"This is non-negotiable, Delilah." His tone brooks no argument. "For the next month, your only occupation is belonging to me."
I swallow hard, nodding because I can't seem to form words. Roman reaches out and traces a finger along my jawline, a touch that feels like both a reward and a brand of ownership.
"One last thing," he says, his voice low. "Until our month begins tomorrow, you are not to allow any other man to touch you. Not even in passing. Is that understood?"
The possessiveness in his command should outrage me. Instead, it sends a forbidden thrill through my veins. "Yes," I whisper.
"Yes, what?" he prompts, his finger still tracing my skin.
I meet his eyes, understanding what he's asking for. "Yes, Roman."
His smile is all predator. "Tomorrow at noon. Don't be late."
He turns and walks to the door, then pauses with his hand on the handle. "Oh, and Delilah?" He looks back at me, his expression unreadable. "When I'm done with you, you'll never want to leave."
five
. . .
The elevator ascendswith such smooth efficiency that I barely feel the movement, but my stomach drops anyway. Sixty floors between the ground and Roman Wolfe's penthouse. Sixty floors between my old life and whatever waits above. My reflection in the polished doors shows a woman I barely recognize—hollow-eyed, clutching a small bag containing the sum total of what I'm allowed to bring into my new existence.
After I left the club last night, I'd expected to wake up this morning with renewed sense, ready to call the whole thing off. Instead, I woke to notification after notification on my phone. My bank account, suddenly positive. My credit card, paid in full. An email from the university bursar confirming my tuition had been received. A voice message from my landlord, awkwardly informing me that the "misunderstanding" about my rent had been resolved.
Roman Wolfe had already fulfilled his side of our bargain before I'd even arrived. Which means there's no backing out now.
The elevator chimes softly as it reaches the top floor. The doors slide open to reveal not a hallway but a private foyer ofgleaming marble and subtle lighting. A security panel blinks on the wall, but before I can wonder how to announce myself, the massive double doors across the foyer swing open.
Roman stands in the doorway, a study in controlled power. Today he wears a charcoal suit that fits him with bespoke precision, no tie, the collar of his white shirt open just enough to reveal the strong column of his throat. His eyes—those storm-cloud eyes—assess me with cold efficiency.
"You're three minutes late," he says by way of greeting.
I glance at my watch. It's 12:03. "I?—"
"In the future, you'll arrive early rather than on time, and on time rather than late." His tone allows no argument. "Come in."
He turns and walks into the penthouse, clearly expecting me to follow. I step out of the elevator, my worn sneakers silent on the marble floor. The doors close behind me with a soft whoosh that sounds disturbingly final.
I follow Roman into what can only be described as a monument to wealth and taste. The penthouse opens into a great room with ceilings that must be twenty feet high and windows that form an entire wall, offering a panoramic view of the city sprawled out below like a toy model. The furnishings are minimal but obviously expensive—sleek leather and gleaming metal, all in shades of gray, black, and white. Nothing soft. Nothing welcoming.
"Your home is beautiful," I say, because the silence feels oppressive.
"Our home," he corrects without looking back at me. "For the next month."
He leads me to what appears to be a home office—a room of dark wood and leather with another stunning view of the city. A large desk dominates the space, and on it sits a single document, pages open, a fountain pen placed precisely alongside it.
"Before we proceed, we need to formalize our arrangement," Roman says, gesturing to the document. "This contract outlines the terms we discussed, along with some additional specifications."
My mouth goes dry. "A contract? Is that really necessary?"
His expression doesn't change. "I don't enter into any arrangement without proper documentation. Particularly one as... significant as this."
I approach the desk cautiously, as if the contract might bite. At first glance, it looks like any legal document—dense paragraphs of precise language, signature lines at the bottom. But as I begin to read, my cheeks heat with a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief.
"This is..." I trail off, unable to find the right word.
"Comprehensive," Roman supplies, moving to stand behind me. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, smell that subtle cologne. "Read it carefully. You'll have one opportunity to ask questions before signing."
I force myself to focus on the words, though my hands tremble slightly as I turn the pages.
