six
. . .
Dinner with Romanfeels like another kind of contract negotiation. He controls everything—the food prepared by his private chef, the wine poured into crystal glasses, the topics of conversation deemed acceptable. I sit across from him at his massive dining table, wearing a dress he selected, eating only when he begins, speaking only when he asks a direct question. It should feel oppressive. It does feel oppressive. So why does every calculated movement of his make my skin tingle with anticipation?
"You're not eating," he observes, his eyes never missing a detail. The black dress he chose for me is simple but expensive, the fabric sliding against my skin like water whenever I move. I feel both overdressed and exposed under his gaze.
"I'm not very hungry," I admit. The truth is, my stomach is too knotted with nerves to accommodate much food. I've spent the afternoon in a strange limbo—exploring my new gilded cage while Roman worked in his office, answering emails that pinged on his phone with annoying frequency.
"Eat anyway." Not a suggestion. "Your body is mine now, which means its care falls to me. You need proper nutrition."
I spear a piece of perfectly cooked salmon with more force than necessary. "My body has survived twenty-six years without your nutritional guidance."
A slight curve of his lips—not quite a smile but an acknowledgment of my defiance. "Survived, yes. But now it will thrive." He takes a sip of wine, his eyes never leaving mine. "Tell me about your dissertation."
The abrupt change of subject catches me off guard. "My dissertation?"
"Victorian women writers, if I recall correctly. I'm curious about your academic interests."
I narrow my eyes, suspicious of his motives but unable to resist talking about my passion. "I'm focusing on how female authors used supernatural elements as metaphors for societal constraints. How ghosts and hauntings represented the oppression they couldn't name directly."
Roman nods thoughtfully. "Channeling the unspeakable into the fantastical. Creating monsters to embody the monstrous aspects of their reality."
His insight surprises me. "Exactly. These women couldn't directly criticize patriarchal control, so they wrote about possessions and hauntings instead."
"And now you've signed yourself over to a man's complete control," he observes, a dangerous amusement in his eyes. "Your dissertation committee would find that fascinating, I'm sure."
My cheeks heat. "The irony isn't lost on me."
"Good." He refills my wine glass without asking if I want more. "I appreciate a woman who recognizes the contradictions in her own choices."
He asks more questions about my studies, my favorite authors, my academic goals. It's surreal discussing literature and theory with a man who effectively owns me for the next month, but Roman is surprisingly knowledgeable, offeringinsights that challenge my thinking. For brief stretches, I almost forget the nature of our arrangement—until his gaze drops to my lips or his fingers brush mine as he reaches for the wine, sending electric currents through my body.
By the time dessert arrives—a dark chocolate mousse I'm too nervous to do more than taste—the air between us has changed. Each silence feels loaded, each casual touch deliberate. Roman watches me with the patience of a predator who knows the hunt is already won.
"Stand up," he says suddenly.
I blink at the abrupt command. "What?"
"Stand up," he repeats, his voice softening dangerously. "It's time for bed."
My heart hammers against my ribs. We both know what "bed" means, and it has nothing to do with sleep. I rise on shaky legs, the silk dress sliding against my thighs.
Roman stands as well, coming around the table with unhurried confidence. He doesn't touch me, not yet, but his presence at my back makes my nerves sing with awareness as he guides me through the penthouse toward the bedroom.
"Are you nervous, Delilah?" he asks as we enter the bedroom, the massive bed looming like a promise or a threat.
"Yes," I admit, because lying seems pointless.
"Good." He steps in front of me, his height forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. "Anticipation heightens sensation."
His hands move to the thin straps of my dress, fingers skimming my shoulders as he slides them down with deliberate slowness. "I've imagined this since the moment I saw you," he murmurs. "Standing in that club looking so out of place, so above it all despite your circumstances. Do you know how rare that is? To maintain dignity when everything else has been stripped away?"
The dress pools at my feet, leaving me in only the black lace underwear he provided—matching bra and panties that make me feel both powerful and vulnerable. His eyes darken as they travel over my body, cataloging every curve, every imperfection.
"Beautiful," he says, the word more assessment than compliment. "Even more so than I anticipated."
His control is impeccable—each movement measured, each touch calibrated. He circles me slowly, fingers trailing across my shoulders, down my spine, around my waist. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his touch.
