She went to his room after her breakfast, when she got in he was seated at the edge of his bed then she heard his word.
"Strip"
Dami..
"Master" he said cutting her word.
Her body froze, she hated the way he spoke to her then his words brought her out of thoughts.
"You have 10 seconds to strip and if you don't, I will order my men to help you do it" he said it with seriousness.
At his words she started taking her clothes off, her tears didn't stop till she was naked in front of him.
--
Damian slid himself in her and continued till she was weak. He released in her then ordered her to leave.
She dressed up leaving his room without glancing at Damian, her tears still rolling.
"Wait!" He said coldly.
And she turned to face him.
He tossed a small white packet onto the table beside her.
"Take it now," he said flatly, his voice stripped of any warmth. "I don't want… my seed growing in my playtoy."
Elena looked at the packet without touching it, the words slicing through her chest.
It wasn't just what he said — it was how. Detached. Icy. Like she was a mistake he didn't want to let take root.
Her throat burned. She reached for the glass of water, her hands trembling, and swallowed the pill.
When she left his room, the door shutting behind her with quiet finality, she went to her room jumped on the bed immediately, laying on it for a long time. Alone.
Tears welled, unbidden. She had thought she had no more left for him.
But she wept anyway — not for Damian, not even for the humiliation of his words, but for herself.
For the girl who still who still missed her parents so fiercely that her chest ached.
Her mother's laughter. Her father's warm voice calling her sunshine. The way home had once smelled of peace.
Now everything smelled like regret.
She curled up on the bed and whispered to the silence, "I wish you were here, Mama… Papa."
***
His jaw was locked, his chest rising and falling with restrained fury.
He told himself he needed air — that was why he left the mansion so abruptly.
But even now, with the wind rushing past his window, all he could see was her.
Elena.
The way she had looked at that man.
The way her soft voice trembled when she begged for him. The way her eyes held warmth — warmth that had once belonged to him.
The thought made his teeth clench harder.
"What the hell are you doing to me?" he muttered under his breath.
He pressed his foot on the accelerator, the engine growling in response, as if it too shared his anger.
The city blurred around him. But no matter how fast he went, he couldn't outrun her image.
He was furious — at her for disobeying him, for stepping out of the house, for daring to let another man near her. But the trut he didn't want to face was uglier.
He wasn't just angry.
He was jealous.
The kind of jealousy that burned in his stomach and clawed up to his throat. He hated how it made him feel weak.
He had sworn never to be that man again — the man who cared, who ached, who lost control over a woman.
Elena was supposed to be his distraction, his beautiful chaos, his plaything. That was all. That was what he had told himself when he bought her into his life.
So why the hell did it hurt when she looked at him with fear instead of fire?
Why did his chest tighten when she cried? Why did her laughter echo in his mind like a melody he couldn't forget?
He slammed his hand against the steering wheel, cursing under his breath.
This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to feel.
And yet, every time he thought of her eyes glistening with tears, something inside him cracked — just a little.
He wanted to hate her.
He wanted to punish her.
But deep down, what terrified him most… was that he couldn't.
"She's just a distraction," he whispered, more to himself than the empty air. "She's just my plaything."
But the words rang hollow, fragile, even to his own ears.
Because no matter how many times he told himself that, his heart — the one thing he couldn't control — had already betrayed him.