The return to New York felt like stepping back into a familiar prison. But the bars had been rearranged. Everything looked the same. The gleaming towers of Manhattan. The marble lobby of Drake Enterprises. Her desk in the assistant pool. But something fundamental had shifted in the three days they'd been gone.
Or maybe it was just her perception. Colored by memory. Egyptian cotton sheets. Whispered confessions in Parisian darkness. Then the brutal reality. Lucien's cold indifference the morning after.
The Paris meetings had been successful. Business-wise. The Dubois family had been charmed. By Lucien's stability. His sophistication. Impressed by his "lovely assistant." She spoke intelligently about market trends. Economic policy. They'd signed the merger agreement. Over champagne lunch at Le Meurice. Toasting a new chapter.
Ava had played her part perfectly. Smiling at the right moments. Asking thoughtful questions. Allowing assumptions about her relationship with Lucien. But inside, she felt hollow. Going through the motions. Her mind replaying every moment of their night. Every cold word afterward.
Now, sitting at her desk Monday morning. A stack of correspondence waited. She tried to convince herself. Things could return to normal. She could be his efficient assistant again. He could be the demanding but predictable boss.
She should have known better.
"Miss Lane." His voice came from directly behind her chair. Making her jump. She hadn't heard him approach. That predatory silence. Now it carried new implications. Her skin crawled with awareness.
"Yes, Mr. Drake?" She turned to face him. Expression neutral. Professional.
"My office. Bring the Morrison Industries file. The quarterly projections."
A normal request. His usual authoritative tone. But something different in his dark eyes. As they moved over her face. A possessive intensity. Her stomach clenched. Dread. Unwanted attraction.
She gathered the files. Followed him into his office. He closed the door behind them. More force than necessary. The click of the lock echoed.
"Sit." A command. The chair across from his desk.
Ava perched on the edge. Acutely aware of his presence. He moved around to his side. But didn't sit. Stood behind his chair. Hands braced on the leather back. Studying her. An expression that made her want to squirm.
"Tell me about your conversation with James from accounting."
The question came from nowhere. A tone suggesting he knew more than he was saying. Ava blinked in confusion.
"I'm sorry?"
"This morning. By the elevators. You were laughing about something." Deceptively calm. Steel beneath the surface. "What was so amusing?"
The memory rushed back. A brief, innocuous conversation. Weekend plans. The weather. A joke about Monday morning blues. She'd laughed politely.
"He was just commenting. Nothing important."
"Nothing important." Lucien repeated the words. Finding them inadequate. "Yet you felt the need to touch his arm while you laughed."
Ice formed in her stomach. Had she touched his arm? The interaction was so brief. Meaningless. But he spoke with certainty. Someone who had observed every gesture.
"I don't remember touching him."
"Don't you?" He moved around the desk toward her. Each step deliberate. Predatory. "I have a very clear memory. Watching you place your hand on his forearm. During your little joke."
An innocent gesture sounded sordid. Heat rose in her cheeks. Embarrassment. Anger.
"If I did, it was completely innocent. A casual gesture."
"Casual." His voice went dangerously quiet. "There's nothing casual about the way other men look at you, Ava. Nothing casual about their excuses. To talk to you. To make you smile."
He was close now. She had to tilt her head back. The intensity in his eyes was overwhelming. Possessive. Prey being stalked.
"James was being friendly. That's all."
"Friendly." His lips curved. A predatory smile. "Is that what we're calling it? When men try to stake a claim. On what belongs to me?"
Belongs to me. The casual possessiveness stiffened her spine. Anger. Something else.
"I don't belong to you." They both knew it wasn't entirely true. "James wasn't staking a claim. It was small talk."
"Was he?" He reached out. Traced a finger along her jawline. Gentle. Threatening. "From where I was standing, he looked like a man testing boundaries. Seeing how receptive you might be. To friendlier overtures."
The accusation was ridiculous. But his absolute conviction made her wonder. Had she missed something? Had she encouraged him?
"You're being paranoid." The words came out less certain.
"Am I?" His thumb brushed her lower lip. She fought the urge to pull away. "Or am I being realistic? Every man in this building has noticed. Lucien Drake's beautiful assistant has become more... accessible since Paris."
Heat flooded her face. "Accessible?"
"You're different now. Softer. More vulnerable. Men sense these things, Ava. They smell opportunity. Like sharks smell blood."
The comparison made her flinch. But his tone held genuine concern. As if he believed other men were a threat. It would be touching if it wasn't so controlling.
"I think you're projecting." She met his gaze steadily. "You're the one who sees me differently. You assume everyone else does too."
Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise? Recognition? Gone instantly. Replaced by cold control.
"Perhaps." He stepped back. Moved to his desk drawer. "But I'd rather be overly cautious. Than naive about human nature."
He pulled out her phone. Her personal phone. From her purse. Set it on the desk. The sight made her stomach drop.
"What are you doing with that?"
"Making improvements." He swiped it open. Knew her passcode. "Your security was inadequate. Anyone could access your information. Your contacts. Your location data."
"My location data?" Ice through her veins. "Why?"
"Because you work for me." As if it were obvious. "You have access to sensitive information. There are people who would get close to you. To get close to me."
It sounded reasonable. A security concern. But his fingers moving across her screen felt like a violation.
"What kind of improvements?" Afraid of the answer.
"Encryption software. Enhanced firewall. A tracking application. To monitor your location. Your communications. In real time." He looked up. Expression neutral. "Standard security protocols. For your level of access."
Standard. As if tracking her was a corporate policy. Like a dress code.
"I don't think that's necessary—"
"I didn't ask what you think." A smooth interruption. "This isn't a discussion, Ava. It's a notification. New security measures. Now in effect."
He handed the phone back. She took it with trembling fingers. It looked the same. But fundamentally different now. Every text. Every call. Every step. Monitored. Recorded.
"This is insane." A whisper.
"This is practical." A correction. "I need to know where you are. At all times. What you're doing. Who you're talking to. It's the only way. To ensure your safety. The company's security."
He said it calm. Rational. Matter-of-fact. Almost making it sound reasonable. Almost.
"And if I refuse to carry it?"
His smile was sharp as a blade. "Then you'll find yourself unemployed. Uninsured. Watching your mother return to a state facility. Where the nursing care is... less attentive."
The threat was casual. Like discussing lunch. The implications were clear. Comply. Or lose everything.
Ava stared at the phone. Feeling its weight like chains. Every app. Another bar in the cage.
"I see you understand the situation." He moved back to his chair. "Excellent. I have calls before the board meeting. Return to your desk."
A casual dismissal. As if they discussed budgets. Not the invasion of her privacy. She stood on unsteady legs. Moved toward the door. Clutching the phone. Evidence of her captivity.
"Oh, and Ava?" His voice stopped her at the door.
She turned back. A foolish hope. For an explanation. Reassurance.
He looked at her with those dark, possessive eyes. His voice soft as silk. Cold as winter.
"Now I'll always know where my property is."
The words were physical blows. A reminder of her place. Not his employee. Not his lover. His property. Tracked. Monitored. Controlled.
She left his office. Returned to her desk. The phone burned in her hand. A brand. She set it down carefully. Tried to focus on her work.
But all she could think about was the tracking application. Running silently. Reporting her location. To the man who owned her.
The worst part wasn't the violation. Or the threat about her mother. The worst part was a small, tra
itorous voice. Whispering that this might be love. Twisted by power. Obsession.
She was no longer sure she had the strength to fight it.