The first night should've been the hardest.
But it wasn't.
Because Aria didn't sleep at all.
She lay on the guest bed in the penthouse—cold, wide, and untouched—staring up at the smooth, black ceiling that mirrored the emptiness in her chest. Every sound, every shift of the walls, reminded her she wasn't alone. Not really.
Somewhere down the hall, Julian was asleep.
Or pretending to be.
She knew him too well to believe he ever truly let his guard down.
At 3:27 a.m., Aria slipped from the bed. The silk slip clung to her thighs as she padded barefoot to the window. The skyline beyond was a cage of stars, glass reflections casting twin shadows across the city.
It was beautiful.
And it was suffocating.
She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, memories clawing their way up her throat.
Five years ago, she stood at another window, in another penthouse, wearing nothing but Julian's shirt and his promises. He had whispered them against her skin, pressed them into her mouth like gospel.
"I'll never let anything happen to you."
But he had.
He let her fall.
And now he was the one holding the leash.
A sick part of her had known it would come to this. That he'd never forget. That he'd never forgive her for walking away.
What she hadn't expected was the part of her that still felt tethered to him—still burned with the memory of his mouth, his hands, his voice in the dark.
She closed her eyes, desperate to shake it off.
But the silence didn't help.
Because in silence, Julian's presence was loudest.
—
At 6:00 a.m. sharp, the door to her room opened without warning.
Aria jerked upright in bed, breath caught in her throat. She hadn't even heard footsteps.
Julian stood in the doorway, dressed in a fitted black shirt and slacks, the cuffs of his sleeves rolled up with precision. His expression was unreadable. Remote.
"You're late," he said.
"I didn't know I was being timed."
"You're always being timed," he replied. "Dress. Come upstairs."
She blinked. "There's an upstairs?"
He didn't answer.
Just turned and walked away.
Aria gritted her teeth, rose from the bed, and threw on the dark leggings and simple tank top folded neatly on the chair. She didn't even question how he knew her size.
Of course he did.
She followed the winding staircase up to the second level of the penthouse, where floor-to-ceiling glass enclosed a fully equipped private gym. The morning sun cut through the windows in long golden beams, casting shadows that sliced through the space like razors.
Julian stood near a set of mats, hands behind his back.
"Warm up," he said. "We begin in two minutes."
"What exactly are we doing?" she asked warily.
"Training."
She raised a brow. "For what? Are you expecting me to join a fight club?"
His eyes didn't flicker. "Self-defense. Balance. Discipline."
"You think I need discipline?"
"I think you're out of control," he said smoothly. "And that makes you dangerous."
She laughed once, short and bitter. "You have no idea how dangerous I can be."
His lips twitched. Almost a smile. "Good. Prove it."
—
The next hour was hell.
Julian didn't speak unless it was to correct her form or issue another impossible demand. Push-ups, squats, sparring drills she barely remembered from years ago. Every movement was deliberate. Calculated.
And every time he touched her—brief corrections, a firm hand guiding her spine, fingers brushing her hip—it lit a fuse under her skin.
By the time he threw her a towel, her breath was ragged, hair clinging to her neck, every muscle burning.
"You're rusty," he said. "But not hopeless."
"High praise," she muttered.
He stepped closer, lifting her chin with two fingers. "You'll need more than sarcasm to survive in this world, Aria."
"I survived without you for five years," she snapped.
"But not cleanly," he murmured. "You didn't come back whole."
Her stomach flipped.
Julian's gaze held hers—steady, suffocating.
Then he released her.
"Shower. Breakfast is in twenty minutes. Don't be late."
—
She stood under the water for longer than necessary, letting the steam scald the shame from her skin.
Julian was right. She hadn't come back whole.
But not for the reasons he believed.
There were cracks in her no one could see—hairline fractures that had spread quietly over time. Her sister's betrayal. Her father's death. The inheritance war that had left her scrambling to stay above water in a city that devoured weakness.
Julian thought she'd come back because she wanted him.
But he was only the lesser evil.
For now.
—
The dining table was long, cold steel. One end held a simple plate of eggs and toast. At the other, Julian read the paper with the same disinterest he used to unnerve boardrooms.
Aria took the seat across from him.
"Is this part of the show too?" she asked, sipping her black coffee. "Domestic civility?"
Julian turned the page. "There's no show, Aria. Just rules. And consequences."
She snorted. "You always did love control."
"And you always did love testing it."
Their eyes locked across the table.
Something electric simmered beneath the surface.
"You said I wasn't allowed to leave," she said, voice quieter now. "What does that actually mean?"
He folded the paper. "You don't go anywhere without me."
"And if I do?"
He smiled. But it didn't reach his eyes. "You won't."
The implication was clear.
She was a prisoner in everything but name.
—
Later that day, he took her to his office.
Not at the Devereux Holdings tower—but the private one. Hidden behind layers of security, tucked into a brutalist structure of steel and concrete at the edge of the river.
The elevator opened into a chamber of glass and stone. Stark. Impenetrable.
Julian's assistant—Sophie, poised and wordless—handed Aria a tablet. "You'll be reviewing internal contracts and tracing old acquisition reports. He wants you up to speed."
Aria blinked. "I'm not your employee."
Sophie smiled politely. "No. You're his project."
Julian's voice carried from his office doorway. "Come."
Aria followed him inside, where the walls were lined with shelves of black-bound documents, and a single painting hung above the fireplace—abstract and violent. Red slashes across a field of white.
"You're putting me to work now?" she asked, raising a brow.
"You have a sharp mind," Julian said, sitting at his desk. "I intend to keep it sharp."
"Is that what this is?" She held up the tablet. "Mental obedience?"
"No," he said. "This is a leash."
Her fingers tightened around the glass.
"Your assets," he continued calmly, "are frozen until the end of the contract. You'll be paid a weekly stipend. And you'll earn freedom one hour at a time."
She stared at him, stunned.
"You're serious."
"I've never been anything else."
Aria's jaw clenched. "You're trying to break me."
Julian leaned back, eyes narrowing. "No, Aria. I'm trying to see if anything inside you is still real."
The words cut deeper than she expected.
Because she didn't have an answer.
—
That night, she didn't try to sleep.
She sat on the balcony instead, wrapped in one of his coats, legs pulled to her chest as the wind carved against her skin.
Julian's world was a machine. A perfect, terrifying machine.
And she had become a gear inside it.
Somewhere between anger and exhaustion, she whispered to the wind:
"I won't be his forever."
But even as the words left her lips, they didn't feel like a promise.
They felt like a lie.