My body ached in places I didn't even know could hurt. A dull, bruising throb pulsed through me with every small movement, a reminder of the night I broke the rules and paid the price. I had learned my lesson—at least, I thought I had. I wouldn't make the same mistake again. I couldn't. Not when the cost was this much pain… and this much distance.
Denzel hadn't come to bed after he left me cold and trembling. He'd walked out like I was just another problem to manage—like nothing about me deserved softness after what I'd done. And yet, I still craved him. I still ached in ways that had nothing to do with my body.
I forced myself to sit up, wincing as the motion stretched muscles already tender. The sheets were tangled around me, scented with him, mocking me. I slipped from the bed and padded across the room toward the bathroom, moving slowly, trying not to provoke the fire in my thighs. I used the salt I remembered him pouring into the bath once before. Lavender and eucalyptus—expensive comfort. The water was warm, welcoming, and as I slid into the tub, I hissed through my teeth at the sting that followed. Still, it was a good pain. A healing pain.
Just as I began to relax, the bathroom door creaked open.
He stepped in without hesitation, bare skin gleaming under the morning light, his body as sculpted and commanding as ever. His eyes met mine, and a slow, almost boyish smile curled his lips.
"Were you planning to bathe without me?"
I stared at him, unsure if I was supposed to laugh, cry, or flinch. He didn't look mad anymore. He looked... amused. Like last night hadn't happened at all. Like I hadn't been punished within an inch of myself.
"I didn't know if I was allowed," I said quietly.
"Hmm," he mused, walking forward with unhurried steps. "May I join you?"
I nodded because I couldn't think of anything else to do. He climbed in behind me, the water shifting around us, and I settled against his chest, the strength of his arms folding around my stomach as if I was something fragile again.
There was silence between us, not cold this time, but thoughtful. His hand poured water slowly over my breasts, fingertips brushing where I was sore and sensitive. I bit back a sound, half-pleasure, half-pain.
Then his hand drifted lower, and I flinched, breath catching in my throat.
He stilled immediately. "Does it hurt?"
I nodded against his collarbone.
His voice softened. "I'm sorry."
"You were so rough last night… like something else took over you."
His lips found my neck, warm and apologetic. "That's what happens when you break the rules, Star. I told you what this was. I told you what would happen."
"And what about when you break the rules?" I asked, unable to keep the edge from my voice. "You left. You didn't call. Not once. For a week."
"Have I wronged you, Miss Jones?"
"You said this thing—whatever it is—was built on rules. Communication was one of them."
He laughed under his breath, the sound sharp. "We're not dating. I'm not your boyfriend. What we're doing—this—is physical. It ends there. You don't get to expect phone calls and check-ins like this is some high school romance. I thought you were smarter than that."
The words landed hard, slicing through whatever warmth the bath had given me. My mouth opened, then shut again, useless.
"If you keep clinging," he added coolly, "I'll end this."
His hand released me, and without another word, he stepped out of the tub, water trailing down his perfect form as he left me there—naked, hurt, humiliated.
I stayed there long after he was gone, chest tight with things I didn't know how to name. I was stupid to think this meant more. Stupid to believe his tenderness was anything more than a calculated contrast to the dominance he preferred. This wasn't love. This was control. And I had signed up for it willingly.
Eventually, I pulled myself from the bath and dried off, moving slowly, the soreness not as sharp as before. On the edge of the bed, I found a dress laid out for me. A long, fitted maxi dress in deep emerald green. Soft, expensive, and clearly chosen to make me feel beautiful—whatever that meant today.
I moisturized, fixed my hair, and slid into the dress. When I walked out into the dining room, Denzel was already seated at the head of the table, scrolling through his phone. The breakfast spread in front of him looked like something from a magazine—fresh fruit, eggs, toast, salmon, and green juice. My stomach twisted in confusion.
He glanced up, and something like satisfaction flickered across his face.
"You look damn gorgeous, mummy," he said, lips tugging into a side-smile.
I sat quietly, unsure which version of him I was dining with. The punisher or the prince. His attention drifted back to his phone, and we ate in a strange, charged silence. I stole glances at him, trying to understand how a man could be ice and fire in the same breath. How he could make me feel wanted one moment and worthless the next.
After we finished, he stood and walked around the table to pull out my chair. I blinked up at him.
"Come," he said simply. "There's something I want to show you."
I followed him to the elevator, nerves curling in my belly like a fist. The car waiting downstairs was sleek and black, just like everything else he owned. We drove in silence, his hand occasionally resting on my thigh in a gesture that was both possessive and calming.
When the car finally stopped, I looked out and saw a high-rise building in the city's wealthiest district. My brows drew together.
"What is this?"
He didn't answer right away. He led me through the lobby, past glass walls and polished marble floors, up to the top floor where the elevator opened into a private hallway. At the end of it—a door with no number. Just smooth wood and a gold handle.
He stepped aside and gestured.
"Open it."
I did, heart pounding. Inside was a dream.
The apartment was stunning. Modern, warm, designed in soft creams and golds with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a sweeping view of the skyline. There was a fireplace, an open kitchen, a massive bed, a vanity table with my favorite makeup already arranged… and a walk-in closet, half full.
I turned, completely stunned. "What is this?"
"It's yours," he said. "You'll stay here from now on."
I stared at him like he'd just handed me the moon. "You bought me an apartment?"
He nodded like it was nothing.
"I don't know what to say."
"Say thank you."
"Thank you," I whispered, still breathless.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box. Inside was the latest phone—sleek, new, better than anything I'd ever owned.
"This too," he said. "You'll use it for me. No one else."
The rules again. Always the rules.
We spent the rest of the day there—ordering food, watching the sun dip into the skyline from the balcony, his mood strangely calm and playful. He kissed me softly this time, touched me like I might break, like I was precious.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that all of it—the apartment, the phone, the attention—was a chain made of silk.
Beautiful. Binding.