He doesn’t push for more. He just pulls me against him, spooning my body against his, his arm wrapping around mywaist, his hand resting possessively on my stomach. His breath is warm against my neck.
“Sleep, my storm,” he whispers, his voice a low rumble. “You’re safe here. With me.”
Safe.The word feels like a lie but his warmth, his solid presence behind me is a terrifying comfort. I lie rigid in his arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart against my back, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. I am not safe. I am captured. And the terrifying part is, a small, broken part of me, exhausted from fighting, wants to believe him. A part of me, even more terrifyingly feels a strange, possessive thrill at being held so close, so completely.
Sunday morning dawns, a soft, grey light filtering through the windows. I wake up alone. The space beside me is empty, the sheets cool. My muscles are stiff and sore from the night before, but the immediate, suffocating presence of West is gone. A strange, hollow ache settles in my chest, a void where his body had been. I hate myself for it.
I carefully extricate myself from the bed. I find my clothes in the guest room closet, exactly where he said they’d be. I dress quickly, pulling on a pair of jeans and a comfortable sweater. I walk into the kitchen, the penthouse's silence unnerving. I find a note on the counter, in his bold, decisive handwriting:
“Practice. Be back at 11. Don’t go anywhere.”
The command is clear. The threat is implied. He thinks he has me. He believes after Friday night, after the fear and the forcedpleasure and the possessive way he held me, that I am broken. That I am his.
I walk to the vast living room, staring out at the city. My gaze flicks to the watch on my wrist. A small, silver anchor in the chaos. It reads 10:15 AM. I have a window. A small one, but it’s there.
My eyes fall on the key card, which I’d left on the coffee table. The key to his fortress. The key to my cage. A sudden, desperate idea sparks in my mind. He said it was for the building, the elevator, and his door.What if it’s also my way out?
I walk to the door, my heart hammering against my ribs. I slide the key card into the slot with a soft click. The door unlocks.
Freedom. It’s right there. A few steps, an elevator ride, and I could be out of here.
But where would I go?Not my apartment. That’s the first place he’d look. It’s compromised.Chloe’s?No, she’s too easily charmed, too thrilled by this twisted fairy tale. He’d have my location in minutes.
The anger that has been simmering all weekend finally boils over. He wants to break me down until I am nothing but a reflection of his own desires. He thinks he can control my storm.
But he’s forgotten one thing. A storm doesn’t ask for permission. It justis.
A new, cold resolve settles over me. I will not be a willing participant in my own destruction.
I walk back to the guest room, my movements swift and silent. My bag is there, the one his assistant brought. My laptop, my notes, my wallet, my phone. He was so confident I wouldn't need them. I grab the bag, my hands steady now.
I return to the kitchen counter. I look at his note, at the arrogant scrawl of his handwriting. Then I look at the key card. This isn't a key. It's a leash, and I refuse to wear it.
I take the key card and place it directly on top of his note, a silent, defiant message.I don’t need your key. I don’t want your cage.
I walk back to the door, my bag slung over my shoulder, and I don’t look back. I step out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind me with a sound of finality.
The elevator ride down is the longest sixty seconds of my life. My reflection in the polished steel walls is a stranger—a woman with haunted eyes but a firm set to her jaw.
The lobby is quiet, opulent. A doorman in a crisp uniform nods at me. “Good morning, miss.”
I force a calm, polite smile. “Good morning.” I don't run, I don't rush. I walk, my steps even and measured, right out the front doors and into the cool, crisp morning air.
The freedom is so abrupt, so total that it’s dizzying. I hail the first cab I see, my heart still pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
“Where to, miss?” the driver asks.
“The university library,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady.
It’s the only place I can think of. My sanctuary. My turf. The one place where I am in control, where my intellect is my shield.
The cab pulls away from the curb, and I finally allow myself a glance back at the glittering glass tower, West’s fortress. I feel a surge of triumph, a feeling I haven’t had in weeks.
I pull out my phone. My hands are still trembling, but my purpose is clear. I find his contact. West Monroe. I stare at the name, a symbol of my captivity. With a final, decisive tap, I block his number.
Then, I power the phone off completely.
I lean back against the seat, the city blurring past my window. I am not safe, I know that. He will come for me. The hunt is on, but I am not his captive anymore. I am his opponent.
