"Wouldn't you be?" I ask, setting the book aside. "I spend my academic career analyzing how women used writing to resist patriarchal control, while personally..." I gesture vaguely at our surroundings, at the evidence of his control over my life.
"While personally enjoying the benefits of male protection and provision," he finishes, his tone neutral. "There's no contradiction, Delilah. Modern feminism allows for choice. You've chosen this arrangement."
"Did I?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "Or was I manipulated into it through financial desperation that you monitored and exploited?"
Instead of anger, Roman's expression shows something like respect at my direct challenge. "Both can be true," he says after a moment. "I created the circumstances for your choice. But the choice itself was still yours." His hand moves to cup my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone with surprising tenderness. "And you continue to choose this every day, despite knowing the truth of how it began."
The observation strikes uncomfortably at the heart of my internal conflict. I do continue to choose this—choose him—despite the red flags, despite the manipulation, despite the concerning possessiveness. What does that say about me?
"Why me, Roman?" I ask, the question that has haunted me since the beginning. "With all your resources, all your power,you could have anyone. Why go to such elaborate lengths for me specifically?"
Something vulnerable flashes across his face, so quickly I might have imagined it. "Because you looked at me and saw a person, not a resource." His voice drops lower, almost confessional. "That day in the library—you bumped into me, apologized, and went back to your book without a second glance. Do you have any idea how rare that is? To be seen as just another human obstacle rather than Roman Wolfe, CEO, power broker, walking ATM?"
I have no memory of this encounter, which only underscores his point. To me, he'd been just another person in the library that day. Nothing special. Nothing worth remembering.
"Everyone wants something from me," he continues, an edge of bitterness creeping into his voice. "Money, connections, power, status. Every interaction is a transaction. Every relationship a negotiation." His eyes hold mine, intense in their focus. "Except you. You wanted nothing because you didn't know there was anything to want."
"Until you offered me everything when I was desperate enough to take it," I point out, unable to let him rewrite our beginning.
"Yes," he acknowledges without shame. "I saw an opportunity and I took it. But the interest preceded the opportunity, Delilah. The... fascination was already there."
Fascination. A more palatable word than obsession, though we both know that's what it is. His total focus on me, his need to possess me completely, his refusal to accept any boundary between us. In another context, it would be terrifying. In this gilded cage, with this dangerous, brilliant man, it's become something else—something addictive.
"You're conflicted," Roman observes, reading my expression with his usual acuity. "Torn between your intellectual objections to our arrangement and your emotional response to it."
"To you," I correct softly. "My emotional response to you."
Something flares in his eyes—hunger, triumph, perhaps even relief. His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair with possessive intent. "Tell me," he demands softly. "Tell me what you feel, Delilah."
I should lie. I should maintain some emotional distance, some barrier between us. But exhaustion with my own internal conflict makes honesty spill from my lips.
"I'm falling for you," I admit, the words both liberating and terrifying. "Despite everything—the manipulation, the control, the obsession—I'm falling for you, and it scares me more than anything."
Rather than the triumphant smile I expect, Roman's expression turns almost solemn. "It should scare you," he says, his grip tightening slightly in my hair. "I am not a safe man to love, Delilah. I don't know moderation or half-measures. When I want, I want completely. When I possess, I possess absolutely."
"I know," I whisper. "That's what terrifies me."
"And yet?" He leans closer, his breath warm against my lips.
"And yet I can't seem to stop," I confess. "Your devotion is... addictive. No one has ever wanted me the way you do. No one has ever seen me the way you do."
"Because no one has ever taken the time to truly know you," Roman says, his lips brushing mine with deliberate restraint. "I know every facet of you, Delilah. The scholar. The survivor. The woman caught between independence and desire for connection." His other hand rises to cup my face, holding me as if I'm something infinitely precious. "I know your contradictions, your complexities. And I want them all."
His kiss is different this time—not the usual claiming possession but something deeper, more intimate. A connection that transcends the physical, that acknowledges the emotional terrain we're navigating together.
When we part, I search his face for the calculating manipulator I should fear. Instead, I find a man as caught in this unexpected connection as I am—his control slipping to reveal something raw and genuine beneath.
"I'm still going to fight this," I warn him, needing to maintain some semblance of autonomy. "I won't surrender completely."
His smile returns, confident and knowing. "I would expect nothing less. Your spirit is part of what makes you so valuable." He presses his forehead to mine, an unexpectedly intimate gesture. "Fight all you need to, Delilah. The outcome remains inevitable."
As his lips claim mine again, as his hands begin their familiar path of possession and pleasure, I can't help but acknowledge the truth in his words. Despite all my intellectual objections, despite all the red flags and warning signs, I'm falling deeper into Roman's web with each passing day.
And the most terrifying part is how little I want to escape it.
fourteen
. . .
