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"Living with him. Being with him. Whatever this is." She gestures vaguely at me, at the collar, at everything. "What's it like? How does he treat you? Is he... nice?" The word sounds strange in her mouth, as if she can't imagine Beckett Sinclair and 'nice' existing in the same universe.

I let out a breath, trying to find the right words. "He's not mean."

"That is not an answer," she says immediately. "That's like saying a tiger isn't actively mauling you at this exact moment."

"I mean, that's pretty accurate."

She gives me a look and I shrug. "He gives me space," I try again, more earnestly. "I have a studio."

Her brows shoot up at that. "A studio?"

"I've painted more in the last few weeks than I have in months," I admit. "The light is perfect. The supplies are... everything I could want."

"Great," she says flatly. "So you're still in a tower, but now it comes with art supplies. Very 'Disney Rapunzel, but make it Stockholm syndrome.'"

"It's not like that," I protest, though the metaphor hits uncomfortably close.

"Oh, sweetie." Her voice softens with genuine concern. "It is exactly like that. You just can't see it because you're standing too close to the painting."

I pause, pressing the rim of my glass to my lips, the cold biting at the heat blooming in my chest. I know how it sounds. I know what she's thinking. But she wasn't there. She didn't feel what I felt. Didn't see what I saw.

"It's not... bad," I say finally, struggling toarticulate something I barely understand myself. "He has rules, but he doesn't enforce them unless I push. I'm not locked up. I can move around. I can breathe."

"Can you leave?" she asks pointedly.

The question hangs between us, sharp and unavoidable.

I remain silent.

Avery leans back slowly, something like understanding and sadness crossing her face. "That's what I thought."

"I don't want to leave," I say quietly, surprising myself with the truth of it.

"Bullshit," she fires back instantly.

"I don't?—"

"Bull. Shit." She sets her glass down hard enough that the ice clinks and nearby diners glance our way again. "You told me you were doing this to escape. To survive. That you needed freedom. And now you're sitting here with a collar around your neck trying to convince me that captivity just looks better in velvet."

"I'm not captive," I insist, an edge creeping into my voice.

"Then what are you?" she challenges, leaning forward. "What exactly would you call this arrangement?"

I open my mouth, but the words don't come. I don't have the right ones. I don't have the ones that make sense.

Because I don't know anymore.

I was so sure when I walked into that ballroom that I'd make it through the hunt unscathed. That being an Owner's Possession would be awful. So certain this would feel wrong, oppressive, claustrophobic. But Beckett leaves me alone during the day. He gives me space to breathe, to think, to create. And at night, when he takes control, it's not cruel or painful.

It's... consuming. Like being swallowed by a tide I didn't see coming. And maybe that's what scares me more thananything—that I'm not fighting against the current anymore. I'm swimming with it. Embracing it. Enjoying it.

It's not love. It's not even affection. It's gravity.

And I keep falling.

"I'm not in love with him," I say suddenly, needing her to understand at least that much.

Avery raises both brows, surprised by the declaration. "Did I ask that?"