Roman tilts his head slightly, studying me with those penetrating eyes. "You know, in my experience, the people who most insist on reminding me of contractual end dates are those who already fear they might not want to leave when the time comes."
His insight hits uncomfortably close to the anxiety churning beneath my surface. What if I do get used to this? What if the luxury, the security, the intensity of his attention becomes addictive? What if the physical connection between us continues to deepen?
"You're overthinking," Roman observes, reading my expression with unsettling accuracy. "Finish your breakfast, shower, and join me in the living room in thirty minutes. We have a schedule to maintain."
He turns to leave, then pauses at the door. "Oh, and Delilah?" His eyes run over me in a deliberate assessment that makes my skin tingle. "Don't bother getting too dressed. Your clothing won't stay on long."
The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with cooling coffee and a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. I glance around at the opulent bedroom, the silk sheets tangled around my naked body, the breakfast tray with its perfectly arranged food.
I've traded my freedom for luxury and security, telling myself it's just for a month. But Roman is already planning beyond that horizon, already weaving a web around me so seductive and comfortable I might never want to leave. The most terrifying part isn't his presumption—it's the small voice inside me wondering if he might be right.
eight
. . .
"The blue one,"Roman decides, dismissing three other designer dresses with a casual wave of his hand. "It brings out your eyes." He speaks with the absolute certainty of a man unused to having his taste questioned. I run my fingers over the midnight-blue silk, feeling the weight of what must be a five-figure price tag in the perfect stitching and sumptuous fabric. The boutique attendant removes the rejected options with practiced efficiency, leaving us alone in the private shopping suite with champagne I haven't touched and opinions I haven't been asked for.
"Don't you want to know which one I prefer?" I ask, unable to completely suppress the edge in my voice.
Roman's eyes flick to mine, one eyebrow raised slightly. "No," he says simply. "Part of our arrangement is that I decide how you present yourself. Your preferences are irrelevant."
The blunt honesty stings, even though it's nothing I haven't already understood from our contract. Still, having it stated so baldly makes my cheeks burn.
"Now try it on," he instructs, his tone softening slightly. "I want to see it on you."
I slip behind the velvet curtain of the dressing area, shedding the designer jeans and cashmere sweater Roman selected for our shopping excursion. Even my underwear bears the mark of his control—black lace from some French atelier, delicate as cobwebs and probably worth more than a month's rent at my old apartment.
The dress slides over my skin like cool water, clinging to curves I didn't know I had until Roman started dressing me. It's both modest and suggestive—high neckline but form-fitting, with a slit that reaches mid-thigh. When I emerge from behind the curtain, Roman's eyes darken with approval and something hungrier.
"Perfect," he says, circling me slowly. "Turn around."
I obey, hyperaware of his gaze on my body, assessing me like a prized acquisition. His hand brushes the small of my back, sending unwelcome heat spiraling through me.
"We'll take it," he tells the attendant who has materialized silently at his summons. "And the shoes in sapphire. Size seven."
"I'm a seven and a half," I correct automatically.
Roman's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "The designer runs large. You're a seven in these."
Of course he knows my shoe size better than I do. I bite my tongue as the attendant disappears to retrieve the footwear Roman has selected without a thought to whether they'll pinch my toes or rub blisters on my heels.
"You'll wear this tonight," he informs me, his hand still resting possessively on my lower back. "We have dinner reservations at Lumière at eight."
Lumière—the most exclusive restaurant in the city, with a wait list rumored to be months long. Roman, naturally, speaks as if securing a table is as simple as snapping his fingers. For him, it probably is.
"Before we leave," he continues, guiding me back toward the dressing area, "we need to discuss expectations for this evening."
I step behind the curtain again, expecting him to remain outside. Instead, he follows me into the small space, crowding me with his presence. His fingers find the zipper of the dress, slowly drawing it down my spine.
"You will speak only when spoken to," he says, his breath warm against my neck as the dress loosens. "You will smile, maintain eye contact, and respond graciously to any questions directed at you. You will not discuss our arrangement or offer personal details beyond the fact that you are a graduate student in literature."
The dress pools at my feet, leaving me in nothing but the expensive lingerie. Roman's eyes travel over my body with proprietary satisfaction.
"I'm to play the pretty, silent ornament, then," I say, reaching for my own clothes.
He catches my wrist, stopping me. "You're to play exactly the role you agreed to. My companion. My possession." His thumb brushes over my pulse point, which betrays me by quickening at his touch. "Is that going to be a problem, Delilah?"
I should say yes. I should remind him that intellectual submission wasn't part of our bargain. Instead, I hear myself say, "No. It won't be a problem."
