Noah's body had almost fully recovered. Back on set, he and Asher worked side by side, moving through lines and blocking with perfect coordination. Every glance and gesture between them seemed effortless, earning constant praise from the director.
But as soon as the day ended and they returned to the apartment, the dynamic shifted. The contract dictated everything—Noah's compliance, his obedience, the limits of his autonomy.
Perhaps it had always been nothing more than a transaction. He shouldn't have allowed himself to feel anything. He shouldn't have hoped.
Days passed like this.
One night, after a long day, Noah returned to the apartment exhausted, barely able to lift his limbs. The instant he pushed the door open, his gaze froze.
In the dim light of the living room, Asher sat on the sofa with a woman pressed close. Her cheeks were flushed, her hand winding around his waist as she murmured, sultry and satisfied, "You… really know how to… I'm completely satisfied."
Noah's chest plummeted. His feet betrayed him, halting mid-step. Instinct screamed at him to turn and run—but Asher's voice called out.
"Stand there."
Noah stopped, his back stiff, refusing to look.
The woman noticed someone had returned. She scrambled to straighten her clothes, whispered a hurried goodbye, and left without glancing back. The scent of perfume and the residue of intimacy hung thick in the air, and Noah felt his chest tighten with a sudden, sharp pain.
He shouldn't have believed what he saw. And yet, seeing Asher bring someone else home—possibly even sharing himself with her—drove a knife into his heart.
Asher's voice cut through the silence, low and commanding. "Come here."
The command was devoid of warmth, but it brooked no refusal. Noah hesitated, rooted to the spot. Asher rose from the sofa, moving behind him, grabbing his arm and pressing him against the wall. His lips descended, forceful and possessive.
The taste on Asher's mouth wasn't familiar—it was laced with someone else's lipstick and perfume. Noah recoiled, a wave of nausea rising.
"Don't touch me!" He pushed with all his strength, voice quivering, tears brimming.
Asher's eyes narrowed, cold and sharp as knives. "Are you refusing me?"
Noah's chest heaved. Fear and stubbornness warred within him. "Yes."
Asher's lips curved in a cruel smile, his steps closing the distance. "Don't forget—you have no right to refuse. You obey. That's all you can do."
The words pierced Noah straight through. Yes. He was nothing but a compliant toy—obedient, powerless, without freedom. Even his heartbeat wasn't his own.
Rage and humiliation surged. Against all reason, he blurted, "Then… break the contract!"
The words shocked him the instant they left his lips. He knew the impossibility of it, the cost it would exact. Yet at that moment, fury and despair had driven him past reason. Every bottled-up emotion spilled out.
Asher froze for a heartbeat, then scoffed. "Break the contract? Do you even understand the consequences? Do you know I could make you disappear from this industry entirely?"
Noah stiffened. Of course he understood. This wasn't a threat—it was fact. Breaking the contract would destroy him completely. Yet he couldn't stop the bitter regret and defiance coursing through him.
Asher's hand slid beneath his shirt. His lips met Noah's again, tasting of someone else, leaving him scrambling, pushing desperately to escape.
He bolted to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him, collapsing against it in a trembling heap. Tears streamed freely.
Outside the door, Asher stood silently, gaze fixed, fingers tensing minutely—but he made no move to follow.
Curled up on the floor, Noah's breath came in short, ragged gasps. He understood, with painful clarity, that whatever hope or affection he had held for Asher had shattered entirely in that instant.
—
Since that night, Noah felt hollowed out, as if someone had siphoned something essential from him.
He never spoke of it again. He didn't confront or question. He simply existed under the same roof, silent, tense. The apartment itself became a place that suffocated him.
Asher remained as cold and domineering as ever, as if nothing had happened. If anything, he became more reckless in asserting his control.
Soon, strangers began appearing in the apartment.
Women in tight dresses, scent of perfume clinging to them, laughter in their voices. Young male models, brash and arrogant, radiating desire.
Noah avoided their gaze, avoided thinking. He left early, returned late, deliberately steering clear of scenes that would wound him further.
He had thought about leaving. But his previous apartment lease had ended. He had nowhere else. And Asher's cold command—"Thinking of moving out? Don't"—suffocated any flicker of resistance.
Noah didn't argue. He knew there was no choice.
Day after day passed.
They still had encounters from time to time—but nothing like before.
Asher no longer teased or coaxed. He demanded, cold and unyielding. The pressure was suffocating. Noah never resisted; he knew resistance was useless. And yet, after every encounter, his chest grew colder, a little more hollow.
Sometimes, he could taste traces of someone else on Asher's lips. It made him sick. He endured it.
Gradually, his body learned to numb itself. He no longer struggled. He no longer hoped. He became a machine, obedient whenever needed.
Even in Asher's arms, he felt superfluous.
When Asher brought people home and Noah happened to be there, the visitors sometimes laughed, appraising him. "So this is your little toy?"
Asher didn't deny it. Didn't explain. Simply replied, flatly: "Mm."
He kept his head down, expressionless, as if hearing nothing. Yet in the room afterward, his hands trembled. His chest ached so sharply he could barely breathe.
—
The faint spark of affection he had felt was dying, extinguished, piece by piece.
He became quiet, withdrawn, speaking less, keeping his distance. Even on set, when asked questions, he smiled faintly and said he was fine.
Only at night, when alone, did he drift into silence.
He stared at the ceiling, eyes vacant, chest cold and aching.
A month passed.
He had grown accustomed to strangers moving through the apartment, to the constant rotation of perfume and alcohol in the air.
Accustomed to Asher's cold demands, his back turned after every encounter, not a word left behind.
His heart had been ground down to emptiness.
No anger. No hope. Only a blank, aching void.
Sometimes, he longed to escape—but there was nowhere to go.
The apartment had become his prison. And he finally understood—he should never have allowed himself to feel.