Luna Winston

The penthouse is obscene.

That's the only word for it. Obscene in its excess, in its cold perfection, in the way it screams wealth so loudly I want to cover my ears.

Marble floors stretch endlessly beneath my worn flats—white with veins of gold running through them like rivers. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase Manhattan glittering below, the city lights reflecting off glass and steel in a display that would be beautiful if it didn't feel so empty. Modern art hangs on walls painted in shades of charcoal and cream—abstract pieces that probably cost more than my entire life, more than every paycheck I've ever earned combined.

Everything is sharp angles and clean lines. Everything is expensive. Everything is cold.

I stand in the massive foyer clutching my single duffel bag like a lifeline, feeling impossibly small. Like I've been dropped into someone else's life. Someone else's world.

This is where I live now.

The thought makes my stomach churn.

Damon disappeared the moment we arrived, striding off down a hallway without a word, leaving me standing alone with one of his men—not Marcus, someone else whose name I didn't catch. The man made a call, muttered something I couldn't hear, then told me to wait.

So I wait.

I count the seconds. Study the art on the walls—a massive canvas of black and red slashes that looks angry, violent. Try not to think about the fact that three hours ago I was in my cramped studio apartment in Brooklyn, sketching in my notebook and eating leftover Chinese food for dinner.

Now I'm here. In a cage made of marble and money.

The elevator chimes.

I turn, expecting Damon. Instead, a woman steps out—older, maybe mid-fifties, with silver-streaked black hair pulled into a tight bun and sharp eyes that miss nothing. She's wearing a simple black dress—professional, practical—and her face is the kind of stern that comes from years of seeing too much and saying too little.

She studies me for a long moment, gaze traveling from my messy dark hair down to my cream midi dress with its full sleeves and modest cut, all the way to my worn flats.

Her expression doesn't change, but something flickers in her eyes. Pity, maybe. Or recognition.

"Luna Winston," she says. It's not a question.

"Yes." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

"I'm Mrs. Chen. Mr. Knight's housekeeper." She gestures for me to follow her. "Come. I'll show you to your quarters."

My quarters. Like I'm staff. Which I guess I am now. Property. Owned.

I grip my duffel bag tighter and follow her through the penthouse.

We walk down a hallway lined with more expensive art. Pass a living room with furniture that looks like it belongs in a museum—leather and chrome, everything at perfect right angles. A dining room with a table long enough to seat twelve, though I can't imagine Damon ever filling those seats. An office with dark wood and locked doors that Mrs. Chen doesn't even glance at.

"Mr. Knight values his privacy," she says without looking back at me. "There are rules."

Of course there are. Men like him always have rules. Ways to control, to dominate, to remind you that you exist at their pleasure.

We turn into what must be the kitchen, and despite everything, I feel my breath catch.

It's massive. Professional-grade appliances in stainless steel. Marble countertops that match the floors. A six-burner gas stove that looks like it's never been used. Double ovens. A refrigerator big enough to walk into.

Mrs. Chen notices me staring. "Mr. Knight doesn't cook. He rarely eats here. But when he does, he expects perfection."

She leads me past the kitchen to a door I almost missed—painted the same cream as the walls, easy to overlook. She opens it.

"Your room."

I step inside, and my heart sinks.

It's small. Maybe ten feet by ten feet. A twin bed pushed against one wall, the mattress thin and covered with white sheets that look starched within an inch of their life. A narrow dresser. A tiny closet. A single window barely bigger than a porthole, offering a view of the brick wall of the neighboring building.

It's clean. Sterile. Like a cell.

I set my duffel bag on the bed—it takes up nearly half the mattress—and try not to think about my apartment. About the mismatched furniture and the posters on the walls and the way afternoon light used to stream through the windows while I sketched.

This is home now.

"The bathroom is shared," Mrs. Chen says from the doorway. "Down the hall, second door on the left. Mr. Knight has his own ensuite, of course."

Of course he does.

"Now," she continues, and her voice takes on that stern, no-nonsense quality I'm guessing she uses for all new staff, "the rules."

I turn to face her, wrapping my arms around myself. The cream sleeves of my dress are soft against my skin—familiar, comforting. I bought this dress at a thrift store two years ago. It's one of three I own, all similar: full sleeves, modest length, loose and comfortable. I hate tight clothes. Hate the way they restrict, the way they make me feel like I'm performing femininity instead of just existing.

