Lila
I woke up alone.
Sunlight cut across the bed in hard white lines. The sheets still held his scent…dark cologne, skin, and the leftover heat of the night. My body ached in places that made my face warm the second I moved. There was a dull throb between my thighs, a faint tenderness where his mouth had been, and a mark on the side of my neck that pulsed when I turned my head.
I sat up slowly.
The dress from the wake was gone. In its place someone had left soft black clothes folded on the chair; my size, again. I pulled them on. My legs were unsteady for the first few steps. The bedroom door was unlocked.
That surprised me more than it should have.
I stepped into the main living area. The city stretched out below the glass, bright and completely unreachable. Coffee was already made. Damien stood at the island in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled, reading something on his phone. He didn’t look up immediately. When he did, his eyes moved over me once then settled on my face.
“You slept,” he said.
“You left.”
“I had work.” He set the phone down with a soft click. “There’s coffee. Food if you want it.”
I didn’t move toward either. I stayed near the hallway, arms loosely crossed, feeling the pull of the mark on my neck every time the fabric shifted.
“I want the phone you promised.”
“After we talk.”
“We talked last night.”
“We started.” His voice was even, almost quiet. It still carried the weight of a man who was used to being obeyed without raising it. “There’s more.”
I walked to the island and poured coffee just to have something solid in my hands. The ceramic was warm. I wrapped both palms around it and didn’t drink.
“Konstantin Reyes,” I said. The name still tasted wrong. “You said he was going to collect me last night.”
“Yes.”
“And my father agreed to it when I was twelve.”
“Yes.”
I stared at the dark surface of the coffee. My pulse was too loud in my ears.
“You expect me to thank you for getting there first.”
“I expect you to understand the difference between the two.”
I looked up. He was watching me with that same unreadable focus from the night before, the one that made the air feel thinner, like the room itself had adjusted to his presence.
“The difference is that one of you asked permission from my father,” I said, “and the other just took me. I’m still deciding which one feels worse.”
The muscle at the corner of his jaw tightened once, then smoothed. He didn’t look away.
“You’re free to hate me for the method,” he said. “You’re not free to leave.”
“Yet.”
His eyes held mine. “Yet.”
The word landed like a door closing.
I turned away first and walked to the window. Forty-three floors down, ordinary people moved through ordinary mornings. I pressed my fingertips to the glass and felt the residual tremor still living in my hands. Behind me I heard him pick up the phone again. A short, low conversation. No raised voice or wasted words. Then silence.
When I glanced back he was watching me, phone still in his hand.
“Sophia called your number six times last night,” he said. “Marcus called eight. I had both of them redirected.”
My stomach dropped. “You can’t just…”
“I can. And I did.” He set the phone down. The sound was soft and final. “Sophia is safe for now. Marcus is being kept busy with problems that have nothing to do with you. Neither of them will reach you until I decide it’s useful.”
The casual power in the statement made my skin prickle. Not only with anger. There was something colder underneath it, the reminder that he had the reach to rearrange other people’s lives with a few quiet orders, and that he had already done it while I slept.
I hated that my body still remembered the weight of him from the night before. Hated that the mark on my neck pulsed when his voice dropped like that. Hated that part of me was already measuring the exact distance between us and how quickly he could close it.
“I need to work,” I said. “I have client deadlines.”
“You’ll have a laptop this afternoon. Filtered and monitored.”
“Of course it is.”
He almost smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. It looked more like a man acknowledging a move in a game he already controlled.
I drank the coffee even though it had gone lukewarm. The silence stretched. I could feel him studying the way I stood, the tension in my shoulders, the careful way I kept my weight balanced like I might need to move quickly.
“You’re still fighting it,” he said quietly.
“Fighting what.”
“The part of you that didn’t want me to stop last night.”
Heat climbed my throat. I kept my face turned toward the glass so he wouldn’t see it fully.
“I told you,” I said. “My body and I are not the same thing.”
“I heard you.” His voice was closer now. I hadn’t heard him move. “I also felt how hard you came when I refused to let you pretend otherwise.”
I closed my eyes for one second. The memory landed low and immediate, the glass against my back, his mouth, the helpless way my hips had moved. My thighs pressed together before I could stop them.
When I opened my eyes he was standing only a few feet away. Close enough that I could catch the faint scent of his skin. Close enough that the air between us felt charged.
“There’s more you need to know,” he said. “About why I left. About what your father actually agreed to. About the people still waiting for me to fail so they can take you.”
I turned to face him fully. My pulse was too loud.
“Then tell me.”
“I will.” He held my gaze. There was no softness in it. Only certainty. “But not while you’re standing there pretending last night didn’t change the ground under both of us.”
The mark on my neck felt like a brand. I could still feel the exact places his hands had held me, the exact moment he had stopped being careful.
“You don’t get to decide what last night meant,” I said.
“No,” he agreed. “But I get to decide how long you stay in this apartment while we both figure it out.”
He walked past me toward the hallway, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed mine. The heat of him passed over my skin like a physical touch. He didn’t look back.
“Laptop by noon,” he said. “Don’t test the elevators again. The outcome will be different from last night.”
The words were quiet. They still carried the clear weight of a promise he intended to keep.
I stood alone in the wide, sunlit space with the city sprawled beneath me and the residual ache between my legs and the cold knowledge that my father had sold me before I even knew what the word meant.
And underneath all of it, quieter and more dangerous, was the part of me that had woken up reaching for the empty side of the bed.
I pressed my palm flat against the glass and stared at my own reflection.
I looked like someone who had already lost ground she wasn’t ready to admit she’d lost.
Somewhere deeper in the penthouse I heard a door close. The sound was soft. Absolute.
I stayed at the window until the coffee in my hand went completely cold, until the tremor in my fingers finally slowed, until the only thing left was the low, constant awareness that the man who had taken me last night was still in the same building and that every exit still belonged to him.
I did not test the elevators.
Not yet.
But the thought of what he had promised if I did sat low in my stomach like heat and fear tangled too tightly to separate.
I turned away from the glass and walked back toward the bedroom, the mark on my neck pulsing with every step, and tried not to wonder how long I could stay in this place before I stopped pretending the danger was only coming from outside.
