The elevator doors slid open with a neat little chime, cutting through the heat of the moment like a knife. Emily blinked hard. The spell shattered.
Alexander stepped back at once—too quick, almost like he'd caught himself. That look in his eyes, the one that had burned straight through her—gone. In its place: calm, control, indifference so sharp it felt like maybe she'd imagined the whole thing.
"Sleep well, Emily." His voice was polite, almost cold. "We have an early meeting tomorrow."
And then he was already walking down the hallway, hands in his pockets like nothing had happened, leaving her frozen in the elevator with her heart still pounding against her ribs.
She barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, the elevator scene replayed. His breath on her lips. That low, rough voice promising—threatening—that kiss. It tangled itself into her head until she wasn't sure if she wanted to scream or… or lean into it.
By morning, she'd convinced herself it hadn't been real. Not really. Alexander Drake was a master of manipulation. He knew exactly how to weaponize tension, how to pin someone with a look until they forgot their own name. The elevator wasn't intimacy—it was strategy. Just another play in his endless game of control.
She got dressed anyway, sliding into the designer clothes that had magically appeared in her closet overnight. A silk blouse, black trousers, perfectly fitted. Too perfect. Her exact size. The thought made her stomach twist—had someone measured her while she slept? Or was Alexander just that good at predicting people? Neither answer made her feel safe.
Emily braced herself for him—another immaculate suit, agenda in hand, that practiced authority he wore like armor.
But when she stepped onto the terrace, she stopped short.
Alexander wasn't in a suit. He wasn't even trying. Jeans, a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Sitting at a small iron table like he'd been there forever. Coffee in a plain mug. Tablet in hand.
The sunlight caught his hair, softer now, and for a second—just a second—he looked almost human.
"Good morning," she said, slower than she meant to, unsure if she was intruding.
He looked up. Smiled—not sharp, not predatory, but… relaxed. "Emily. Didn't think you'd be up yet. It's barely eight. Europeans, you know—they take mornings slow."
"I'm still on New York time," she muttered, sitting across from him. The view stole her breath for a moment: the harbor full of yachts, the water burning gold with morning light, the whole principality glittering like a crown.
"Coffee?" he asked, already reaching for the pot.
"Please."
He poured it himself. Not a servant, not some faceless staff member. Him. His hands were steady, precise. She noticed the veins along his forearm, the way his wrist flexed as he tipped the pot. Ridiculous, she thought, that she could notice something so normal and find it disarming.
She wrapped her fingers around the porcelain cup. It was warm, grounding. "So. What's the plan for today? Another gala? Do I get to play the mysterious plus-one while you talk business and ignore me?"
His mouth curved, faint amusement flickering there. "Actually… no. I thought we'd take the day. Do something normal. There are museums here worth seeing. Or the yacht, if you'd prefer the water." He tilted his head. "When was the last time you did something purely for fun?"
Emily blinked. The question was so simple it caught her off guard. "I… don't know. I guess… I don't."
"That's what I thought." He leaned back, studying her, but the intensity wasn't there. He seemed—lighter. "You've been in survival mode too long. Always working, always hustling. When did you last take a real vacation? One that wasn't about fixing someone else's crisis?"
She frowned, trying to remember. College, maybe. Summer job right after. Nothing since. "A long time ago."
"Then museums," he said simply. "Oceanographic's worth it. The gardens, too. Views you won't forget."
She narrowed her eyes. Suspicion prickled. "Why are you being nice to me?"
Something shifted in his face. Guarded now. Careful. "I'm always nice to my acquisitions."
The word hit her like ice water.
Emily set her cup down too fast; coffee sloshed over the rim, staining the saucer. "Your… acquisition."
"Emily—"
"No." Her voice cracked, heat flooding her chest. "You're right. Silly me. I thought we were having an actual conversation. Forgot for a second that I'm just… the latest thing in your collection."
His jaw clenched. "You're oversimplifying—"
"Am I? You see something you want, you take it, and then you lock it up and tell yourself you're generous for gilding the cage." She pushed her chair back with a screech. "Congratulations, Alexander. Point made. I remember my place."
She turned toward the door.
"Sit down."
The command sliced through the morning air.
