Morning light sliced through the penthouse windows, sharp and unforgiving. Elara lay on her side, knees drawn to her chest, the black silk sheets twisted around her hips like restraints. Every muscle ached, not from violence but from the sheer weight of last night's surrender. The choker still circled her throat, tighter than ever, its diamonds cold against skin that felt raw and foreign. She hadn't slept. Couldn't. The memory of Damien's body over hers, his low, relentless commands, the clinical precision of his purpose, played on a loop behind her eyes.
She was used.
Shattered.
And still breathing.
The bedroom door opened without a sound. Damien entered, already dressed in a charcoal suit, cufflinks glinting like tiny shackles. He moved with the same predatory grace, but this morning there was no mask of charm, no pretense of tenderness. Only focus, intense and absolute, as if she were a project now in its final phase. He didn't speak. He simply watched her, eyes tracking the rise and fall of her shoulders, the tremor in her fingers as she clutched the sheet to her chest.
He crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight. Elara flinched, but he didn't touch her. Not yet. Instead, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a velvet box, small and black, the kind that screamed wealth and ownership. He set it on the pillow beside her head, close enough that she could smell the faint leather scent of his skin.
"Open it," he said, voice low, calm, final.
Her hand moved before her mind caught up, fingers trembling as she lifted the lid. Inside, nestled on white satin, lay a necklace, a single row of flawless diamonds, each stone larger than the last, culminating in a teardrop pendant that caught the light like a falling star. It was stunning. Exquisite. A reward.
A transaction.
She stared at it, throat working, but no sound came out.
Damien's gaze never wavered. "For last night," he said, as if explaining a quarterly bonus. "You performed your duty. This is your acknowledgment."
Acknowledgment. Not comfort. Not apology. Just confirmation that she had fulfilled her purpose, and here was her payment in cold, glittering currency.
He stood, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from his sleeve. "The stylist will be here at ten. You have a luncheon with the board wives at noon. Wear the navy dress. And the necklace."
He left without another word, the door closing with a soft, decisive click.
Elara remained curled on her side, the velvet box open beside her like an accusation. The diamonds stared back, beautiful and brutal. She didn't cry. She had no tears left. Only the hollow echo of his voice in her head:
Your purpose.
And the weight of the necklace, waiting to be fastened around her neck like another lock.