I wander to the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the city sprawled beneath us. Somewhere down there is my old life—my tiny apartment (now rented to someone else, Roman informed me), my jobs (formally resigned from via letters Roman drafted), my independent self (fading a little more each day under his relentless attention).
My reflection stares back at me from the glass—a woman I barely recognize. My hair falls in soft waves, professionally styled twice a week by someone Roman sends to the penthouse. My skin glows with the effects of expensive products and regular facials. The simple lounge dress I wear for a day at home costs more than a month's rent at my old place.
I look... polished. Perfected. Possessed.
A memory surfaces—Roman's voice in my ear as he fastened diamonds around my throat: "You were already beautiful. I'm simply setting the diamond that was hidden in coal."
At the time, I'd found the comparison uncomfortably objectifying. Now I wonder if there was truth in it. Has Roman simply revealed a version of me that was always possible but never accessible? Or has he sculpted me into his fantasy, erasing the real woman beneath?
The elevator chimes—Roman returning earlier than expected. I turn from the window, smoothing my dress automatically, checking my reflection one last time. The instinctive preparation makes me frown. When did his approval become so necessary to my equilibrium?
"Delilah?" His voice carries through the penthouse, deep and commanding even in a simple greeting.
"In the living room," I call back, forcing myself to sit casually on the sofa rather than stand at attention like an eager pet awaiting its master.
Roman appears in the doorway, impeccable as always in a charcoal suit that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders. His eyes find me immediately, that focused intensity never dimming no matter how many times he sees me.
"You're back early," I say, aiming for nonchalance but hearing the pleased note in my voice that I can't quite suppress.
"The meeting concluded sooner than anticipated." He loosens his tie as he crosses to where I sit, bending to kiss me with practiced possession. "Fools wasting my time with inadequate preparation."
I can imagine the scene—Roman dismantling someone's proposal with surgical precision, leaving them stuttering and defensive. He doesn't suffer incompetence gladly. It's one of the many contradictions about him that both impress and unsettle me—his ruthlessness in business coupled with his unexpected consideration in private.
"I have something for you," he says, retrieving a package from his briefcase. It's wrapped in simple brown paper, lacking the ostentatious presentation of his usual gifts.
I accept it with curious hands. "What's this?"
"Open it and see."
I unwrap the package to reveal a book—old and leather-bound, the spine cracked with age. The title embossed in faded gold reads *The Spectral Feminine: Ghost Stories by Victorian Women Writers*.
"This is..." I trail off, opening the cover with reverent fingers. Inside is a first edition collection of stories by women I've been researching for my dissertation—Anne Radcliffe, Elizabeth Gaskell, Margaret Oliphant. Stories that used supernatural elements to critique the patriarchal constraints of their time. "Where did you find this?"
"I have connections in the rare book world," Roman says, watching my reaction with evident satisfaction. "When youmentioned these specific authors in relation to your dissertation, I made some inquiries."
I flip through the pages, noting marginalia in faded ink—original reader reactions from over a century ago. For my research, this is gold. "Roman, this must have cost?—"
"The cost is irrelevant," he interrupts, that familiar dismissive tone when money is mentioned. "What matters is its usefulness to your work."
I clutch the book to my chest, genuinely moved by the thoughtfulness of the gift. This isn't another diamond necklace or designer dress—items that mark me as his possession. This is something solely for me, for the academic passion he knows drives me.
"Thank you," I say softly. "This is... perfect."
Something softens in his expression—that rare glimpse of the man beneath the controlled exterior. He sits beside me, his hand covering mine where it rests on the ancient book.
"Your mind is what first drew me to you," he says, surprising me with the admission. "That day in the library—you were so absorbed in your research, so completely focused. It reminded me of myself."
I search his face, finding unexpected sincerity in his usually guarded expression. "Is that really why you noticed me? Not just..."
"Not just your beauty?" His lips curve in a slight smile. "That was evident, of course. But beauty is common, Delilah. Intelligence combined with passion is rare." His thumb strokes across my knuckles. "You were reading about female authors who used supernatural elements as metaphors for societal constraints. The irony wasn't lost on me even then."
"The irony?"
"That I would be drawn to a woman studying female rebellion against male control, only to bring her under my own."His smile turns wry. "Perhaps I'm the subject of your next dissertation."
The observation is uncomfortable in its accuracy. What would my academic colleagues think of my current situation? A woman studying feminist literary rebellion while voluntarily submitting to male dominance in her personal life. The contradiction makes my cheeks heat with shame.
Roman notices, of course. He notices everything. "You're embarrassed by the paradox."
