I returned to him.
Not because I forgave him.
Not because I trusted him.
But because I needed answers.
I stood in his penthouse, high above the city, in the same room where he'd once kissed me like a secret. But this time, I didn't let him touch me.
Not yet.
"You tracked me," I said.
He didn't deny it.
"You had someone follow me, trace my hotel, leave a note on my bed."
Still silence.
"You don't get to love me and lock me in a cage, Ethan."
Finally, he spoke.
"I'm not loving you wrong," he said calmly. "I'm loving you completely. That's not the same thing."
I laughed—a sharp, hollow sound. "That's not love. That's control."
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. "And if I gave you control, would you still stay?"
I didn't answer.
Because we both knew the truth.
I was already too far gone.
So I did what any caged creature might do—I tried to redraw the lines of the prison.
"I want boundaries," I said, lifting my chin. "If we're doing this—whatever this is—I need rules. Space. My life outside of you."
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like I'd said something amusing. "You think this is a negotiation?"
"It has to be."
A pause. Then he walked to the window, hands in his pockets, like a king deciding whether to grant mercy.
"You can have your job," he said finally. "Your apartment. Your friends."
A beat of silence.
"But not your heart. That belongs to me."
My throat tightened. "You can't own that."
He turned back to me. "Too late."
And I hated how much I believed him.