The penthouse is quiet. Too quiet. Marcus Bellweather left hours ago, slipping away without a sound. He showed me my room, a fancy space that could be a hotel suite, but it feels cold. Empty. Like a pretty prison made of marble and silk.
I haven't moved from the middle of the huge living area. It's a giant space of glass and steel, looking out over the shiny lights of Manhattan. The bright lights above make me feel like I'm on display, like a bug under a magnifying glass. Waiting.
The soft click of the private elevator breaks the silence like a sharp cut. My breath stops. He's here.
Julian Thorne steps out, looking just as perfect as he did this morning. His dark suit fits him like a glove, not a single hair out of place. His eyes lock on me right away across the big room. They look me up and down, cold and judging.
He walks toward me, his shoes quiet on the soft rug. He stops close, his presence making the air feel heavy.
"Elena." My name from his mouth isn't a hello. It's like he owns me.
He doesn't ask how I am. He doesn't say anything nice. He just stares, making the tension grow. My skin feels prickly.
Then, his voice cuts through the quiet, deep and firm. "Kneel."
Just one word.
I freeze. My mind yells no. Kneel? Like a servant? Like a pet? Shame burns in my throat.
I stare back at him, my eyes showing defiance. I see something dangerous flash in his gaze, like he's daring me.
"Clause 12b, Elena," he says softly, but it feels like a threat. "Willful disobedience. Want to hear the penalties?"
I remember Ms. Davenport's harsh face, the dead rose at my door. Volkov. The penalties. Ruin wasn't even the worst part.
My defiance breaks. Shame hits me hard, eating at me. My body feels heavy, slow. But the threat is real. The contract is real.
Slowly, with pain in my heart, I bend my knees. The soft rug presses against me. I lower myself until I'm kneeling before him in his fancy home. My head is down, hair hiding the tears in my eyes. I feel naked, completely humiliated. This is just the start.
He walks around me slowly. I stay still, head down. My dark hair falls over my shoulders. Even like this, there's a tightness in me, a hidden fight under my forced obedience. Interesting.
My scent hits him, light and flowery. It mixes with the sharp smell of my fear.
He stops in front of me. He looks down at my head, at the soft curve of my neck. The need to touch, to show he owns me, is strong. But not yet. Control matters. His control, and breaking mine.
"Get up," he says sharply.
I stand, my movements stiff. I won't look at him.
"My study. Now."
He turns and heads to the heavy oak doors, not looking back. He knows I'll follow.
Inside the study, it feels all business. Leather chairs, shiny wood desk, tall bookshelves. He sits behind the desk, pointing for me to stand across from him.
"I need to dictate notes for letters about the Argento deal," he says, watching me close. "Take notes. Be exact."
He starts speaking, using hard money terms, plans, and deadlines. He talks fast, testing if I can keep up while the sting of my shame still burns.
I grab a notepad and pen from the desk, my hand shaking, but I write. My focus sharpens, the art history grad trying to match the fast pace of big business. I keep my eyes on the paper.
He leans back, watching me. The slight red on my cheeks, the way I bite my lip to focus. The way I try to stay calm.
He says a line that makes me reach for a file on the desk corner. As I do, he reaches too. His fingers brush the back of my hand.
His touch is like a shock. A sudden heat races up my arm, strong and surprising. I pull back fast, like I touched fire. My eyes jump to his.
He's watching me, a dark, hungry look in his eyes. He saw how I reacted. He meant to do it. Another test, another way to show his power. Showing he can make me feel, even with a tiny touch. My heart races, a mix of fear and something else. Something wrong and unwanted.
He holds my stare a bit longer, then leans back. "That's all for tonight," he says, like he doesn't care. "You can go."
Relief hits me, weak and shaky. I turn fast, needing to get away from the heavy tension of the room, of him. My hand is on the doorknob.
Suddenly, his hand grabs my arm. Hard. He spins me around, pushing me back against the solid wood door with a force that shocks me. The hit knocks the air out of me.
Before I can move, his other hand grips the back of my head, fingers twisting tight in my hair, pulling my face up to his. His eyes are dark, fierce, burning into mine.
Then his mouth slams down on mine.
It's not just a kiss. It's a takeover. Rough, bruising, full of possession. His lips crush against mine, forcing their way in with raw power. There's no softness, only pure control. He tastes of rich whiskey and total dominance.
A choked sound slips from me, half fight, half giving in. My hands shoot to his chest, wanting to push him off, but they hesitate. His body presses into mine, hard and unyielding. I feel the heat pouring off him, the firm muscle under his suit.
His tongue pushes into my mouth, taking over, claiming every inch. It's an attack, a violation, but deep inside, a forbidden fire starts. My body turns against me, a dangerous heat spreading through me despite the fear, despite the shame. He growls low, a deep, hungry sound against my lips, pulling me tighter to him.
He deepens the kiss, taking everything, marking me with his touch, his taste. My head spins with the intensity. His hands roam, one sliding down to grip my hip, pulling me flush against him. I can feel the hard evidence of his desire pressing into me, thick and insistent, making my core ache with a need I hate to admit. His breath is hot against my skin, his teeth grazing my lower lip, sending shivers down my spine. Every touch, every move, is a claim, a promise of more to come, and my body responds, melting into him even as my mind screams to resist.
Then, just as fast as he took me, he lets go.
He steps back, fixing his suit jacket. His breathing is a bit off, his eyes shining with a possessive heat. He looks at me, seeing my red face, my swollen lips, my uneven breaths.
"Remember who you belong to, Elena," he says, his voice low and dangerous.
Then he turns back to his desk, ignoring me completely.
I stand there, shaking, pressed against the door. My lips tingle. My body buzzes with a messy mix of fear and unwanted desire. He didn't just order me. He didn't just test me. He claimed me.
The contract wasn't just about my time or work. It was about me. All of me. Body and soul. And he wouldn't wait to take everything he wanted.