Damon's probably going to hate that. Probably going to demand I wear something else. Something that fits his image of what I should be.

The thought makes my jaw clench.

Mrs. Chen pulls a small notepad from her pocket, flips it open. "You wake at six AM. No exceptions. Breakfast must be ready by seven—Mr. Knight eats at seven fifteen sharp. Coffee black, two sugars. Eggs cooked exactly four minutes. Toast lightly buttered."

She rattles off the list like she's done it a thousand times, and maybe she has. Maybe I'm not the first girl Damon Knight has brought here. Maybe there's a whole line of us—women who owed him something, women he collected and used and discarded.

The thought makes me nauseous.

"Lunch at one PM," Mrs. Chen continues. "Dinner at eight. You clean the common areas daily—living room, dining room, kitchen, hallways. Dust, vacuum, polish. Everything must be perfect."

Perfect. That word again.

"His bedroom and office are off-limits unless he specifically requests otherwise. You do not enter without permission. You do not touch his personal belongings. You do not—"

"Exist," I finish quietly.

Mrs. Chen's eyes snap to mine, and for the first time, her stern expression cracks. Something softer bleeds through. Something that might be sympathy.

"Survive, girl," she says, and her voice is gentler now. Almost kind. "That's all you can do here."

The words settle over me like a weight.

Survive.

Not live. Not thrive. Just survive.

Is that what she's been doing all these years? Just surviving in Damon Knight's cold, perfect world?

"How long have you worked for him?" I ask, even though I'm probably not supposed to ask questions.

Mrs. Chen hesitates. Glances toward the door like she's checking to make sure we're alone. When she speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper.

"Seven years. Since he took over the Knight empire from his uncle."

Seven years. That's... that's a long time to survive someone.

"Is he..." I struggle to find the right words. "Is he cruel?"

Mrs. Chen's expression shutters immediately, going blank and professional. "Mr. Knight has expectations. If you meet them, you'll be fine."

It's not an answer. Not really. But it's all I'm going to get.

She turns to leave, pauses at the door. "One more thing, Miss Winston."

"Luna," I correct automatically. "Just Luna."

Her lips quirk—almost a smile but not quite. "Luna, then. Mr. Knight doesn't sleep well. You'll hear him moving around at night. Don't disturb him. Don't try to help. Just... stay in your room."

The warning sends a chill down my spine. What does she mean he doesn't sleep well? Nightmares? Insomnia? Something worse?

But Mrs. Chen is already leaving, pulling the door closed behind her with a soft click.

I'm alone.

I sink onto the narrow bed, springs creaking beneath me, and stare at the cream-colored walls. At the tiny window with its view of bricks. At my duffel bag holding everything I own in the world.

My sketchbooks. My clothes—three midi dresses, two cardigans, underwear, socks. The photograph of my father that I keep wrapped in tissue paper like it's made of glass.

It's all I have left of him.

I unzip the bag with shaking hands, pull out the photograph carefully. Dad smiling at the camera, wearing his construction vest, tool belt around his waist. We'd taken this at his job site two years ago when I visited him during lunch. He'd been so proud to show me the building they were working on, pointing out which parts he'd helped construct.

He'd been happy that day.

Tears burn behind my eyes, and this time I let them fall. Let them streak down my cheeks while I trace my finger over his face in the photograph.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I whisper to the image. "Why didn't you let me help?"

But I know why. Because that's who Dad was. Protective. Self-sacrificing. Determined to shield me from the darkness of his choices even if it killed him.

And it did kill him. The stress of that debt, the constant pressure of those payments—five thousand dollars a month for three years. His heart couldn't take it.

A sob catches in my throat.

I set the photograph on the narrow dresser, propping it against the wall where I can see it. Where I can pretend he's still here, still watching over me.

"I'll be okay," I tell him, even though I'm not sure I believe it. "I'll survive this. I promise."

The words feel hollow.

I unpack the rest of my bag mechanically. Hang my three dresses in the tiny closet—cream, soft blue, pale green. All midi length with full sleeves. All comfortable and modest. Fold my cardigans into the dresser. Stack my sketchbooks on top.

My art supplies are limited—charcoal pencils, a few regular pencils, an eraser. I couldn't afford much more than that. But drawing has always been my escape. The one thing that's mine, that no one can take away.

