Roman's expression doesn't change, but his eyes track every microexpression on my face, every shift in my posture. "And you thought the solution was to find a wealthy man to take care of you."
When he says it like that, it sounds both pathetic and calculating. "It wasn't my idea. But yes, I'm desperate enough to consider it."
He sets his glass down and leans forward, elbows on his knees, fixing me with that penetrating stare. "And what would you be willing to do for this financial salvation, Delilah?"
My cheeks heat with shame or anger or something in between. "I don't know. I hadn't gotten that far."
"Yes, you have," he contradicts softly. "You've already drawn your lines, set your boundaries. Tell me what they are."
I shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny. "Why does it matter to you?"
"Because I want to know exactly how desperate you are." The brutal honesty of his statement leaves me momentarily speechless. "And because I intend to test those boundaries."
My heart stutters in my chest. "You... what?"
Roman stands in one fluid motion and steps toward me. I should back away, but my feet remain rooted to the spot as he invades my personal space, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. He doesn't touch me, but I feel the heat of his body, the electric charge in the air between us.
"From the moment you walked into this club, you were mine," he says, each word precise and measured. "I knew it. Every person out there knew it." He brings his hand up, not quite touching my face, letting it hover a breath away from my cheek. "I think even you knew it."
I want to deny it. I want to laugh at his arrogance, his presumption. But there's something in his eyes—something hungry and possessive and absolutely certain—that makes thedenial die in my throat. Because he's right. From the moment our eyes met across the room, I felt claimed in a way I can't explain and don't want to acknowledge.
"You don't even know me," I whisper.
"I know enough," he counters. "I know you're intelligent, educated, and proud. I know you're desperate but still maintaining boundaries. I know you're afraid of me, but you're still standing here." His lips curve in a slight smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "And I know that no other man in that room deserves to touch you."
The possessiveness in his voice should repel me. Instead, it sends a shameful thrill through my body. "And you think you do?"
"Yes." The single word contains no doubt, no hesitation. "But not yet. Not until you belong to me completely."
four
. . .
The airbetween us crackles with something dangerous—expectation, possibility, threat. I take a step back, needing distance from the gravitational pull of his presence. My mind races to make sense of what's happening. Ten minutes ago, I was just another desperate girl in a cheap dress. Now I'm being claimed by one of the most powerful men in the city like it's already a done deal.
"You speak as if we've already reached some arrangement," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. "We haven't."
Roman watches me retreat with the patient focus of a predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run. "We will," he says simply. He moves to the leather armchair across from the sofa and sits, gesturing for me to take the seat opposite him. This time, I comply, perching on the edge of the cushion, ready to flee.
"I have a proposal for you, Delilah Monroe." He says my full name deliberately, like he's savoring the taste of it. "One that will solve all your financial problems."
My heart pounds in my ears. This is what I came here for, isn't it? A benefactor. A solution. But something about the coolcalculation in Roman's eyes makes me more uneasy than the lecherous gazes of the other men in the club.
"I'm listening," I say cautiously.
"One month," he states. "You will be mine, exclusively, for one month. During that time, you will live in my home, accompany me when required, and obey my every instruction without question."
The bluntness of his proposal leaves me momentarily speechless. There's no attempt to soften it, no pretense of romance or even basic courtesy. It's a business transaction, laid bare in its crudest form.
"And in exchange?" I finally ask, though I already know the answer.
"In exchange, I will clear all your debts. Your overdue rent, your tuition, your credit cards." He recites these items like he's reading from an inventory. "I will also provide a generous monthly allowance for the duration of our arrangement."
My hands clench in my lap. "How generous?"
A cold smile touches his lips. "Twenty thousand dollars."
The figure makes me dizzy. Twenty thousand dollars a month. More than enough to pay off everything and start fresh. More than I'd make in six months at all three of my jobs combined.
