Emilia
I found the message by accident.
His phone buzzed once—just once—on the kitchen counter while he was in the shower. I wouldn’t have touched it. I shouldn’t have.
But I did.
Julian’s name lit up the screen. One unread message. One line.
“Release her, or I go to the board about what you’ve done.”
My heart dropped straight through my stomach. My fingers went numb.
He knew.
About us. About me. About everything.
I dropped the phone like it burned me. Backed away from it like it might explode. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. My chest tightened until it hurt to breathe.
He hadn’t told me.
Dinner was torture. The silence stretched between us. I pushed my food around my plate. He drank his wine. Like nothing had changed. Like I hadn’t just found a time bomb set to destroy both of us.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
I set my fork down. “Am I a risk to you now?”
He didn’t answer.
My voice stayed calm. Controlled. “Am I worth hiding?”
His jaw tensed. His grip on the glass tightened. Still, nothing.
“Say something,” I snapped, the edge in my voice finally breaking loose.
He stood. Slowly. Like the storm I’d felt building all night was finally waking up.
“Vincent—”
He moved.
I stepped back, but he caught my wrist before I could retreat. His other hand came around, firm, unrelenting.
He walked me backward through the hallway, eyes locked on mine, every step intentional.
The floor chilled my bare feet. I stumbled, breath catching.
He didn’t speak.
The bedroom door slammed shut behind us.
Then everything unraveled.
There was no softness in him now. Only fire and fury kept barely in check.
“You found the message.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
His jaw twitched. “And what did you think I’d do?”
“I thought you’d tell me.” My voice cracked. “I thought I mattered enough to know the truth.”
“You do,” he said. Flat. Final. “That’s why I didn’t.”
And then he broke me.
He didn’t warm me up. Didn’t ask if I was ready. He just took.
His mouth on my neck. His hands bruising my hips. His voice—sharp, filthy, demanding—driving into my skin like nails.
“Is this what he offered you?” he growled, lips against my ear.
“No,” I sobbed, already shaking.
“Did he touch you like this?”
“No one has,” I cried. “No one but you.”
“Then say it.”
“I’m yours, Vincent. Only yours.”
He grabbed my thighs, pulled me against him, and moved with punishing rhythm. Every thrust was a sentence. Every gasp a confession. I lost track of how many times I came. How many times I shattered beneath his body, his voice, his control.
Tears poured down my face. Not from pain. From release. From something deeper.
“Don’t hide from me again,” he said, teeth gritted. “Don’t ever think you’re just a risk.”
“I won’t,” I whispered. “I promise.”
But he didn’t stop.
He kept pushing until I had no voice left. Until I was limp and sobbing, wrists aching in the cuffs, mouth parted in exhaustion.
Only then did he slow.
He kissed my cheek. My collarbone. My ribs.
Then he released my restraints, wrapped me in his arms, and laid me across the pillows like I was something precious.
I couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.
He knelt beside the bed, hands on his thighs. Watching me. His eyes weren’t angry anymore. They were something else—tender, pained.
“You’re not mine because I guard you,” he said softly. “You’re mine because you chose this.”
I pushed up slowly, my limbs trembling. My body still bare. My voice barely there.
I slid off the bed. Sank to my knees in front of him, my hands resting on his thighs, forehead almost touching his.
The floor was cold. I didn’t care.
His eyes darkened, breath caught.
“Then make me yours,” I whispered. “Completely.”