The penthouse was less an apartment and more a shrine to excess. From the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park to the marble floors glowing beneath crystal chandeliers, every detail screamed wealth. White and gold dominated the rooms, flawless and untouchable.
Ava had never felt more misplaced in her life.
The bed alone — vast, velvet, and perfectly dressed — likely cost more than a year's rent at her old place. Yet despite the luxury, she barely slept. Every surface felt too sterile, too curated, as though she were trespassing in a museum.
At 5:45 AM, she stood inside a cavernous walk-in closet stocked with clothing that clearly wasn't hers. Sleek dresses, sharp suits, shoes gleaming under the lights — all in her exact size.
How did he know?
She picked the simplest black dress and blazer, hoping the outfit looked professional enough to withstand Lucien Drake's scrutiny. But the reflection staring back at her in the mirror didn't look like Ava. It looked like an imposter trying on someone else's life.
The Drake International tower loomed harsher in the gray dawn. The lobby was hushed, the marble echoing her cautious heels as she crossed to the elevator and pressed fifty.
Patricia was already behind her desk, immaculate as ever. Ava wondered if the woman ever slept.
"Miss Lane," Patricia said without glancing up. "Mr. Drake is waiting in his private office."
"Private office?"
Patricia's smile was all edges. "Through that door."
If Lucien's main office had been awe-inspiring, this one was something different. Smaller. Darker. Rich mahogany and deep leather gave it an intimacy that made the space feel even more dangerous. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes that looked used rather than decorative.
Lucien was already seated at the desk, clad in a charcoal suit that turned his eyes nearly black. He didn't look up when she entered.
"You're three minutes late," he said quietly.
Ava checked her phone — 6:03 AM. "I'm sorry, I wasn't sure which—"
"Excuses are unacceptable." His eyes lifted at last, their intensity freezing her mid-sentence. "Sit."
Her legs carried her into the chair opposite his desk. She folded her hands tightly, bracing herself.
"We need to establish ground rules," Lucien said, closing the file he had been reviewing. "Expectations must be clear so there is no misunderstanding about what I demand from you."
Ava nodded, though her throat felt dry.
"Rule number four," he said, continuing as if yesterday's conversation had simply paused overnight. "No romantic relationships of any kind."
Her head jerked up. "What?"
"No dating. No boyfriends. No flings." His tone was as casual as if he were reciting office policy. "Your personal life is no longer yours. It belongs to me."
Heat rushed to her face. "That's absurd. You can't control who I— That's illegal."
A low laugh escaped him. "Check your contract, Miss Lane. You signed that your conduct would align with my standards. And romance is… a distraction."
"A distraction from what?" she shot back.
"From me." His gaze sharpened. "Rule number five: no calling in sick. Ever. If you're dying, you'll do it on company time."
"That's insane! What if I actually—"
"Then you medicate and keep working." His voice was steel. "I do not accommodate weakness."
Ava clenched her fists. "These aren't rules. They're—"
"They're what?" His voice dipped low.
Her cheeks burned. "They're controlling."
"Yes." He didn't hesitate. "They are."
The blunt admission stunned her. At least he wasn't pretending this was normal.
"Rule number six," he continued smoothly. "Twenty-four-seven availability. When I call, you answer. When I text, you respond. If I need you, you come. No exceptions."
"What if I'm asleep?"
"Then you wake up."
"What if I'm showering?"
"Then you get out."
"This is crazy," she whispered.
Lucien rose and walked around the desk, stopping directly in front of her. His presence was suffocating. "Rule number seven: your appearance is under my authority. Clothes, hair, makeup. Everything. You represent me, and I expect precision."
Ava shot to her feet, fury igniting past her fear. "That's too far. You don't get to decide what I wear!"
"I already have." His words were calm, absolute. "The items in your closet were selected by my stylist. You'll wear only what I allow."
"And if I refuse?"
His smile was razor-sharp. "You won't."
"You can't force—"
"Can't I?" He leaned closer, fingers brushing over her blazer as though testing its fit. "Your mother's surgery is scheduled for this afternoon. The deposit was considerable. Imagine if there were… complications."
The casual threat landed like ice in her veins.
"You wouldn't," she whispered.
"I would." His touch lingered at her collar, a mix of ownership and warning. "I told you. You belong to me — every part of you."
Ava's rage flared, but her mother's pale face rose unbidden, tethering her. She was trapped.
"I hate you," she whispered.
"No." His thumb grazed her cheek, soft in contrast to his words. "You don't. But you will learn to fear me."
"Why?" Her voice cracked. "Why are you doing this?"
Something flickered in his eyes — vulnerability, quickly shuttered. The mask returned.
"Because I can." He straightened his tie. "Because you gave me the right when you signed. And because you'll endure anything to keep your mother alive."
He turned to the window, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the skyline. "Any more questions about the rules, Miss Lane?"
A hollow ache opened inside her. She felt stripped, hollowed out. "No."
"Good." He didn't face her. "Patricia has today's schedule. Three meetings, a working lunch, and a charity gala tonight."
"I don't have anything for a gala."
"You do now. Check your closet."
Of course. He had thought of everything.
She moved toward the door, desperate for air.
"Miss Lane."
Her hand froze on the handle.
Lucien turned, eyes locking onto hers. His words came soft as velvet, sharp as glass.
"Break a rule," he said, "and I'll punish you myself."
The promise hung heavy between them, charged and dangerous.
Ava fled the office, her pulse racing.
What kind of punishment would a man like Lucien Drake devise?
And why, against all reason, did some small part of her want to know?