I was a violin prodigy. But to pay my mother’s debts, I was forced to give up everything.

That’s when I met the man who would own me: Dante Moretti.

He was the king of New York's underworld. The Don of the Moretti family.

With a single phone call, fortunes were made. With a single glance, blood was spilled.

The world didn't just bend to his will—it broke.

And on that day… what he wanted was me.

He gave me a five-year contract. A penthouse in a skyscraper overlooking all of New York. More jewels and gowns than I could count.

Every night he needed me, I’d put on whatever lacy thing he picked out. We’d have sex.

Five years. 999 times.

There were moments—his sweat dripping on my forehead, his soft breaths inside me, the way he’d look at me—when I let myself dream he loved me.

Then the video dropped. Him. On the street. Kissing another woman.

I knew the truth. He was my keeper, not my lover.

Everyone laughed. They couldn't wait to see me lose my mind, begging him to keep me.

Instead, I turned my back on him. And married another man.

I was a violin prodigy. But to pay my mother’s debts, I was forced to give up everything.

That’s when I met the man who would own me: Dante Moretti.

He was the king of New York's underworld. The Don of the Moretti family.

With a single phone call, fortunes were made. With a single glance, blood was spilled.

The world didn't just bend to his will—it broke.

And on that day… what he wanted was me.

He gave me a five-year contract. A penthouse in a skyscraper overlooking all of New York. More jewels and gowns than I could count.

Every night he needed me, I’d put on whatever lacy thing he picked out. We’d have sex.

Five years. 999 times.

There were moments—his sweat dripping on my forehead, his soft breaths inside me, the way he’d look at me—when I let myself dream he loved me.

Then the video dropped. Him. On the street. Kissing another woman.

I knew the truth. He was my keeper, not my lover.

Everyone laughed. They couldn't wait to see me lose my mind, begging him to keep me.

Instead, I turned my back on him. And married another man.

...

My keeper, Don Rocco, sent another velvet box.

Inside was a lace teddy, so thin it was like a whisper. Tucked beside it was a pink diamond necklace from a Sotheby's auction. It cost more money than I’d ever see in my life.

I stared at it, my face blank, and dropped it in my jewelry box.

Gifts like this? I’d gotten hundreds over the past five years. They meant nothing to me anymore.

I turned to the calendar on the wall.

Seven days.

Seven days until my five-year contract was up.

I’d already bought a one-way ticket to Austria. Back to my violin, back to my dream.

But first, I had one last act to perform.

The sound of a key in the lock.

I snapped my gaze away from the calendar, forcing a smile. When I turned, I pasted on the sweet, obedient smile he loved most.

Rocco Moretti walked in.

Something was off about him today.

His usual lazy control was gone. He smelled of blood. The thick scent was so strong, not even his expensive cedar cologne could hide it.

"Rocco, you're finally here."

I smiled and glided toward him, taking his coat like I had a thousand times before.

This was the part where he’d give my ass a playful slap and tell me to be a good girl and wait for him in bed.

But today, his gray eyes were ice.

Before I could react, he swept me off my feet. He was holding me with one arm, heading straight for the bathroom.

"Rocco?" I gasped, my arms flying around his neck.

As he walked, he unbuttoned his shirt with his free hand.

Buttons popped, revealing his hard chest.

I knew what was coming next.

I clung to him, my eyes falling to the side of his neck. And then I froze.

A smear of dark red.

Lipstick.

And right next to it, a deep bite mark, still oozing blood.

The memories hit me like a tidal wave.

Five years ago. My father left us for another woman. My mother took out a loan from loan sharks so I could go to Juilliard. They pushed her off a roof.

She just left a note: "Clara, I'm tired. You're on your own now."

I went to my father for help. He had his new wife on his arm. "I don't have the money," he said, his voice cold. "And I don't have a daughter."

The loan sharks hunted me. I took my last few dollars to an underground casino, ready to risk it all. Some creep cornered me in an alley.

Just as his filthy hands started ripping at my dress, Rocco appeared.

He stepped out of the darkness like a god. One kick, and he shattered the man's jaw.

"I'll pay the debt," he said, looking down at my trembling body. His voice was colder than the concrete.

"The price is you. Five years."

Later, I learned who he was. The Don of the Moretti family. The king of New York's underworld.

"Hiss—"

The showerhead roared to life, spraying ice-cold water over me, yanking me back to the present.

No foreplay.

He slammed me against the slick tile and roughly forced his way in.

Pain shot through me. I bit my lip. My hands did what they were trained to do—grip his broad back, match his rhythm.

