The exit Kael had promised never came.
Instead, his grip changed. What had been a steel band around her waist shifted into something more deliberate, more measured. It felt like he'd decided in an instant: leaving would look like weakness. Staying would look like dominance.
Of course. Because in his world, everything is appearances.
"Change of plans," he murmured against her ear. His voice was velvet wrapped around violence. "We're not leaving. We're making a statement."
A statement. God. What kind of statement?
Before she could answer, he was steering her back toward the dance floor. His pace was so certain, so purposeful, that arguing seemed both futile and dangerous.
"Kael, I don't think—"
"Good." His fingers pressed into her waist, sharp enough to remind her of his control. "Don't think. Just follow my lead."
The orchestra had slipped into something slower now, intimate. Music meant for bodies pressed close, for hands that lingered. As they reached the center of the floor, Kael hauled her against him. No distance. No space.
This isn't polite dancing anymore. This is something else entirely.
His hand spread across the bare skin of her back, hot against her spine like a brand. His other hand caught hers, pinning it against his chest where his heartbeat hammered beneath fine fabric. Proof of how volatile he really was under the polished surface.
He's furious. Completely furious. And I'm trapped against him while five hundred people watch.
"That was reckless," he whispered, his breath hot at her ear. "Dancing with Lucien. Smiling at him. Letting him touch what's mine."
What's mine. Always that. Never who.
"It was just a dance," she managed, though her voice sounded thin.
"It was a declaration." His hand clamped harder on her back, erasing even the smallest sliver of distance. "He was testing me. Seeing if he could take what I've claimed. And you let him."
Let him. Like I had a choice with five hundred eyes on me.
"I didn't—"
"You did." His tone dropped into that whisper sharp enough to cut bone. Her spine snapped straighter. "You let him spin you like a prize. Let him whisper God knows what while I stood there."
Jealousy rolled off him, thick and crackling like static.
"He was being polite," she tried weakly, even though she didn't believe it.
Kael's laugh was jagged, all glass edges. "Lucien Mercier has never been polite. Everything he does is a move to take something. Tonight, it was you."
Take me. As if I'm just another object up for transfer.
"I'm not something to be taken."
"No," he said, and something in his tone made her glance up. "You're far more valuable. Which is why watching him touch you made me want to rip him apart with my hands."
He said it so casually, like discussing dinner plans. It should have chilled her blood—and it did. Yet under the fear was a smaller, sharper feeling she hated to recognize. Satisfaction. That she mattered enough to provoke such rage.
Don't. Don't let yourself be flattered. This is how he gets inside.
"You're overreacting," she said, but his grip made the words feel hollow.
"Am I?" His hand traced her spine, slow, deliberate, like he was counting bones.
Stop. Don't touch me like that.
"I'm not—"
"You are." His lips brushed her ear, feather-light, but she knew better. Kael never did anything by accident. "Your pulse is racing. Breathing shallow. Your body is betraying you."
Stop reading me. Stop peeling me apart.
"That's fear," she snapped, desperate for an explanation that didn't make her complicit.
"Is it?" He pulled back, just enough for her to meet his eyes. What she saw there made her chest seize. Rage. Possession. And something darker—desire tangled in violence until they were indistinguishable. "From here, it looks like something else."
No. Don't make this worse than it already is.
"You looked beautiful with him," Kael continued, his voice smoothing into velvet again. "So beautiful I wanted to burn this building down. To erase the memory of his hands on you."
That's not love. That's madness.
"Kael—"
"Do you know what I'll do to him?" His grip on her hand tightened, pressing her palm against his chest. "For daring to touch what's mine?"
Nothing good. Nothing legal.
"Nothing," she said quickly. "You'll do nothing. It was just a dance. This is all performance, remember?"
For a beat, something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, that she'd thrown his own rules back at him.
"A performance," he echoed, smiling sharp and thin. "Right. None of this is real, is it, angel?"
