Roman watches each stroke of the pen with hungry eyes. When I finish the final signature, he takes the pen from my fingers and adds his own name in bold, slashing strokes. The scratch of the nib against paper sounds like a lock clicking into place.
"It's done," he says, a note of satisfaction in his voice as he closes the contract and places it in a folder. Then he turns to me, and the change in his demeanor is immediate.
His eyes warm by several degrees as he reaches out and takes my hand in his. His palm is surprisingly rough against my skin—not the soft hands of someone who's never worked, but the calloused grip of a man who's earned his position.
"Welcome home, Delilah," he says, and the possessiveness in his voice sends a shiver through me.
"Thank you," I respond automatically, unsure of the protocol now that I'm officially... his.
"Come," he says, leading me from the office. "I'll show you where you'll be living."
He guides me through the penthouse, pointing out rooms as we pass. A gourmet kitchen with appliances that look like they've never been used. A dining room with a table that could seat twelve. A living room with a fireplace large enough to stand in. A home gym with equipment I don't recognize. Each space is immaculate, pristine, and strangely impersonal—like a museum rather than a home.
"The staff comes daily from seven to eleven," he explains. "You'll rarely see them. They've been instructed not to interact with you unless necessary."
"Staff," I repeat dumbly. Of course he has staff.
We reach a hallway with several doors. Roman opens the first, revealing what is clearly his home office—larger than the one we signed the contract in, with multiple monitors and a view that would distract me from any work.
"You'll have access to all areas except my office," he says. "I expect privacy when the door is closed."
The next door opens to a bedroom that takes my breath away. It's massive, dominated by the largest bed I've ever seen—a california king on a raised platform, draped in charcoal silk bedding that looks simultaneously sinful and forbidding. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer the same spectacular view as the rest of the penthouse, and a sitting area with twin leather armchairs occupies one corner.
"This is your room?" I ask, my voice small in the cavernous space.
"This is our room," he corrects. "You'll sleep with me, of course."
Of course. As if it's the most natural thing in the world that I'd share his bed from day one. I open my mouth to protest, then remember the contract I just signed. My body, available to him at any time of his choosing.
Roman watches my realization with those perceptive eyes. "The bathroom is through there," he says, gesturing to another door. "Go freshen up. You'll find everything you need."
I move toward the bathroom on autopilot, my bag still clutched in my hand. The bathroom is as opulent as the rest of the penthouse—all marble and glass, with a shower big enough for a party and a soaking tub that looks like it could double asa small pool. But what stops me in my tracks is the counter—specifically, what's on it.
My face wash. My exact brand of shampoo and conditioner. The specific moisturizer I use for my sensitive skin. Even the inexpensive drugstore makeup I apply on days when I want to look less exhausted.
I stumble back into the bedroom to find Roman watching me with that same unreadable expression.
"How did you?—"
"I told you I'm thorough," he says simply. "Open the closet."
With trembling fingers, I slide open the door he indicates. Inside is a walk-in closet bigger than my entire studio apartment, and it's filled with clothes. Women's clothes. In my size.
Dresses, pants, shirts, skirts—dozens of each, arranged by color. Shoes lined up in perfect rows. Lingerie still in boxes, more delicate and expensive than anything I've ever owned. All of it new, tags still attached.
"When did you do all this?" I ask, overwhelmed.
"I've been preparing for your arrival since the moment I decided you would be mine," Roman says, coming to stand behind me. His hands settle on my shoulders, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. "I told you, Delilah—I provide everything you need now."
His hands slide down my arms in a possessive caress. My fingers are numb from clutching my bag so tightly, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as a dangerous mixture of gratitude and surrender.
"Change into something suitable," Roman murmurs, his lips close to my ear. "The clothes you're wearing no longer reflect who you are."
"And who am I now?" I whisper.
His arms encircle me from behind, pulling me against the solid wall of his chest. One hand splays across my stomach while the other rises to wrap gently around my throat—not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his control.
"Mine," he says simply. "You're mine now, Delilah. And I take excellent care of what belongs to me."