Though I wouldn't put it past Damon Knight to try.

The thought of him makes my skin prickle with awareness I don't want to feel. Those black eyes with their rare grey flecks. The way he looked at me like I was something to possess. To own.

The way his hand felt around my throat.

I shudder, wrapping my arms around myself.

I need to shower. Need to wash away the feeling of his touch, the memory of being manhandled into that car, the terror of the last few hours.

I grab my sleep clothes from the dresser—a full-sleeved cotton nightgown that reaches my calves, soft and worn from years of washing—and head down the hall to find the bathroom.

It's exactly where Mrs. Chen said it would be. Simple but clean. White tile, a basic shower, a sink with a mirror above it.

I lock the door and lean against it, breathing hard.

This is real. This is my life now.

The shower is hot enough to turn my skin pink, and I stand under the spray for longer than necessary, letting the water wash away my tears. Letting the steam fill my lungs.

When I finally emerge, wrapped in my nightgown with my damp hair falling in waves around my shoulders, I feel slightly more human. Still trapped. Still terrified. But human.

I creep back to my room on silent feet, hyperaware of every sound. I don't know where Damon is. Don't know if he's watching me somehow, tracking my movements through this massive penthouse.

Back in my cell—my room—I climb into the narrow bed and pull the thin blanket up to my chin. The sheets smell like industrial detergent. Clean but impersonal.

I stare at the ceiling, counting the hairline cracks in the plaster, and wonder how my life became this.

Three weeks ago, Dad was alive. We were poor, struggling to make ends meet, but we were together. We'd eat dinner at our tiny kitchen table—whatever I could make from our limited groceries—and he'd tell me about his day. About the guys on his crew. About the buildings taking shape under his hands.

He was tired a lot. Working too much. But I thought it was just age catching up with him. Just the physical toll of construction work.

I didn't know. Didn't see the signs. Didn't realize he was literally killing himself to pay off a debt I didn't know existed.

And now he's gone. Buried in that cemetery in Brooklyn with a headstone I can barely afford. All I have left are memories and photographs and the crushing weight of twenty thousand dollars I can never repay.

Except by giving Damon Knight two to three years of my life.

My eyes burn with fresh tears, but I'm too exhausted to cry anymore. Instead, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the penthouse settling around me.

I don't know what time it is when I hear footsteps in the hallway.

Slow. Deliberate. Stopping outside my door.

My entire body goes rigid. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I'm sure whoever is out there can hear it.

Damon. It has to be Damon.

I hold my breath, waiting. Terrified of what might happen if that door opens. If he decides the rules don't apply to him. If he decides to take what he thinks he owns.

The doorknob turns.

Just slightly. A test.

Then it stops.

Silence stretches so long I think I might have imagined it. Then his voice comes through the wood—low, dark, rich with something that sends shivers down my spine.

"Sweet dreams, Trouble."

There's a pause, and I can almost see him on the other side of that door. Hand on the knob. Black eyes with those rare grey flecks staring at the wood like he can see through it. See me.

"Tomorrow, your real education begins."

His footsteps fade down the hallway. A door closes in the distance—his bedroom, probably.

I don't move. Can't move. Just lie there frozen, pulse racing, trying to process what just happened.

He didn't come in. Didn't force his way into my room. Just... stood there. Said those words. Left.

It should be a relief.

Instead, it feels like a promise. A warning.

Tomorrow.

I stare at the ceiling for hours, listening to the sounds of the penthouse. The hum of the refrigerator. The distant noise of traffic far below. The occasional creak of expensive flooring settling.

Sleep doesn't come.

I'm still awake when the sky outside my tiny window starts to lighten with pre-dawn grey. Still awake when my phone—tucked under my pillow—buzzes with the alarm I set for 5:30 AM.

Time to start my new life as Damon Knight's property.

I drag myself out of bed, every muscle aching with tension and exhaustion. Change out of my nightgown into the soft blue midi dress—full sleeves, reaching my calves, comfortable fabric that doesn't cling. Run my fingers through my messy dark hair but don't bother trying to tame it. No makeup. I don't own any anyway, and even if I did, I wouldn't wear it. I hate the feeling of it on my skin. Hate the mask it creates.

If Damon has a problem with that, he can deal.

I pad to the kitchen on silent feet, flipping on lights as I go. The massive space feels even more intimidating in the early morning quiet. All that stainless steel and marble, gleaming and perfect.