No. It can't be real.
"It's a contract," she said, clinging to it like a lifeline. "Six months. Pretending. That's all."
"Pretending." He spun her sharply, faster than she could register, pulling her flush against him again. "Is that what you call this?"
Yes. No. I don't know anymore.
"What else would it be?"
His hand slid up to her jaw. His thumb brushed her lower lip with a softness that wrecked her. Around them, the music swelled, couples twirled, whispers rose. But she barely felt any of it.
We're performing. That's all.
"What if," he said softly, his eyes drilling into hers, "it stopped being pretend the second you signed?"
No. We agreed. We agreed.
"What if," he went on, lower now, "watching Lucien with you showed me how far I'll go to keep you?"
Don't say it. Please don't say it.
"And what if I told you," his mouth nearly brushing hers, "that you've never looked more beautiful than you do right now? Furious. Afraid. And so completely mine that everyone here can see it?"
Manipulation. That's all this is. Another game to bend me.
"I'm not yours," she whispered. But even to her own ears, it sounded weak.
"Aren't you?" His smile was terrible and exquisite all at once. "Then why is your heart racing? Why do you lean into me instead of pulling away? Why do you look like you can't decide between running and surrendering?"
Because you've dismantled me. Because you've left me nothing else.
"You gave me no choice."
"No," he said calmly. "I didn't. But choice is an illusion anyway. We're all prisoners—of need, of desire. I just admit it."
His hand flattened against her back, holding her as though keeping her together.
"I'll ruin him," Kael said, conversational as a man commenting on the weather. "Lucien. For touching you. For thinking he had a right. I'll strip him down to nothing but the memory of tonight."
That's madness. You can't destroy a life over a dance.
"That's—"
"Exactly what I'll do," he cut in. "Because some things aren't negotiable. Some possessions aren't up for discussion."
Possessions. Always possessions.
"And you," he murmured, pulling her close enough that his lips brushed her ear, "are at your most beautiful right now. Trembling. Wearing my ring. Marked as mine before everyone who matters."
Compliment and threat braided together. Sweet and violent in the same breath.
This is how he works. Break, soothe, repeat.
Yet her body betrayed her again, heat curling under his words, craving his focus, craving the intensity.
Textbook Stockholm syndrome. That's all this is.
The music swelled toward its finish. Relief flickered. Almost over. Almost safe.
Just survive this song.
But Kael wasn't done.
As the final notes rose, he yanked her closer. Heart to heart. Breath to breath.
"Everyone's watching," he murmured against her mouth. "Everyone sees what you are to me."
Oh God. He's going to—
His lips crashed onto hers before the thought finished.
The kiss wasn't tender. It wasn't gentle. It was possession—raw, hard, unyielding. His fist tangled in her hair, holding her still while his mouth devoured hers.
Push him away. You should push him away.
But her body betrayed her again. Her lips parted. She softened. She responded. Hunger flared where there should have been resistance.
No. This isn't me. This isn't real.
His arm crushed her against him, erasing any space, deepening the kiss until it felt like branding. Around them, gasps rippled. Whispers surged. The room stilled in scandal.
Five hundred people. Watching him kiss me like property.
When he finally broke away, she was gasping, lips swollen, breath gone. His eyes burned into hers, triumphant and terrifying.
"Mine," he said, voice loud enough to carry. "Now and always."
That's it. The point. The display. The claim.
Her fingers brushed her mouth, still tingling, still raw from his kiss. Around them, the ballroom buzzed with the fallout.
Everyone saw. Everyone knows. There's no undoing this.
Looking at him—terrible, beautiful, satisfied—she knew with brutal clarity she'd never had a way back. Not since the ring. Not since the penthouse. Not since the contract.
Tonight had only sealed it. Publicly. Permanently.
The music cut. The moment crystallized. And five hundred of the city's most powerful people bore witness to the second Elara Chen's transformation became irreversible.