This was the interest I had to pay on my mother's debt.

Suddenly, he stopped.

He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look up at the marks on his neck.

"You see this?" he rasped, his voice a dangerous whisper. "Not curious who did it?"

My heart skipped a beat, but I kept the perfect, fake smile plastered on my face.

"I'm your canary, Rocco, not your wife." I leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his Adam's apple. "It's not my place to wonder where my keeper has been."

Rocco's eyes went dark.

That wasn't the answer he wanted.

The last bit of warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold rage.

"Good girl," he sneered. "Since you know your place, you'll take it."

The storm broke. There was no tenderness, only punishment. Every thrust was meant to pin me, to break me, to shatter what was left of my soul.

I remembered trying to fight back once,three years ago.

The day he came to me smelling of another woman, I finally found the courage to speak, my voice trembling. "If someone else already fed you, why are you here?"

Rocco just took a slow drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke in my face.

"Know your place, Clara," he said, his voice flat. "The affection I show you? I can take it back anytime. Your dignity… I bought and paid for it."

From that day on, I learned. I was nothing more than Don Rocco Moretti's canary.

…

When it was all over, the bathroom was a wreck.

I slid to the floor, my body limp, my legs shaking too much to stand.

I braced myself against the wall, about to push myself up to wash the filth out of my body.

"Don't move."

Rocco's voice came from above. He cut the water and wrapped a towel around his waist.

I thought he would leave, but instead, he walked behind me, slowly lowered himself, and gathered me into his arms from behind.

His warm, hard chest pressed against my cold back. His palm rested on my lower stomach, his thumb drawing lazy, absent-minded circles.

The sudden intimacy made my body go rigid.

His voice, low and rough with afterglow, rumbled against my ear.

"Clara," he murmured. "Didn't you say you liked my scent?"

I didn't understand what he was doing. I could only manage a stiff nod.

He chuckled, kissing my earlobe, his tone a lazy, possessive command.

"Then don't wash it off. Keep it on you for a day. There's a reward for you tomorrow."

I lowered my head. "Yes, Rocco," I whispered.

The next morning, I woke up in an empty bed.

The space beside me was already cold. Rocco was gone.

My phone lit up. A message from my friend, Chloe. A link to an Instagram post.

But a second later, the message was unsent.

Immediately, a new one from Chloe popped up:

"SHIT! Clara, you didn't see that, did you? I'm so sorry, I sent it to the wrong person! My thumb slipped! Whatever you do, don't get curious and click it!"

The more she insisted, the heavier the dread in my stomach grew.

I tapped the red icon.

My feed was flooded. Every gossip site had the same picture.

It was a candid shot.

In a dimly lit, private poker room, Rocco was leaning back in his chair. A woman in a red dress was draped in his lap.

In the photo, she was holding a tube of dark red lipstick, provocatively painting his lips with it. Rocco’s head was tilted back, the bite mark on his neck on full display.

My eyes drifted down to the caption that had set New York's elite on fire:

"The King and his Queen."

I stared at the headline, my finger hovering over the screen.

The comments were even worse than the picture.

In the comments, the same socialites who’d once envied my "Cinderella story" were finally showing their fangs.

"The real queen is back, so the little canary's dream is over. I bet her next patron is that sadist senator. What do you all think?"

"I'm starting a pool. How many hands will she pass through before she's kicked out of New York for good? Without the Moretti name protecting her, a woman like that isn't even fit to shine our shoes."

"Five years is a long shelf life. She's expired."

Their venom splattered against me like mud, but I kept scrolling, my face blank.

Still, a heavy weight settled in my chest, a boulder making it hard to breathe.

My heart seized in sharp, painful spasms. My nose burned. A hot pressure built behind my eyes.

The five-year fantasy was over. Utterly shattered.

I counted the days in my head.

Six days left.

Even without this woman, I was never going to spend one second longer in this golden cage.

I grabbed my purse. Inside was the receipt for my passport application and an audition invitation from an Austrian symphony.

As soon as I had my visa, I would disappear from Rocco's world for good.

When I got back to the penthouse, the door was ajar.

The sound of a violin drifted out.

Rocco was here?

But he never touched my violin.

I pushed the door open and froze.

It wasn't Rocco standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

It was a woman in a white Chanel suit. Chestnut curls, an elegant back. In her hand was the bow to my violin, the one I had just restored.

It was the woman from the photo.

She heard the door and turned around.

"So this is the little bird Rocco keeps?"

Her eyes scanned me from head to toe, filled with a natural-born superiority and contempt.

