Aria woke to stillness. A silence so thick it felt unnatural like the house was holding its breath. Morning light filtered through the tall windows in soft beams, illuminating the room with a golden hue that did nothing to ease the unease pressing against her chest. She shifted in the bed, the silk sheets whispering against her bare skin, and that's when she saw it.
A box.
Black.
Velvet.
Small enough to be mistaken for jewelry, large enough to hold something far heavier than gold.
It sat at the center of her bed like a declaration. No card. No signature. No accompanying message.
Her breath hitched. She sat up slowly, the weight of the last few days settling over her bones. The Roth incident. The surveillance footage. Damien's bleeding hand. His words. The silence that followed. She hadn't seen him since.
Not really.
And now this.
She reached out, her fingers grazing the surface of the box. It was cool to the touch, smooth and expensive, but something about it felt dangerous like opening it would unleash something she wasn't ready to face. But she had never been given the luxury of being ready.
She lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled in a bed of midnight satin, was a collar.
Not gaudy. Not brutal.
Elegant.
A narrow band of hand-stitched black leather, supple and soft, with a clasp of polished silver shaped into the wings of a raven. It wasn't ostentatious. It wasn't laced with diamonds or screaming for attention.
It whispered.
A low, seductive whisper that said: I see you. I claim you.
Aria stared at it as her chest tightened. Her fingers hovered above it but didn't touch. It felt like a trap disguised as a gift. Or maybe the other way around. This wasn't a collar meant to chain someone it was meant to mark them.
It wasn't made for punishment.
It was made for display.
Her throat felt suddenly too exposed, her skin tingling as if the leather had already touched it. She closed the lid slowly, deliberately, as if trying to shut out the thoughts creeping through her head.
But it was already too late.
---
She didn't bother calling for breakfast. Didn't dress. Didn't even put on shoes.
Still in her night slip, she picked up the box and padded silently down the hallways, her bare feet making no sound against the cool marble floors. The estate was hushed, like it knew what she was carrying.
She passed staff in the corridors. Some bowed their heads. Others quickly turned away. Not a single one looked her in the eye.
Not after last night.
Not after Roth.
Not after Damien had drawn blood for her.
And now this box in her hands… it felt like an answer to a question she hadn't asked. Or perhaps, a test. Another one.
Her feet carried her down corridors she rarely used. Past the music room. Past the northern gallery. Until, without thinking, she found herself in front of the greenhouse doors.
It was the only place she hadn't seen Damien rage.
And something inside her whispered he would be there.
She was right.
---
The glass doors opened with a soft sigh, and a wave of humid air rolled over her, warm and earthy. The scent of fresh soil, orchids, and water wrapped around her senses like a balm. The sun filtered through the high glass ceiling in scattered beams, casting dappled shadows across rows of potted plants and climbing vines.
Damien stood at the far end of the room, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, dark hair slightly tousled, hands buried in a patch of soil. He was kneeling in front of a clay pot, carefully planting something small and green. The sight of him this man of steel and fire, quietly tending to something fragile stopped her breath.
He didn't look at her.
Didn't acknowledge her presence.
But he knew she was there.
She took a step forward, then another, until she stood just a few feet away from him. The box felt like lead in her hands.
"I found this," she said finally, her voice soft but clear.
"I left it," he replied without looking up.
She waited.
When he didn't speak again, she asked, "Why?"
Damien patted the soil gently, his hands precise and calm, before rising to his full height. He wiped his palms on a towel draped over the potting table and finally met her eyes.
"It's not a punishment," he said. "Not a command."
Her grip on the box tightened. "Then what is it?"
He took a step closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough to see the tension in his jaw that he tried and failed to hide.
"A choice," he said.
Her heart gave a sharp, unexpected jolt.
"A choice," she repeated.
He nodded. "To be seen. To be protected. Feared. Desired. It's not about chains. It's about what you decide to become. It only has meaning if you give it meaning."
Aria blinked slowly, struggling to process his words. They didn't fit the man she thought she knew. This wasn't about domination. It wasn't about bending her to his will. It was… something else. A mirror, maybe. A way to show the world how she saw herself. Or how she wanted to be seen.
"It looks like ownership," she said.
"It is," he answered quietly. "But not mine."
She frowned. "Then whose?"
"Yours."
And just like that, she couldn't breathe.
---
A memory surfaced without warning one she'd buried deep.
Seventeen. Homeless. Hungry. Standing outside the apartment she'd just been evicted from with two bags and a half-broken phone. The rain had soaked her down to her bones, and she was shaking when the landlord approached.
"I can give you another month," he'd said, eyeing her like she was meat. "But you'll need to… earn it."
She hadn't cried.
Hadn't begged.
She'd followed him upstairs. Bit her lip. Closed her eyes.
And gave up a piece of herself to survive.
There had been no collar then. But she'd worn shame like one for years.
That night, she'd promised herself: never again. Never submit. Never kneel.
And now…
Here she was.
Holding a collar.
Offered, not forced.
But offered by Damien a man who bled for her, protected her, controlled her, yes… but never broke her.
And wasn't trying to now.
She closed the box and turned.
Without a word, she left.
---
The estate was darker when she returned to her room. Evening shadows crept along the floor, and the faint glow of the chandelier above gave the space a strange warmth. She placed the box gently on her vanity and sat in front of it.
For a long time, she just stared.
She touched her reflection, tracing the line of her collarbone. Imagining the feel of that leather against her skin. The silver clasp resting just above her pulse. The message it would send.
Not just to Damien.
But to everyone.
The staff. The outsiders. The predators.
It would say: She is not just his.
It would say: She chose.
She stood.
And left her room again.
---
She found Damien in the gallery this time.
The massive oil painting above the fireplace glowed red and gold in the firelight. It looked like war chaotic and violent. Fitting.
He stood alone, a glass of whiskey in his hand, unmoving.
Aria entered silently and stepped into the circle of warmth cast by the fire.
He turned toward her, and for once, she didn't falter.
"I don't belong to you," she said.
"I know."
"I don't need your protection."
"I know that, too."
She looked down.
Then knelt.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Not in fear. Not in surrender.
In choice.
She held the box out with both hands, lifting it toward him like an offering.
"I choose to wear it," she said. "But that doesn't make me yours. It makes me visible."
His breath caught.
The moment stretched between them like thread pulled too tight.
Then Damien stepped forward, eyes unreadable.
He took the box from her trembling fingers.
Opened it.
Took the collar with reverent hands.
And knelt in front of her.
She tilted her head, exposing her neck.
His fingers brushed against her skin as he fastened it gently, carefully.
When it clicked into place, something inside her shifted.
Not broken.
Claimed.
Not owned.
Seen.
His hand lingered just below the clasp, fingertips resting on her pulse.
"You're the most dangerous thing I've ever owned," he whispered, voice barely above air.
She looked him in the eye.
"And that's your first mistake," she whispered back. "Thinking you ever did."
His eyes darkened.
The glass in his hand slid from his fingers and shattered on the marble, forgotten.
But he didn't move.
Didn't kiss her.
Didn't touch her beyond the collar.
He rose.
And walked away.
Leaving her kneeling in the firelight…
The collar cool against her skin…
And a storm rising beneath it.
---
That night, she didn't sleep.
She lay in the dark, fingers tracing the edges of the collar, her heart caught in a place between defiance and desire.
She didn't cry.
Didn't scream.
She only stared into the darkness and asked herself the one question she couldn't silence anymore:
Who was really paying the price now?
Him?
Or her?
And when the answer didn't come…
She smiled.
Because either way—
She was ready to make them pay more.