The car moved like a whisper through the city, silent and deliberate. Rain tapped against the windows in a rhythm that echoed Aria's heart—steady, anxious, trapped.
Julian hadn't spoken a word since they left the precinct.
Neither had she.
The interior of the car was sleek, dark leather and chrome—cold, sterile, expensive. A perfect reflection of the man beside her.
Aria sat rigid, hands folded tightly in her lap, still wearing the black dress his assistant had given her. It clung to her frame like a second skin—simple, elegant, clearly designed to remind her of one thing: she didn't choose this. Not even the fabric on her body.
She shifted slightly, feeling the subtle buzz of his gaze on her skin.
"Where are we going?" she finally asked, her voice low but sharp.
Julian's eyes flicked toward her, cool and unreadable. "Home."
Her stomach twisted. "Yours?"
He didn't bother answering. Of course it was his.
She looked out the window, jaw clenched, trying to steel herself for whatever came next. The city blurred past them, the skyline glittering with secrets she no longer had the luxury to ignore.
She wasn't the same Aria Hale who stepped onto the gala red carpet just twelve hours ago.
That Aria was untouchable. Accomplished. Free.
This Aria had signed herself into captivity.
—
The penthouse was a fortress.
Glass, marble, and shadows.
Julian's driver opened the car door, and Aria stepped into the private garage on trembling legs. Every step she took echoed, like the walls themselves were watching her. The elevator opened with a soft chime, and Julian gestured for her to enter.
She hesitated. Just long enough for him to notice.
"One step in and you're already hesitating?" he said, voice like smooth ice. "This will be a long sixty days."
She didn't answer. Didn't give him the satisfaction. She stepped inside, the doors sliding shut behind them with a hiss that felt final.
As the elevator ascended, silence stretched between them like a noose.
Julian didn't look at her.
But she felt him.
Every breath. Every thought. Like gravity had realigned and now orbited around the man who had always known exactly where her weaknesses lived.
When the doors opened, the space that greeted her stole what little breath she had left.
The penthouse was massive—glass walls wrapped around a wide-open living space that glowed with dim golden lighting. The floors were polished stone, the furniture black and steel. The skyline stretched beyond the glass like a cage of stars.
"Welcome," Julian said, stepping past her, shedding his coat with casual precision. "You'll stay here for the duration."
Her eyes tracked the room like she was planning an escape route. "Do you expect me to sleep in your bed too?"
His gaze cut to her. "No. Not unless I ask you to."
The pause that followed said everything.
"But you will be here. At all times. No unsupervised outings, no calls without permission. You follow my rules. Every one of them."
She crossed her arms. "You want a pet. Not a woman."
"I want control," he said without flinching. "You agreed to that."
"No," she snapped. "I agreed to survive. That's not the same."
His eyes narrowed slightly, and for a moment, the mask slipped. Just a flicker. Just enough for her to see it.
Beneath the ice, Julian Devereux was still burning.
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. "You want to survive, Aria? Then I suggest you learn the difference between resistance and recklessness."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a reminder," he said. "That I'm the one holding the key now."
Aria's throat tightened. She hated how easily the words sank into her skin. How her body remembered the man he used to be. The one who touched her like she belonged to no one else. The one who ruined her without laying a finger on her.
Julian turned away, walking toward a sleek bar in the corner of the room.
"You'll sleep in the guest room down the hall. There's a schedule for your days. Workouts at six. Language lessons at ten. Dinner at eight."
"Language lessons?"
He poured himself a drink. "French. Spanish. Russian, if we have time."
"Why?"
"Because obedience begins with understanding. I don't want to have to repeat myself."
She stared at him. "You're insane."
He took a slow sip, eyes fixed on her over the rim of the glass. "And you're mine for the next sixty days. So, I suggest you adjust."
She took a step forward, heat rising in her chest. "You think this makes you powerful? Keeping me here like some… possession?"
He tilted his head. "You are a possession."
Her hand moved before she could stop it.
The slap echoed through the space like a gunshot.
Julian's head jerked slightly, his cheek reddening from the contact. He blinked once. Twice.
Then he smiled.
"You always did hit like fire," he said softly.
Before she could retreat, he reached for her wrist—gently, but with the weight of iron—and pulled her toward him. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to own the space between them.
"You want to play dangerous?" he murmured, his breath brushing her lips. "Then don't be surprised when the rules cut deeper than you expect."
"I won't be scared of you," she whispered.
"I don't need your fear, Aria," he said. "I want your surrender."
She yanked her arm back, but her heart betrayed her—racing, stuttering, aching. She couldn't let him see it. Couldn't let him know that part of her—the traitorous, broken part—still remembered how it felt to be beneath his gaze. Still burned with the ghost of his touch.
Julian stepped back, loosening the knot in his tie.
"You have ten minutes to get changed. Clothes are in the closet. You'll wear what I've provided."
She didn't move.
He raised a brow. "Ten, Aria. Or I pick for you."
She turned and walked away without a word.
—
The guest room was colder than she expected. Sleek. Gray. Expensive. And lifeless.
The closet had been stocked: designer clothing, heels, lingerie she would never have chosen. All in her size. Of course he'd remembered.
She changed into a black silk slip dress, hating how it felt on her skin. Hating more how it hugged her curves in a way Julian had once memorized with his hands.
When she returned to the living room, Julian didn't look up. He was seated on the couch, typing something on his phone.
"You're late," he said without glancing at her.
"It's been twelve minutes."
"I said ten."
She clenched her teeth. "What happens if I don't follow the rules?"
His eyes lifted to hers, silver and sharp. "Then I rewrite the rules."
She didn't reply.
Instead, she stood there—barefoot, sleepless, furious—and waited. For what, she didn't know.
He stood, smoothing his sleeves, and approached her. Close. Closer. Until he could have reached out and undone her all over again.
"You're in my world now," he said quietly. "And I'm not the man you left behind."
"I never belonged in your world," she whispered.
Julian studied her like she was a problem he already knew the solution to. "Then you shouldn't have come back to it."
His fingers brushed her jaw. Just once. Just enough to make her inhale sharply.
"But since you did," he murmured, "I'll remind you exactly how it feels to be mine."
And with that, he turned and walked away—leaving her heart pounding, her skin burning, and her freedom fading into the shadows of his command.