The price is just my freedom. My autonomy. My self.
Everything I am.
"I need time," I whisper, unable to look away from his intense green eyes. "I need to think."
"Of course." He stands smoothly, pulling out my chair like a gentleman, even as he holds me hostage with his words. "You have until tomorrow evening. Then you'll give me your answer."
He walks me to the door, his hand on the small of my back—possessive, claiming, burning through the fabric of my dress. At the entrance, he catches my chin gently, tilting my face up to his.
"Choose wisely, Eve," he says softly, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "Because either way, you're mine. This just determines whether you come willingly or whether I have to take more drastic measures."
Then he releases me, and I'm stumbling out into the night, my mind reeling, my body trembling, my entire world fractured beyond recognition.
Behind me, in the exclusive club, Nathan Hale watches me leave with the patient certainty of a man who's already won.
And the worst part? I think he might be right.
Chapter 12 - Nathan
The monitors glow softly in the darkness of my observation room, painting Eve's apartment in shades of blue and silver. I watch her pace from the window to the sofa and back again, her movements agitated, her shoulders tight with tension.
She's been like this for hours. Ever since she left the Elysian Club. Ever since I told her the truth.
I lean forward, my fingers steepled beneath my chin, and allow myself a small smile. The revelation was everything I'd hoped for—her shock, her disbelief, the way her face went pale when I said Alex's name. When I reminded her that I was Nate, the boy she had known sixteen years ago.
She stops at the window now, pressing her palm against the glass as she stares out at the glittering city. Even through the camera's limited angle, I can see the war playing out in her posture. Fear and fascination. Terror and that dark, treacherous curiosity I've been carefully cultivating.
Good. Let her struggle. Let her exhaust every other option in her mind until she arrives at the only truth that matters: she belongs to me.
On another screen, I pull up the financial reports. Sinclair Designs is hemorrhaging money, investors pulling out in droves after the leaked reports of the textile disaster. Fred Greyhound is circling like the vulture he is, ready to pick the bones clean. By tomorrow, Eve's company will be nothing but a memory.
Unless I save it.
Unless she chooses me.
I switch back to the feed of her apartment. She's sitting now, her head in her hands, and I feel a flicker of something that might be guilt. But no—this is necessary. To rebuild her, I first had to break her. To show her that the empire she built, the control she maintained, the independence she prized—all of it was an illusion. A house of cards I could topple with a few phone calls.
Now she knows the truth. Now she understands that in this world, there's only one constant, one certainty: me.
Every man I've removed from her life, every threat I've neutralized, every obstacle I've cleared—it was all for her. All to fulfill that sacred vow.
She just doesn't understand it yet.
But she will. Soon, she'll see that my control isn't a cage—it's the only thing keeping her free.
***
The home gym smells of leather and sweat, the punching bag swaying slightly from my last hit. I wrap my hands carefully, methodically, the ritual soothing in its familiarity. Each loop of the tape, each pull and tuck, centers me.
I need this. Need the burn in my muscles, the sting in my knuckles, the physical pain to balance the fire in my mind.
She's close now. So close. The years of waiting, of watching, of carefully positioning every piece—it's all coming to fruition. But the final hours are the hardest. The temptation to simply go to her apartment, to take her, tie her up, spank her as punishment, and be done with the waiting is almost overwhelming.
But no. Patience. She has to choose this. Has to walk into my arms of her own volition, even if I've engineered every circumstance to ensure there's no other path.
I hit the bag hard, feeling the impact reverberate up my arm. Again. Again. The rhythm builds, my breathing falling into sync with the strikes. Left, right, left. Each punch is a release of the coiled tension inside me.
Soon, I think. Soon I'll be able to touch her. Hold her. Claim her properly.