"I heard you were a prodigy at the conservatory? I studied for a few years myself. Unlike you…"

She dragged the bow across a string, creating a screeching noise.

"…who only uses her 'talent' to please men. And from the sound of it, you're not even very good at that. You're a cheap imitation, destined for a back alley, not a stage."

"Vivienne."

A low voice came from the kitchen.

Rocco walked out, carrying two plates of steaming risotto.

He was in casual loungewear, a relaxed look I’d never seen before. It was a punch to the gut.

In five years, he had never once cooked in this apartment.

He looked at Vivienne, and the brutality from last night was gone. In its place was a look of weary… affection.

"Leave her be, Vivienne. You can't compare a Juilliard concertmaster to a dropout."

The words were meant to defend me, but they just put me in my place. A needle straight to the heart.

So that's all I was in his eyes. My talent, my pride—just an unfinished joke.

Vivienne pouted, clearly not happy with Rocco’s "defense."

She suddenly yanked the bow.

SNAP.

The expensive gut string broke in two.

As the string snapped, Vivienne cried out and dropped the violin. It crashed to the floor.

"Ow! That hurt!"

She held up her index finger. There was a tiny, barely-visible scratch, with a single bead of blood.

"Vivienne!"

Rocco slammed the plates on the table and rushed to her side, grabbing her hand. He frowned as if she’d been mortally wounded.

"How could you be so careless? Where's the first-aid kit?" he roared, turning his fierce eyes on me.

I stood frozen, my gaze fixed on the lonely, broken violin on the floor.

It was the last thing my mother had left me.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.

I wanted to scream, to run and pick up my violin. But I didn't dare.

The look in Rocco’s eyes told me that if I upset Vivienne, I would pay a price I couldn't afford.

"What a piece of junk," Vivienne whined, leaning into Rocco's arms. "The strings are so rough. Rocco, this piece of junk is all trash from the gutter like her deserves. Take me to Vienna to buy a new one next time."

Rocco was busy blowing on her tiny cut. He didn't even look up.

"Alright. Whatever you want. We'll just throw this one out."

Throw this one out.

Four words. A death sentence for my mother's memory.

I bit down, the taste of iron filling my mouth.

But I stayed silent.

Rocco expertly bandaged her finger, a wound so small it didn't even need a band-aid. He picked up the risotto again, his voice soft in a way I’d never heard.

"There, don't be mad. I made you my special truffle risotto. Eat it while it's hot."

Vivienne sat at the table and poked at the food with her fork.

"It's okay, I guess," she said casually. "But honestly, Rocco, your cooking still can't compare to Leonardo's. Now his risotto was divine."

The air froze.

Leonardo.

The last Don of the Moretti family. Rocco's dead brother.

I saw Rocco’s hand clench around his wine glass. A storm gathered in his eyes. The softness on his face vanished, replaced by an icy chill.

"Vivienne," he warned, his voice low and tight.

Standing in the corner, I finally understood.

So that was it.

The name "Vivienne" I’d heard him whisper when he was drunk… it wasn't some ex-girlfriend.

It was his sister-in-law.

This woman.

He was in love with his brother's wife.

And me? I was just a substitute. A cheap replacement to fill the void.

I had to get out of this suffocating room.

"I'll… I'll get you both some water," I mumbled, looking at the floor.

"Don't bother," Rocco's voice cut through the air.

He put down his glass, his eyes still locked on Vivienne. He didn't even look at me.

He pulled a key from his pocket and tossed it on the coffee table. It landed with a sharp clink.

"Pack your things. Go to the old apartment on the edge of town."

I stared at him, stunned.

"Now?"

"Right now." He finally glanced at me, his eyes filled with annoyance. "Vivienne just got back from her tour. She doesn't like hotels. She's staying here. And..."

He glanced at the wreckage of my violin on the floor, a cruel smile on his lips.

"...she doesn't like seeing filth around."

My blood turned to ice.

So that's what I was to him.

After five years of being at his beck and call, the real owner was back. And I was just the "filth" that had to be cleaned out.

"Don't come back until I call for you."

I left with a single, small suitcase.

An early winter storm had hit New York, blanketing the city in snow.

The steps outside the building were slick with ice.

I hadn't gone more than a few feet before my feet slipped out from under me. I crashed hard onto the pavement.

The suitcase burst open, my sheet music scattering everywhere.

But I couldn’t focus on that.

A sudden, violent cramp ripped through my lower stomach.

The pain was so sharp it buckled me over, my vision tunneling to black.

My hand flew to my belly on pure instinct. A primal terror I’d never known seized me.