Mrs. Chen's list is taped to the refrigerator. I read it again, memorizing the details.

Coffee black, two sugars. Eggs cooked exactly four minutes. Toast lightly buttered.

Breakfast ready by seven. Damon eats at seven fifteen sharp.

I check the time on the kitchen clock: 6:17 AM.

I can do this. It's just cooking. I've been cooking since I was twelve, since Mom died and it was just me and Dad. I'm not a chef, but I'm competent. I can follow instructions.

I find the coffee in a cupboard—expensive, freshly ground. The coffee maker is one of those complicated Italian machines that probably costs more than my monthly rent used to. It takes me ten minutes to figure out how to work it, and another five to get the grind and water ratio right.

The eggs are easier. I find them in the refrigerator—organic, farm-fresh, probably delivered daily. I set a timer for exactly four minutes, watching the second hand tick by with obsessive focus.

Toast. Bread from a bakery I've never heard of. Lightly buttered—I measure it out carefully, spreading it thin and even.

By 6:58, everything is ready. Coffee in a pristine white mug. Eggs on a plate, golden and perfectly cooked. Toast arranged just so.

I carry it to the dining room, set it at the head of the massive table. Wonder if I'm supposed to wait. If I'm supposed to serve him. If I'm supposed to stand there like furniture while he eats.

Mrs. Chen didn't say.

I retreat to the kitchen, hovering near the doorway where I can see the dining room but won't be immediately visible.

At 7:14, I hear footsteps.

My pulse spikes. My hands start to shake, and I press them flat against my thighs to still them.

Damon appears in the doorway.

And oh God, he looks different in the morning light.

Still wearing a suit—charcoal grey today, with a black shirt underneath, no tie. His dark hair is slightly less perfect than last night, a few strands falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger. More human.

But those eyes. Those black eyes with their rare grey flecks catch the morning sun streaming through the windows, and they're just as cold, just as terrifying as they were last night.

He sees the breakfast I laid out. Walks to the table with that same predatory grace, every movement controlled and deliberate.

Sits.

Picks up the coffee mug, takes a sip.

I hold my breath.

He sets it down. Picks up his fork. Takes a bite of eggs.

Chews slowly, deliberately.

Sets down the fork.

And then those black eyes lock onto the doorway where I'm hiding.

"Luna," he says, and just hearing him say my name in that smoke-and-gravel voice makes my skin prickle. "Come here."

It's not a request.

I force my feet to move, force myself to walk into that dining room even though every instinct screams to run. I stop a respectful distance from the table, hands clasped in front of me, trying to look composed when I feel like I'm going to shatter.

"Yes, Mr. Knight?"

Something flickers in his eyes at the formal address. Amusement, maybe. Or satisfaction.

"The coffee is perfect," he says.

Relief floods through me so suddenly I feel dizzy. "Thank you."

"The eggs are overcooked."

The relief evaporates. My stomach drops. "I—I timed them exactly—"

"Four minutes from boiling water," he interrupts, and there's no anger in his voice. Just correction. "You put them in cold water and timed from when you turned on the heat. That's five and a half minutes total."

Oh. Oh God. He's right. I did put them in cold water. I didn't think—

"Make them again," he says.

My jaw clenches. I want to argue. Want to point out that the eggs are fine, perfectly edible, that this is ridiculous.

But I can't. Because he owns me. Because I owe him. Because I don't have a choice.

"Yes, Mr. Knight," I force out through gritted teeth.

I return to the kitchen, my face burning with humiliation and anger. Four minutes from boiling water. Fine. I can do that.

I boil water first this time. Drop the eggs in once it's at a rolling boil. Set the timer.

Exactly four minutes.

I plate them with shaking hands, carry them back to the dining room.

Damon is still sitting there, working on his phone with one hand, the discarded eggs pushed to the side of his plate. He doesn't look up when I set the new plate down.

"Better," he says after the first bite.

I stand there, unsure if I'm dismissed or if I'm supposed to wait.

"You can go," Damon says without looking at me. "Clean the kitchen. Then the living room. Mrs. Chen will show you the rest of your duties."

"Yes, Mr. Knight."

I turn to leave, desperate to escape his presence, desperate for space to breathe.

"And Luna?"

I freeze. Turn back. "Yes?"

Those black eyes lift from his phone, pinning me in place.

