Suddenly, the cook returns, her face pale, her steps unsteady as she approaches. She’s shaking.
I look up, irritated. “What is it?”
Her voice is barely audible as she speaks, fear laced in every word. “Madam… she refused your offer, sir. She said she’d rather go hungry.”
My chest tightens. I can feel the anger bubbling up inside me, but I curb it. I know I need to be patient with her. I have to give her time. I can’t rush her into accepting me, into accepting this life we’re supposed to share.
I close my eyes for a brief moment, taking a breath to steady myself. When I open them again, I look at the cook, my voice low and controlled. “Take the food up to her,” I order. “And tell her, when she’s ready to join me, the offer still stands.”
The cook nods quickly and turns to leave, but just as she reaches the door, Zoe appears in the hallway.
Tension crackles in the air as she sits all the way across from me. The space between us feels like a chasm, like she’s drawing a line I’m not allowed to cross. Her expression is unreadable—calm, poised, soft.
The cook sets her food down in front of her and quickly retreats, sensing the tension thick in the air.
We don’t speak.
The clinking of cutlery is the only sound in the room, steady and sharp. She eats in silence, slowly, carefully, like she’s aware of every movement, every breath. And I watch her—because I always watch her.
This isn’t a victory. She didn’t come down because I wanted her to. She came down because she chose this moment to show me that I don’t control her—not really. Not completely. But it’s something. A small shift. A crack in the wall between us.
A silent truce.
She doesn’t meet my eyes once, and I don’t force her to. I don’t speak, though my throat burns with all the things I want to say. Questions. Demands. Apologies, maybe. I swallow them down with every bite.
When she finishes, she rises quietly, pushing back her chair without a sound. No glance, no nod, no acknowledgment. She walks away with that same graceful defiance she wears like armor.
I don’t stop her.
I just sit there, staring after her as she disappears up the stairs, her figure swallowed by the shadows. My jaw clenches, my chest tight. That ache in my gut returns, raw and familiar.
I’ve taken everything in my life by force—power, respect, fear. But this?
This woman?
She’s the one thing I want that I can’t just take.
And it’s slowly, quietly, killing me.
Later, I head to my room, knowing damn well it’s pointless to go into the office tonight. I wouldn’t get anything done. I’d just sit there, staring at the wall, thinking about her. About how she looked across the table, all composed and unreadable, like she wasn’t tearing me apart with every second of her silence.
So I lie down. Try to sleep.
But sleep doesn’t come easy when you’re starving for something you can’t touch.
That night, I dream of her.
Not just her body—though that’s there too, in flashes and heat—but more than that. I dream of her smile. The one I saw before all this started, before I dragged her into this life. I dream of the way she stared me down that night at the club, chin high, eyes blazing like she wasn’t afraid of the devil in front of her. Like she could burn him alive.
Fearless. The way she followed me without hesitation.
She was fearless, and I think that’s when I started to lose my grip.
I wake up hard, frustrated, sweat slick across my chest. My jaw clenched so tight it aches.
I sit up, rubbing my face with both hands, growling low under my breath.
I can’t fucking do this much longer.
