Bought and Bound

The first time I saw the money, it was in a duffel bag on my stepbrother's bed. Stacks of hundreds, still banded, the paper so new it looked wet. Marcus stood over it with his phone in his hand, thumb hovering over the screen, and he didn't even flinch when I walked in.

"Close the door," he said.

I closed it. Not because he told me to. Because I wanted to know what the hell was going on.

Marcus is twenty-four, three years older than me, and built like a guy who spends more time in the gym than at whatever job he claims to have. He's got our father's jaw and his mother's eyes, a combination that makes him look perpetually like he's about to sell you something you don't need. We've lived in the same house for six years, ever since my mom married his dad, and in that time I've learned exactly two things about him: he never does anything without a reason, and that reason is always money.

"Where'd you get that?" I asked.

"Doesn't matter."

"It kind of does."

He finally looked up. That smile of his, the one that's all teeth and no warmth. "It matters to who?"

I leaned against the doorframe. The house was quiet. Mom and Richard were at some charity dinner in the city, the kind of thing they went to so people would see them going. Marcus had skipped it, which should've been my first clue. He never skipped anything that involved free champagne.

"I'm not going to tell anyone," I said. "I just want to know."

"That's the thing, Liv. You always want to know." He set the phone down and zipped the bag. "That's your problem."

I should've walked away. I know that now. But there was something about the way he said it, like he'd been waiting for me to ask, like the whole scene had been staged. The duffel bag. The open door. The timing.

"What do you want?" I asked.

There it was. The real question. Marcus doesn't show you things for free.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and patted the mattress next to him. I didn't move. He shrugged like it didn't matter either way.

"You remember that summer you wanted to go to that art program? The one in the city?"

I remembered. Two years ago. I'd been seventeen and stupid enough to think my mom would actually pay for something that didn't come with a tax deduction. She'd said no. Richard had said no. Marcus had watched the whole thing from the kitchen table, eating cereal, not saying a word.

"What about it?"

"I could've paid for it. I had the money then too."

My stomach tightened. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want you to understand something." He stood up and walked toward me, slow, the way you'd approach a dog you weren't sure was friendly. "I've been watching you for a while. The way you move around this house. The way you look at things you can't have."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You do." He stopped a foot away. Close enough that I could smell his cologne, something expensive and sharp. "You want things, Liv. You just don't know how to ask for them."

My mouth went dry. I hated that he could do that, make me feel like I was fifteen again, like I was still the girl who'd shown up to this house with two suitcases and a stepfamily that looked at her like a problem to be managed.

"I'm not asking for anything," I said.

"Not yet." He reached past me and opened the door. "But you will."

I didn't sleep that night. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about the duffel bag and the way Marcus had looked at me, like he had a map of my insides and was just waiting for me to catch up. The house made its usual noises. The AC humming. The distant sound of Richard's snoring from the master bedroom. Everything normal except for the fact that nothing was.

The next morning, I found an envelope under my door.

Inside was a brochure for the art program. The same one from two years ago. And a handwritten note in Marcus's blocky script: *They still have openings for the fall session. You'd have to move out. I'd cover everything. Think about it.*

No conditions. No fine print. Just an offer.

I read the note four times. Then I folded it and put it in my pocket and went downstairs like nothing had happened.

Marcus was in the kitchen, drinking coffee, reading something on his tablet. He didn't look up when I walked in. That was his thing. He never acknowledged the moves he made. He just made them and waited.

"Morning," I said.

"Morning."

I poured myself a cup of coffee. My hands were steady. I was proud of that.

"You know," I said, "most people would just say what they want."

"Most people don't get what they want."

I took a sip of coffee and let that sit. He was right, and I hated that he was right. In six years, I'd never seen Marcus ask for anything directly. He arranged. He maneuvered. He made you come to him.

"So what do you want?" I asked again.

He looked up then. That smile again, but different this time. Softer, almost. Like he was genuinely amused.

"I want you to stop pretending you're not interested."

"In what?"

"In the money. In the program. In getting out of this house." He set the tablet down. "You've been miserable here since the day you moved in. You think I haven't noticed?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

"Here's the thing," he said, standing up. "I'm not a charity. I don't give things away. But I'm also not a monster. You want something, you ask me for it. Directly. And then we talk about what it costs."

"What does it cost?"

He walked past me, close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. "That depends on how badly you want it."

He left the kitchen. I stood there with my coffee getting cold and the brochure burning a hole in my pocket and the distinct feeling that I'd just stepped into something I couldn't step out of.

The worst part wasn't the offer. The worst part was that I wanted to say yes.