I'm still in his t-shirt, curled on the sofa. "No."
His eyebrow raises. "No?"
"I'm not going anywhere with you. I'm not your doll to dress up and parade around."
He crosses to me slowly. "Eve—"
"What are you going to do, Nathan? Force me?" I stand to face him, anger giving me courage. "Drag me out of here kicking and screaming? That would be an interesting look for you."
His jaw clenches. "You need clothes."
"I need my freedom. I need my life back." My voice rises. "But we don't always get what we need, do we?"
His hand shoots out, gripping my chin. "You agreed to this. You walked into my penthouse. You accepted my deal."
"I was coerced!" I try to pull away. "You destroyed my company, isolated me from everyone I know, and gave me a choice between surrender or total ruin. That's not agreement—that's extortion."
"And yet you're still here." His thumb brushes my lower lip. "Because part of you wants this."
I slap him.
The sound cracks through the room like a gunshot.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Then he releases me, his eyes blazing. "Feel better?"
"No. I won't feel better until I'm out of here. Until I have my life back."
"That life is gone, Eve. I made sure of it."
"I know." Tears burn my eyes. "And I hate you for it. I hate you for making me feel grateful for the scraps of kindness you throw at me. I hate you for—" My voice breaks. "For making me feel anything at all."
His expression softens slightly, and that's somehow worse.
"Get dressed," he says quietly. "We're going shopping. You can hate me the entire time if it makes you feel better. But you're coming with me."
***
The boutique is exclusive in that understated way that screams money. I walk in with my arms crossed, a storm cloud in human form.
"Miss Sinclair needs a complete wardrobe," Nathan says smoothly.
"I need my own clothes from my own apartment," I mutter.
He ignores me.
The assistant brings outfit after outfit. I reach for a simple black dress—classic, conservative, safe.
"No," Nathan says from his chair. "The emerald one."
"I like this one," I say, not looking at him. I turn to face him, the black dress clutched in my hands. "I don't care what you want. I'm wearing this."
His eyes flash. "Eve—"
"No." My voice is steady. "You can control where I live. You can take my phone. You can manipulate my entire life. But you don't get to tell me what to wear. Not this. This is mine."
Nathan stands slowly. "Excuse us," he tells the assistant, then pulls me into a private corner.
