Emilia
Vincent threw my phone at me.
The second I caught it, it starts ringing, my stomach flips. Cleo’s name flashes across the screen like a detonator, and I lunge for it like it might save me.
Vincent’s hand closes around my wrist before I get there. “Speaker.”
“Vincent—”
“Now.”
His voice is calm, but his grip says otherwise. Cold. Final. My fingers hover over the screen, my breath short. I press the button.
“Hey,” I say, voice too bright, too fake.
“Em?” Cleo sounds out of breath. “Where the fuck have you been? You missed studio. You’re not answering anything. Your location’s off. Are you okay?”
Vincent’s hand slides to my throat—not choking, just holding, anchoring. His thumb presses under my jaw. He mouths the words silently, eyes locked to mine. Say yes.
I can’t breathe. I want to scream. But I nod. “Yes. I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I’m just tired.”
His thumb presses firmer. Not punishing. Not comforting. Just a reminder of who owns my voice.
“I needed time off,” I add. “It’s all good, Cleo. Really.”
There’s a pause. Static hums.
“…Okay. If you say so. Call me later, bitch.”
The line cuts.
I stare at the phone like it might catch fire. I don’t notice when Vincent takes it from my hand and slides it into his pocket like it’s nothing.
“What the fuck was that?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Say something!” I shout, yanking my wrist free.
Still nothing. Just that infuriating silence. Like I’m a storm he’s waiting to pass.
“You can’t do that,” I growl, shoving him. My palms slam into his chest. Hard. He doesn’t move an inch. “You don’t get to dictate my life!”
He stands still. Cold. Immovable.
“You’re treating me like a prisoner. Like a—like a fucking pet.”
Something inside me snaps. I grab the nearest thing I can reach—a vase off the windowsill—and hurl it. It explodes against the wall. Water, stems, shards. All of it scattered.
“Say something, you bastard!”
He moves.
He grabs my wrist again—tighter this time—and pulls. I stumble after him, heart hammering. Through the hallway. Past the kitchen. Down the corridor.
“Vincent—let go.”
He doesn’t.
The bedroom door slams shut behind us.
He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t say a word. Just pushes me onto the bed like I weigh nothing and flips me onto my stomach.
The cuffs snap shut. Cold against skin. Metal tight.
“What are you doing?” I gasp, yanking against the restraints. “Vincent—”
“You wanted honesty.”
His voice is velvet and steel.
“Here it is.”
He straddles the bed behind me, eyes burning holes through me.
“You don’t get to throw tantrums.”
His hands slide down my sides. Teasing. Light. Dangerous.
“Stop it,” I whisper. But I don’t mean it.
He skims over my waist, my hips, my thighs—touches every place except where I need him most. My body’s on fire. My heart’s a drum.
He kisses my stomach. Scrapes his teeth against my skin. I gasp. Loud. Too loud.
He pulls away. “No.”
My thighs clench. I’m soaked. I’m shaking. I’m begging without saying it.
“Please,” I breathe. “Please just—”
“You don’t get to beg until you mean it.”
“I do,” I cry. “I swear I do—”
“Then why’d you slap me?”
His words knock the breath out of me.
“Why do you keep pushing when you know where it leads?”
“Because I hate you,” I gasp. “I hate how you make me feel. I hate that I need this.”
He hums. “You don’t hate it. You’re terrified you like it too much.”
His fingers dip between my legs. Barely touch. Just enough to make me sob. Then he pulls back.
“No—Vincent—please.”
“You want to act out, Emilia?” he murmurs, dragging his mouth up my thigh. “You want to test my control?”
“Yes.” It’s a broken cry. “Yes, please. Just don’t stop.”
He leans in closer. “You’ve mistaken protection for punishment.”
His hand grazes me—just once. Just right.
Then nothing.
My scream cracks the air.
He kisses the inside of my knee. Stands. Walks away.
I’m a mess. Eyes wet. Breasts rising and falling with each sob. My dress pushed up. My wrists locked. My legs spread.
And he’s walking away.
“Vincent—don’t. Please—”
“You think I’m cruel,” he says, looking back at me. “But I’ve been gentle with you.”
I laugh—sharp, bitter. “This is gentle?”
“You haven’t seen what I’m capable of.”
He walks back to the bed. Grabs a fistful of my hair. Tilts my face up.
His mouth hovers over mine.
“You broke the rules. You lied to your best friend. You slapped me. And now you want me to kiss it better?”
“I want—” My voice cracks. “I want you.”
He presses his forehead to mine. His breath is fire. His fingers cradle my face like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
“Then earn it.”
“How?”
His hand wraps around my throat again. Just enough pressure to make my breath catch.
“You don’t get to promise and then take it back the second it gets hard.”
“I’m not taking—”
“Don’t lie.”
“Please,” I whisper.
He kisses me. Brutal. Deep. Claiming.
Then he pulls away.
I’m left panting. Shackled. Drenched in sweat and shame and need.
His voice cuts like a blade.
“Don’t promise. Prove it.”