There’s a long pause. “You don’t understand, Ilya. My father?—”
“You’re his only daughter. He’ll find someone else more suitable for you. But this thing between us is done. Do you understand?"
"Yes." Her voice is small now, defeated. "I understand."
"Good. The money will be in your account by tomorrow. Goodbye, Svetlana."
I hang up before she can respond, and I feel nothing but relief. Svetlana seemed like a good idea when this all began between her and I, but that was before I experienced what is was like to feel something like what I feel with Mara. Now that I have, I can’t imagine going back to the cold, bloodless arrangement I had with my former almost-fiancee.
There's only one woman I want, and she's locked in my penthouse.
I return to my desk and try to focus on work. My empire doesn't run itself, and even with Mara consuming my thoughts, I can't afford to let things slip.
But it's difficult to concentrate when I'm constantly aware of her presence. I hear her moving through the penthouse, her footsteps soft on the hardwood floors. I hear the refrigerator open and close—she's finally eating something, thank God. Ihear water running in the guest bathroom, the sound of the shower. The image of her in the shower, water streaming over her skin, nearly destroys my concentration entirely.
I force myself to focus on the documents in front of me. It’s almost impossible—I’m rock hard, painfully so, thinking about Mara’s skin damp and warm under the hot spray, the bare cleft between her thighs, the way her pussy looked framed there for me just before I slid my cock into it. I want her again so badly that it feels like what I must imagine needing a hit of a drug is like.
I reach down, rubbing my palm against the thick ridge of my cock, but I refuse to take it out. I only want to come inside her, now. Her mouth, her pussy, her ass—those will all be mine, eventually, and I only want to orgasm if it’s there, or alternatively, marking her with sprays of my cum over her flawless, pale skin.
I’m lost in torturous fantasies of doing just that, my cock throbbing madly, until I hear the pad of her footsteps again and glance up. She’s changed, this time into a pair of jeans and a soft-looking black sweater. A new outfit, at least, but she hasn’t put on any of the jewelry I left in her room.
I can see the hint of a black lace strap at her shoulder, though, and my cock pulses again, my boxer briefs soaked with pre-cum at this point. I want to know which of the sets of underwear that I chose for her she’s wearing right now.
Part of me wants to take every item of clothing I bought her out of that room, so she’s forced to walk around in nothing but her bralettes and panties. But she’d be cold, then, and I feel a twist in my chest at the thought of that, an odd sense of wanting to take care of her. To make sure that she feels nothing harmful, ever again, not even a chill.
I could turn the damn heat up. Anything to see more of her.
I need her to relent soon. I won’t be able to take much more of this.
She continues on past the office, and I refocus on work as best as I can. The afternoon passes in a blur of conference calls and video meetings. I speak to associates in Moscow, London, Hong Kong. I approve a weapons shipment and authorize a payment to a corrupt official who's been useful. The machinery of my empire grinds on, efficient and ruthless, and through it all, my mind is always half on her.
I’ve never been so distracted by a woman in all my life.
By evening, I've cleared most of my urgent business. The rest can wait until tomorrow. I pour myself a vodka and stand at the window in the living room, looking out at the city as the sun sets. From here, I can see her apartment building across the way. Her windows are dark and empty. Everything she owns is still there, waiting for her return.
But she's not going back.
I’m aware of the sheer presumption of it, the arrogance of believing I can simply keep her here indefinitely. But I know, with a certainty that goes beyond logic or reason, that this is where she belongs. With me.
She retreated to the guest room hours ago, probably once again behind a locked door, and hiding from me. Tomorrow will be four days since I brought her here, and it’s time to remind her that she can’t hide forever. That eventually, she will have to come to terms with what this is, and what this means for our new life together.
A life that I want to shape with her, not for her. With her by my side. A life that we’ll plan together, if she’ll only stop fighting what can’t be stopped.
I go to my bedroom and retrieve the flat velvet box from my safe. I've been waiting for the right moment, and this feels right. She's had time to explore, to understand the futility ofresistance. Now it's time to move forward, to begin shaping her understanding of what she is to me.
The box is from a jeweler in Paris who specializes in custom pieces. I open it and examine the contents one more time, making sure everything is perfect.
On the silk lining inside is a specially made, exquisite diamond choker.
The links are made of fine, delicate platinum, set with over a thousand small diamonds that catch the light and throw it back in brilliant flashes. It's beautiful, elegant, and expensive, a piece that would look at home at any high-brow event. The kind of jewelry a man gives to a woman he treasures.
It's also unmistakably a collar.
The symbolism isn't subtle. I don't want it to be subtle. I want her to understand exactly what this means, what I'm claiming, what I expect.
She'll resist, of course. I’d expect nothing less from her. She'll refuse to wear it at first, will probably throw it back in my face or lock it away in a drawer. But that's fine. I'm patient. Eventually, she'll understand. Eventually, she'll accept what she is.
Mine.
