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She doesn't move at first, weighing her options, calculating the cost of defiance against the price of surrender. Then, slowly, her hands reach for the lid of the top box.

She lifts it open, tissue paper rustling beneathher fingers. Her expression shifts as she brushes the fabric inside—silk, deep wine red, delicate straps that would look perfect against her skin.

I watch her closely—the way her throat moves when she swallows, the way her breath slows, the way her pride curls up at the edges even as her body betrays her with a whispered yes.

"It's not my color," she says, but there's no conviction behind the words.

"Try it anyway."

Our eyes meet, a silent battle of wills. Then she drops her gaze, fingers still tracing the silk.

"Fine. But not because you told me to. Because I'm tired of wearing your shirts."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself," I reply, the corner of my mouth lifting.

She doesn't look at me when she turns. She walks toward the hallway without another word, box in hand like a shield she's claiming for herself.

When she disappears into the bedroom, I let the smile pull at the corner of my mouth—sharp, quiet, satisfied. She thinks she won a battle.

But she's wrong.

Twenty-One

LUNA

The dress slidesover my skin like water, clinging to the curve of my hips and hugging my waist with practiced elegance. The silk whispers against bruises I haven't dared to look at, its touch both comfort and reminder. Deep wine red, and I know without asking that its color wasn't chosen by accident. Everything about it speaks of intention. Soft. Expensive. Dangerous.

Like the man who gave it to me.

I tug the thin strap over my shoulder and stare at myself in the mirror, surprised by the woman looking back. My eyes look clearer this morning. Not calm—just sharpened. Focused. Like my brain has finally caught up to the rest of me and remembered why I came here in the first place.

This was never about sex. Never about being claimed. It was supposed to be about freedom. About escape. About survival. And somehow, I've ended up in the last place I everwanted to be—owned by a man. Except this one is different. This one doesn't need to raise his voice or lose his temper to make me drop to my knees. He just has to give me a single look.

But that's fine. Let him think he's won. Let him look at me in this dress he chose, this dress that feels like a second skin, and think he's wearing down the last parts of me that still know how to fight.

Because I'm going to smile. I'm going to obey. And when the moment comes?

I'm going to steal enough money from him and then I'm going to run.

I adjust the neckline one last time, smoothing the fabric down over my stomach before drawing in a deep, steadying breath. But I lift my chin. Roll my shoulders back. And walk out of the room like I haven't already decided to burn it all down.

He's sitting at the kitchen island when I walk in—not at the table or on the couch, but perched on a tall, black stool with leather stitched into the seat and steel beneath the frame. The piece is minimal, cold, and somehow perfect for him. He's leaned back against the counter, legs spread, forearms resting on his thighs, sculpted abs still on full display, blue eyes down like he's still focused on whatever task had his attention before I stepped in.

So annoyingly and devastatingly handsome.

I feel the exact moment he senses me. His head lifts slowly, and when his gaze finally lands on me, it doesn't drift or wander—it devours. His eyes drag over the dress like he's watching it bleed onto my skin, like he already knows precisely how he's going to take it off.

I don't look away. I meet him head-on—controlled, careful,unwilling to show even a hint of weakness. Every step I take across the marble floor is measured, my heels clicking softly with each move, the hem of the dress swaying just above my knees like it doesn't know it was chosen for someone else's pleasure.

When I stop a few feet from him, I fold my arms across my chest in silent challenge.

He doesn't speak at first. Just sits there and watches me like he's waiting for something to give, for the first crack to appear in my carefully constructed façade.

Then, finally, he nods to the floor. "Turn around."

I arch a brow, refusing to immediately comply. "Excuse me?"

"Let me see what I bought." His voice carries no apology, no hesitation.