Chapter 1
My rented boyfriend, Arthur Finch, had a deep scar on the inside of his left wrist. He claimed it was an accident from cutting fruit.
But I knew a mark like that only came from a blade slicing across an artery. Only the most desperate kind of person would do that to themselves.
On our first day living together, he brushed it off casually while I tended to his wrist. I just smiled and didn't call him out.
After all, ours was strictly a financial arrangement. I was the employer, and he was the "merchandise." I had only rented him for seven days.
In seven days, I would finally have enough money to cover my brother Gavin's surgery. Once that happened, Arthur would disappear from my world forever.
I thought it was a flawless deal—until the third night. That was when I reached into the pocket of his discarded shirt and found a crumpled critical condition notice. It had Gavin's name on it.
*****
The confirmation of the transfer flashed on the screen, and I, Blanche Yates, closed the app, my palms slick with sweat.
For that 200 thousand, I'd sold half my soul to the devil, or rather, to my aunt, Yasmin Yates, who showed up acting like my savior.
When the knock came, my heart skipped a beat. I opened the door, and there Arthur was, standing under the dim yellow motion sensor light.
He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his skin an almost sickly pale. He smiled at me, the curve of his lips precise, like it had been drawn with a compass.
He held a simple duffel bag in his right hand. "Hello, Ms. Yates, I'm Arthur Finch."
His voice was magnetic. I instinctively stepped aside to let him in. A faint scent of cedar drifted past my nose. Yasmin was sitting on the couch, looking like a dragon guarding its treasure, her critical gaze sweeping over Arthur.
"So this is the boyfriend you've been with for three years?" Yasmin sneered, her lips curling into a sharp, mocking line.
Arthur didn't look the least bit uncomfortable. He casually slipped his arm around my waist, the heat of his palm burning through my thin shirt and making me flinch.
He set down his bag, walked over to Yasmin, and gave a polite bow. Then he pulled out a beautifully wrapped gift box from inside his jacket.
He said, "Blanche mentioned you've been having trouble sleeping. I had someone bring this back from overseas for you. Hope you like it."
For the next hour, I got a real taste of what it meant to rent a top-tier product. Yasmin unleashed a rapid-fire interrogation about his family, salary, and even his future plans, but Arthur handled it all like a pro.
He even nailed those rare jokes she threw at him. I sat off to the side, my nails digging into my palm, and caught sight of a scar, about one inch long, on the inside of his left wrist.
The skin there hadn't healed right, curling up at the edges, ugly and twisted like a centipede.
*****
Deep into the night, after Yasmin left, the house felt eerily silent. I pretended to get up in the middle of the night, padding barefoot into the living room.
Gavin's door half open, a sliver of light spilling out. Arthur was standing there, not bothering with the lights, letting the moon from the hallway sketch his lonely silhouette.
He was staring at Gavin, who lay in bed hooked up to tubes. Arthur's right hand slowly lifted, hovering in the air, his fingertips trembling, like he wanted to reach out, but was terrified to touch.
The loneliness around him was so thick, it felt like it could spill right out of the darkness.
*****
The next morning, I woke up to the irresistible aroma of breakfast cooking in oil. When I pushed open the kitchen door, Arthur was there in a cute floral apron, expertly flipping eggs in the pan like he did it every day.
"You're up? Wash your hands and come eat," he said, glancing over his shoulder. The sunlight hit his face right, and for a moment, it felt like we'd been together forever.
A hearty breakfast sat on the table. My hand froze mid-reach for the spoon. There wasn't a trace of brown sugar in the oatmeal, and even the powdered sugar on the pancakes had been scraped off completely.
"I don't eat brown sugar and powdered sugar. How did you know?" I stared at him, and I felt a cold shiver creep up my back.
Arthur took a sip of his oatmeal, his voice steady and flat. "Professionalism. Before we signed the contract, I looked through your private feed. In every group dinner photo, you never touched anything with brown sugar."
"I never post," I cut him off, my tone icy. "I locked my feed down three years ago. Only Gavin can see it."
His hand paused for a moment, then he looked up as if nothing had happened, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Maybe the agency handed me that info. With these gray-area deals, they dig way deeper than you think."
I didn't buy it. After breakfast, I deliberately brought up how Gavin took me fishing by the moat when we were kids, and he ended up falling in and nearly drowning.
I described it in vivid detail, even mimicking how miserable Gavin looked at the time. Arthur listened quietly, occasionally agreeing with me or giving me that gentle, caring look.
"Really? He must've been in a lot of pain back then," he sighed, sliding a plate of washed fruit over to me.
But the truth was, I was the one who fell in, and Gavin was the one who saved me. He was lying or maybe dodging the details on purpose.
While he was in the shower, water running behind the frosted glass, my heart thundered in my chest as I opened up his duffel bag. There weren't any spare clothes, and there was an old, beat-up phone with most of the paint scratched off.
In the inner pocket, my fingers brushed against something stiff, like a piece of paper.
It was a yellowed photo, the background a playground slide in the old part of town. Two little boys stood with their arms slung around each other's shoulders, grinning widely.
The one on the left still had a baby face, but I recognized him right away. It was Gavin when he was eight. And the one on the right, even though the photo was scratched there, those slightly sad eyes were unmistakably Arthur's.