The crumpled rule sheet sat at the top of the trash can, mocking him.
No sex. Ever again.
Jace leaned on the kitchen island, arms folded, eyes fixed on the mess of black ink and cheap paper like it held the key to Elara's mind.
After everything they'd done — everything they felt — she still thought she could control the aftermath with printed rules.
But that was the problem with people who'd built their whole identity on walls.
They forgot that the people they let in could walk right back through.
He wasn't going anywhere.
Elara didn't come home that night.
He waited.
Paced the penthouse like a ghost.
Checked the cameras on his phone. The elevator didn't ding. No footsteps. No shadows under her door.
Just silence.
By 3 a.m., he gave up trying to sleep and went back to the lounge.
Her scent still lingered in the air — jasmine, woodsmoke, and wine. The faint perfume of something rich and damaged.
He poured himself a drink and sat on the leather couch, the memory of her skin under his hands still burning like an echo.
She wanted him. That much was obvious.
But she wanted control even more.
By the time morning came, he was already half dressed, half pissed, and fully ready to stop playing nice.
At 7:59 a.m., the elevator dinged.
And there she was.
Elara Quinn.
Back in black.
Sunglasses on. Silk blouse. Pencil skirt. Heels clicking like a countdown to disaster.
She walked in without glancing at him, moving to the kitchen like she hadn't been gone twenty-four hours and hadn't left him with a printed rejection notice disguised as a list.
He followed her.
"Good morning," he said casually.
She didn't answer.
He leaned against the counter. "So… is this how it works? You vanish after you get what you want, then pretend it didn't happen?"
Elara poured herself a glass of water, slow and precise.
"I told you," she said. "It meant nothing."
He tilted his head. "Then why'd you leave?"
"Because I needed air."
"Bullshit."
She looked at him now, cool and unreadable. "You don't get to call me a liar in my home."
"I live here too," he shot back. "Remember? I'm your tenant."
Her lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Tenants don't sleep with their landladies. That was a mistake."
He moved closer.
"So tell me something, Elara. When you wrapped your legs around me, was that a mistake too?"
She stiffened.
"When you moaned my name into my mouth," he continued, "and begged me not to stop—was that part of the error?"
"Stop."
"When you whispered that you hadn't done this in years—"
"I said stop."
Her voice cracked like lightning.
He did.
Not because he was afraid.
But because he heard the tremble in it.
The fear. The guilt.
The vulnerability she was fighting so hard to bury.
She stepped back, one hand gripping the edge of the counter.
"You think this is about you?" she said, quieter now. "You think I'm scared of your hands? Your mouth? Your body?"
Jace didn't answer.
Because that wasn't what she was afraid of.
She was afraid of how he made her feel.
Of losing the steel shell that kept her standing.
Of needing someone again.
"I've been broken before," she whispered. "I don't need a repeat."
"I'm not him."
She looked up. "That's what he said too."
He didn't push her after that.
He just turned and walked away.
Not defeated. Not angry.
But sure of one thing: this wasn't the end.
Because underneath all that armor, she wanted to be touched again.
Held again.
Trusted again.
She just didn't believe she deserved it.
Yet.
Two days passed.
They barely spoke.
She came and went like a ghost, her presence reduced to perfume trails and the soft click of high heels.
Jace tried to distract himself—applying for night jobs, going on short runs, working out in the lounge, occasionally shirtless just to test her.
And she looked.
Every time.
From behind the rim of her wine glass. From the mirror above the piano. From the shadows of the hallway.
She never said anything.
But he saw the way her pupils dilated. The way her throat tightened when she swallowed. The way her nails tapped faster against the glass when his sweat slicked down his chest.
She was watching.
Starving.
But too proud to ask for another taste.
On the third day, the balance finally tipped.
Jace came home late — or rather, early.
His shift at a downtown club ended at 3:30 a.m., and he stepped into the penthouse exhausted, sore, and annoyed.
The lights were dim. The silence deafening.
Until he heard it.
A sharp sound.
Glass shattering.
He froze.
Another sound. A low sob. Then something muffled — like fabric being grabbed or torn.
Elara.
He moved fast.
Her bedroom door was ajar for the first time since he arrived.
And inside—
She was on the floor, curled near the wall, robe half slipped off her shoulder, hair wild, hands clenched into her thighs like she was trying to hold herself together.
A broken wine glass lay near her feet. Red splattered on the rug.
At first, he thought it was blood.
Then he saw the untouched bottle on the nightstand.
She'd been drinking again. Alone. In the dark.
He stepped in slowly. "Elara?"
She didn't flinch.
Didn't scream.
She just looked up at him — eyes wide, raw, lost.
"Don't—" she said hoarsely.
"Don't what?"
"Don't see me like this."
He crouched beside her. "You think I haven't seen worse?"
"Not from me."
Jace reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"You don't scare me, Elara."
"I scare me," she whispered.
He pulled her into his arms.
And for the first time, she didn't resist.
She didn't say much after that.
He helped her stand. Took her robe off gently. Carried her to bed, even though she tried to protest.
He tucked her in and sat on the edge of the mattress while she stared up at the ceiling like she was trying not to fall apart.
"Stay," she murmured.
He blinked. "What?"
"Just… for a minute."
He stayed.
Held her hand until her breathing evened out.
Watched her fall asleep with a crease still between her brows.
And as dawn broke over the city skyline, he whispered one promise to the woman who swore she didn't need saving.
"I'm not going anywhere."