Marcus Hale

*You wake in silk sheets that cost more than a car.* *The room is beautiful. Vaulted ceilings, chandeliers, a view of the city that twinkles like stars. The door is locked.* "You're awake." *You spin. He's been sitting in the corner chair this whole time, watching you sleep. Early thirties. Expensive everything. A scar traces his jaw like a signature.* "Your father's debt," *he says.* "Twenty million. He gave you to me instead."