Genevieve had made her decision.
After those first few days locked inside the penthouse—waking up tangled in sheets that reeked of sex, sweat, and the sharp metallic tang of mutual surrender; late-night conversations that began as sarcastic jabs and ended in raw confessions that neither of us could take back;
Mornings where I devoured her cunt like breakfast was an optional formality and afternoons where she sat on the balcony with a glass of wine, staring at the city like it no longer owned her—she chose.
She was staying.
With me. In this sprawling, ever-expanding, rule-violating circus I call a life. Harem or no harem.
Other women or no other women. Didn't matter.
One condition, delivered in that low, steady voice of hers, black eyes glittering like obsidian knives that had already tasted blood:
"Don't put me back in the same prison you just helped me escape."
And that went without saying.
I didn't argue. I didn't sweet-talk.
