, the word barely audible.

Yvette saw an opening. She grabbed a silver ice bucket from the bar cart. "You little schemer!"

She swung the bucket at Carter.

Cinthia didn't think. It was instinct, honed by years of stepping in between her aunt and her brothers. She lunged forward.

"Stop!"

She threw her body in front of Carter.

The heavy bucket didn't hit her, but Yvette's momentum did. Yvette crashed into Cinthia, sending her stumbling sideways.

Cinthia's foot caught on the thick edge of the rug. She flailed, her arms grasping for purchase.

She fell.

Not toward the floor.

She fell directly toward the armchair in the corner. Toward the man who was watching them with the cold detachment of a god watching insects drown.