Aria didn't sleep.
She lay in bed, the contract folder still clutched to her chest like a loaded weapon.
Thirty days.
She could survive anything for thirty days… right?
Wrong.
Because surviving Leon Castellan wasn't as simple as endurance. He didn't just want compliance.
He wanted control.
And Aria James had never been good at taking orders.
By morning, she was dressed and ready, wearing the most neutral outfit she owned—black slacks, a cream blouse, and flats. No heels. No makeup. No effort.
If Leon expected arm candy, he could look elsewhere.
A sleek black town car pulled up to her apartment at exactly 8:00 a.m. A silent, suited driver opened the door without a word.
Typical.
Aria climbed in, spine stiff. The ride was silent except for the soft hum of jazz playing from the speakers.
When they arrived at the towering glass facade of Castellan Tower, the doorman didn't even blink. The elevator required a keycard to reach the penthouse. Apparently, she was expected.
The top floor opened into another world.
Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the massive space in pale morning light. Everything was cold and modern—steel, marble, glass. Clean. Precise. Like him.
Leon stood near the window, one hand in his pocket, a coffee in the other. He didn't turn when she stepped in.
"You're late."
Aria glanced at her phone. "It's 8:03."
His voice was calm. "I said eight."
"Sorry. I had to mourn the last shred of my dignity."
That got his attention.
He turned slowly, grey eyes scanning her from head to toe. Not with lust. Not even appreciation. It was calculation. Like he was inventorying a new asset.
"You're under contract now," he said. "And there are rules."
She folded her arms. "Like what?"
Leon set down his coffee and walked toward her—measured, deliberate, quiet. She held her ground even as he stopped barely a foot away.
"The first rule," he said, voice low, "is obedience."
Aria scoffed. "You want a pet, not a person."
He raised an eyebrow. "You agreed to this."
"I agreed to a date. Not indentured servitude."
Leon reached into his jacket and pulled out a small black card, placing it in her hand.
"Your wardrobe, makeup, and hair will be handled by my staff. You'll be photographed, questioned, followed. What you wear, what you say—it all reflects on me now. So you'll follow my lead."
Aria glanced at the card. $250,000 limit. No name. Just the Castellan logo.
"What am I supposed to be?" she asked. "Your girlfriend?"
He smiled faintly. "Not quite."
"Then what?"
Leon leaned in slightly, and though he didn't touch her, his voice brushed her skin like silk wrapped in steel.
"You're mine. For thirty days, that's all anyone needs to know."
Her breath caught.
She hated how calm he was. How every word felt rehearsed—controlled.
"How many women have signed that same contract?" she asked, lifting her chin.
He didn't answer.
Which said enough.
"Fine," Aria snapped. "But I have rules too."
Leon blinked, as if the idea of her setting boundaries was amusing.
"I'm not your toy," she said. "I don't share a bed. I don't play submissive. And I don't stay quiet if you treat me like a thing."
Leon studied her for a long moment, and something flickered behind his eyes. Not anger. Not amusement.
Curiosity.
Then, to her surprise, he nodded. "We'll see."
He turned and walked toward a hallway she hadn't noticed. "You'll be staying here. Second door on the left. My room is at the end of the hall. Don't enter it without permission."
"So I'm not even allowed in your bedroom?" she called.
Leon paused. His voice was soft, but laced with something darker.
"No one is."
Then he disappeared behind a door, and she was left standing alone—with a black card, a luxury cage, and a contract with a man who saw everything as property.
Even her.