And that tearing pain… it threw me back to another winter.

Five years ago. A snowstorm just like this one.

My mother, right in front of me, jumping from the seventh-floor rooftop.

The dull thud as her body hit the ground.

The red blood spreading quickly, staining the dirty snow. Just like this.

"Mom..." I knelt in the snow, staring at the blood.

When Rocco saved me in that filthy alley, when he gave me a home in that warm apartment, I really thought I’d found a family.

Those nights he took me to charity galas.

The way he’d shield me from pushy guests, whispering in my ear, "You're the most beautiful woman here tonight." I'd had such foolish fantasies.

I thought maybe, just maybe, I could have that simple, impossible happiness.

Looking back now, it was all just a game to him. The way a man indulges a pet.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was Chloe.

"Clara, I just stopped by the custom jeweler. Those handmade cufflinks you ordered for Rocco's birthday are ready. The ones with his initials… Should I still have them sent over?"

I covered the mouthpiece with my bloody hand. My voice trembled in the wind.

"No, Chloe. Don't."

"What? But..."

"I changed my flight. I'm leaving the day the contract ends."

I glanced back at the towering skyscraper, at the single lit window of the penthouse.

"He doesn't need a surprise. He doesn't need me."

I moved into the old apartment on the city's edge.

It was bare. A moldy old sofa, a simple table and chairs.

It was perfect.

The cold, the distance… it was a constant reminder of what Rocco and I really were.

I thought I’d stay here until it was time to leave.

On the third evening, my private ringtone went off.

It was Rocco. He wanted me back at the penthouse.

No explanation. Just a command.

When I pushed open the door, I thought I was in the wrong apartment.

Everything was different.

The custom-made bed where we’d spent countless nights was gone, replaced by an ornate, over-the-top Baroque monstrosity.

The simple gray sofa I loved was gone, too. In its place was a velvet couch that looked expensive and deeply uncomfortable.

The impressionist paintings I’d picked out were gone from the walls.

The whole room felt suffocating, dripping with a gaudy luxury.

It was Vivienne's taste.

My heart seized.

"My things?" I grabbed the arm of a cleaning lady, my voice sharp. "Where are my things?"

"Oh, the old furniture and clutter?" The woman pointed towards the door. "Mr. Moretti said to clear it all out. It was all sent to the incinerator in the basement."

"What?!"

I ran for the elevator like a madwoman.

The furniture didn't matter. The clothes didn't matter.

But inside the nightstand, in a small tin box, was the caricature a street artist drew of us on our first trip to Coney Island.

It was the only time he’d ever smiled at me like a normal boy.

And the photo of us kissing at the top of the Ferris wheel.

I’d said to him that day, "They say lovers who kiss at the very top will stay together forever."

He had just smiled and kissed me.

It was the only proof of "love" I had saved over five years.

I sprinted to the incinerator in the basement.

The massive furnace was roaring, the fire lighting up the dark room.

In a pile of trash waiting to be shoved inside, I saw it. The crushed tin box.

I scrambled over, digging through the filthy garbage.

"Miss! That's trash! It's dirty!" a worker shouted.

I ignored him, my hands trembling as I pried the box open.

Inside, there was only black ash. But I could still make out a burnt corner of the photo. The ghostly outline of the Ferris wheel.

The sketch was almost gone. Just a blur of Rocco's face, the edges being eaten by the last glowing embers.

The moment my fingertip touched the ash, it disintegrated.

Along with the last, pathetic piece of my heart.

I knelt there, beside the pile of garbage, and the tears finally came.

"What the hell are you doing?"

A familiar, cold voice came from behind me.

I went rigid.

Rocco was standing at the entrance to the incinerator room, a cigarette between his fingers, frowning at the pathetic sight I made.

"My girl has a taste for garbage now?"

I kept my back to him and wiped my tears away.

I took a deep breath, then rubbed my ash-covered hands hard on my clothes.

"Nothing, Boss."

I turned, the perfect, unbreakable smile already back on my face.

I walked to him and stood on my toes, pressing my lips to his.

"I heard your call and came right away. Just wanted to see if I'd left anything behind."

Rocco looked down at me, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes, but he didn't push it.

He just reached out and patted my head, like he was rewarding an obedient pet.

"Don't decorate on your own again," he said, his voice flat around the cigarette. "Vivienne doesn't like... your cheap taste."

I looked at his face, blurred by the smoke, and the hole in my chest finally stopped bleeding.

"Okay," I nodded obediently.

"Whatever makes you happy."

Anyway, I added silently, there won't be a trace of Clara Vance here soon enough.