"Welcome to your new life, Trouble."

The day passes in a blur of cleaning and routine and trying desperately not to think.

Mrs. Chen appears at eight and walks me through the rest of the penthouse, showing me what needs to be cleaned and how. Everything has a specific way it must be done. The floors must be swept then mopped, always. The windows must be cleaned with vinegar, not commercial cleaner. The furniture must be dusted in a specific order.

She's not unkind, but she's firm. Efficient. Like she's done this training a hundred times.

Maybe she has.

I work until my back aches and my hands are raw from cleaning products. Dust every surface. Vacuum every rug. Polish every piece of chrome until it gleams.

Damon disappears sometime around nine and doesn't return. Mrs. Chen tells me he's at his office downtown. That he rarely works from the penthouse.

I should be relieved. Instead, I feel like I'm waiting for an axe to fall.

Lunch at one. I make a salad—Mrs. Chen provides a list of approved ingredients—and leave it in the refrigerator since Damon isn't here.

The afternoon crawls by. I finish cleaning the common areas, then retreat to my room to sketch. It's the only thing that quiets my mind, the only thing that feels like mine.

I draw my father from memory. Then our old apartment. Then, without meaning to, I start drawing Damon.

His profile. The sharp line of his jaw. Those black eyes with their rare grey flecks that haunt me.

I hate that I'm drawing him. Hate that his face has already burned itself into my memory. But I can't stop. The charcoal moves across paper like it has a mind of its own, capturing the cold perfection of his features, the dangerous grace of his posture.

Trying to figure out what kind of monster he is.

I'm still sketching when I hear the elevator chime.

My entire body tenses. I check the time: 7:30 PM.

Dinner. I'm supposed to have dinner ready by eight.

I shove my sketchbook under the mattress—some instinct telling me Damon shouldn't see these drawings—and rush to the kitchen.

Mrs. Chen left me detailed instructions for dinner: pan-seared salmon, roasted vegetables, wild rice. More complicated than breakfast, but manageable.

I work quickly, efficiently, trying not to think about the fact that Damon is somewhere in the penthouse. That I can feel his presence like a weight in the air.

By 7:58, everything is plated and ready.

I carry it to the dining room.

And find Damon already sitting there, still in his suit from this morning but with the jacket removed. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with lean muscle.

He's on his phone, typing something, and doesn't acknowledge me when I set the plate down.

I retreat quickly, back to the kitchen, back to my safe distance.

But I can see him from here. Watch him eat with the same controlled precision he brings to everything. Every movement deliberate. Calculated.

He finishes in silence. Leaves his plate on the table. Disappears down the hallway without a word.

I clean up mechanically, washing dishes, wiping counters, putting everything back in its perfect place.

By the time I finish, it's nearly ten PM. My feet ache. My hands are raw. Every muscle in my body screams with exhaustion.

I retreat to my room, change into my nightgown, crawl into the narrow bed.

And finally, finally, sleep starts to pull me under.

I wake to darkness and the overwhelming need for water.

My phone screen says 3:17 AM.

I lie there for a moment, trying to will the thirst away, but my throat is desert-dry. I haven't had anything to drink since lunch, too focused on cleaning and cooking to take care of myself.

With a quiet groan, I slip out of bed and pad down the hallway in my bare feet, my nightgown brushing against my calves.

The penthouse is dark except for the city lights filtering through the massive windows. I navigate by memory and ambient light, heading for the kitchen.

I'm halfway there when I notice the figure standing at the living room windows.

My heart stops.

Damon.

He's silhouetted against the city lights, and even from here I can tell he's only wearing sweatpants. Low-slung grey sweatpants that hang from his hips, leaving his entire torso bare.

I should retreat. Should creep back to my room before he notices me.

But I'm frozen, staring at his back.

At the scars.

Oh God, the scars.

They crisscross his back like a roadmap of violence—pale lines against tan skin, some thin and precise, others thick and raised. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. Creating a canvas of old pain that makes my breath catch in my throat.

What happened to him?

Who did this?

As if he can feel my gaze, Damon turns.

His black eyes find mine across the darkness, and even from this distance, I can see the rare grey flecks catching the city lights.

Something deadly flickers in those eyes. Something that makes every hair on my body stand on end.

He doesn't say anything. Just stares at me with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

Then, in that low, dark voice that haunts my dreams:

"Come here."