Emily froze. "Excuse me?"
"I said sit down. We're not finished."
Her pulse jumped. Her hands shook, but she lifted her chin. "Actually, we are. I may be stuck here as your… whatever I am. But I don't have to play along."
He stood then, too smoothly, too controlled. Gone was the man in jeans and sunlight. In his place: the predator. Every inch of him radiating authority.
"You'll sit," he said evenly, "because I'm telling you to. And you'll adjust your tone, because tantrums don't change reality."
"My reality?" Her laugh came out brittle. "You mean my prison."
"Your elevation." His voice was steel. "Last week you were serving burnt coffee in Brooklyn. Today you're drinking champagne in Monaco. That's not prison, Emily. That's progress."
She stared at him. "Most people would call it kidnapping."
His smile cut like glass. "Call it what you like. Doesn't change what it is."
The man she'd glimpsed earlier—the one pouring coffee, sleeves rolled, sunlight softening his edges—was gone. All that remained was the ruthless CEO, the collector who spoke of her life like it was a stock he owned.
"I need air," she whispered.
"The terrace has plenty."
"I need air away from you."
He watched her, still, unreadable. Then: a sharp nod. "Fine. Don't leave the hotel."
She left without answering.
The rest of the day was avoidance. She drifted through the hotel like a ghost—spa, library, pool—while he vanished into "business." Dinner was polite, almost civil, but the silence between them felt heavy, dangerous.
By nightfall, she couldn't take it anymore. The suite walls pressed in, the knowledge that he was just down the hall pressing harder. She needed out.
So she changed—jeans, sneakers, sweater. Clothes that felt like hers. Clothes that felt like freedom. And she slipped out.
Monaco at night was alive, golden. Streets twisting like secrets. Cafés spilling laughter. She breathed it in, savoring the illusion of choice.
She found a café, small, quiet, tucked in a medieval corner. Ordered wine. Sat outside. For the first time in days, she felt her shoulders unclench.
Then—
"Enjoying yourself?"
Her stomach dropped.
Alexander stood over her table. Same clothes from the morning, but his presence was anything but casual. The air seemed to sharpen around him, and she could feel the other patrons shrinking away without even knowing why.
"Alexander," she said, throat dry. "I was just—"
"Running," he cut in softly. Too soft. "That's what you were doing. Testing me."
"I was getting air. You said I could—"
"On the terrace," he corrected. "Not the streets. Did you really think I wouldn't have you followed?"
Her breath stuttered. "You… had me followed?"
"I had you protected." His eyes gleamed. "There's a difference."
"No," she whispered, standing too quickly, chair scraping. "There isn't. This is insane. You can't control every move I make."
He tilted his head. Smiled that sharp, dangerous smile. "Can't I?"
And then his hand closed around her wrist. Not rough, but unbreakable. He steered her from the café, from the stares, down a narrow alley.
"Let me go," she hissed.
"Not until we're clear." His voice was low, calm, terrifying.
In the shadows, he pinned her against the stone wall, not touching more than he had to, but close enough that escape was impossible.
"You think you have choices," Alexander said, his breath brushing her skin. "You don't."
Her pulse hammered. "This is kidnapping."
"This is protection. From men who'd eat you alive." His gaze burned into hers. "That café? Three men at the bar—traffickers. The guy who bought your wine? Two assault charges. That's the world you're so eager to wander into alone."
"You're lying."
"I'm the only one telling you the truth." His voice dropped lower. "You think I'm the monster? I'm the only thing standing between you and worse ones."
Her chest tightened. "By becoming one yourself?"
His smile was cold. "By being better at it."
He touched her face then, not roughly, almost tender—but his eyes were all possession.
"You'll never get away from me, Emily," he said, voice hoarse, dangerous. "Not because I'll chain you. Because you won't want to."
She wanted to protest. To spit in his face. To demand her freedom. But her body betrayed her, frozen there in the dark, caught between horror and something far, far worse.
"I won't allow you to run," he whispered. "Not from me. Not from what's inevitable."
The stone wall at her back was cold. His body was heat. And Emily realized, sickeningly, terrifyingly, that she wasn't sure she had the strength to fight anymore.