The collar was still there.
When Aria awoke, her fingers instinctively rose to her neck, brushing the smooth black leather. It felt lighter than she remembered so soft it could almost be silk, yet every inch of it whispered ownership. Not the kind she'd run from all her life. The kind she had chosen.
The sun was already high, casting golden streaks across the marble floor as warmth filled the corners of the room. But despite the light, the estate felt cold. The kind of cold that settled under the skin not from weather, but from silence.
She moved slowly, purposefully. There was no rush anymore. No schedule. No alarm. She'd crossed a line last night, and there was no going back.
When she passed the mirror, she paused.
What she saw wasn't the girl who'd walked into Damien Black's world weeks ago. That girl had been desperate. Small. Fractured. This one? She stood taller even when bare. Her eyes weren't wide with fear anymore, but steady, locked in their own defiance. The collar didn't diminish her reflection.
It elevated it.
Still, something about the air felt… wrong.
When she opened her door, the hallway was empty. A few maids passed with their heads lowered, but none looked at her. One even paused, bowed her head slightly, and hurried off. As if afraid of her. Or worse afraid for her.
Aria ignored it.
She walked barefoot down the corridor, the same way she had last night, holding her head high. But this time, the box was gone.
Now, she wore the choice.
---
Breakfast was set in the sunroom. Sunlight streamed in through floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the room in quiet warmth. The table was laid with precise elegance: fresh fruits, artisanal bread, black coffee, and the scent of something sweet rising from silver domes.
Damien was already seated at the head of the table, dressed in his usual charcoal suit, the buttons on his cuffs undone as though even they were tired of restraint.
He didn't look at her when she entered.
Didn't stand.
Didn't speak.
Just raised a fork to his mouth and took a slow bite of eggs Benedict, eyes trained on his phone.
Aria sat opposite him.
The silence between them was suffocating not in its absence of words, but in the way it devoured the things left unsaid.
She cleared her throat softly. "Good morning."
He didn't glance up.
Only murmured something into the phone in a clipped tone: "Wire the transfer before noon. I don't care about their delays."
She stared at him, something bitter blooming in her chest. It was subtle the way he avoided eye contact. The way his jaw clenched when she tried to speak. The way he refused to see her.
He was angry.
But not in the way she was used to. Not the kind that shattered glasses or barked cruel commands.
This was worse.
This was detachment.
He was punishing her… for feeling.
For looking at him last night like he was more than the monster he tried to be.
---
After breakfast, she returned to her room, expecting nothing. But something new awaited her.
It wasn't dramatic. Just an envelope—white, thick, and unsealed tucked into the top drawer of her vanity.
Inside was the rulebook.
She hadn't seen it in days. Not since the first night.
She opened it, fingers trembling.
Page after page, the same clean, clinical handwriting marked expectations: Wake at 6:00 a.m. No outside communication. No touching without permission. Wear what is provided. No lies. No escape. No breaking the rules.
But something had changed.
New pages.
Fresh ink.
A new rule scrawled at the bottom of the last page, in pen instead of print.
> Rule 21: No Emotional Attachment.
Her chest tightened.
It wasn't a demand she could follow. It was a sentence already broken. Her eyes skimmed over the words again and again like they'd rearrange themselves, like they'd become something else if she stared hard enough.
But they didn't.
They stayed cruel.
Final.
Like a slap disguised in ink.
She pressed her fingers to the page, as if trying to wipe it clean. Her breath hitched.
This wasn't a rule.
It was a warning.
---
She found him again after dusk, not in his office or the greenhouse, but in the library.
The room was dim, lit only by the amber glow of a fireplace. Shelves of leather-bound books stretched endlessly, and Damien sat alone on a black velvet chaise, a crystal glass of something dark and sharp in one hand, a book in the other.
She didn't say anything at first.
She simply walked to him, the collar visible above the neckline of her black silk dress.
He looked up.
His eyes flicked to the collar.
Then away.
Like it meant nothing now.
Like she meant nothing now.
Aria crossed the room silently, the hem of her dress brushing the wood floor like a whisper.
She knelt in front of him not in submission, but in presence. She brought him a fresh cup of tea, placed it carefully on the table beside him, and rested her hands in her lap.
Still, he said nothing.
Only sipped his drink.
She tilted her head. "Don't look at me like I'm a rule you regret writing."
Damien set the glass down with a soft click. His face was blank, but his eyes…
His eyes were fury and fear stitched behind layers of calm.
"You don't understand what you're doing," he said quietly.
"Loving you?" she said.
His entire body went still.
She hadn't meant to say it.
Not like that.
Not so raw.
He stood abruptly, towering over her.
She rose too.
He stared at her like she was poison beautiful and deadly.
"Don't look at me like that," he said, voice low.
"Like you're human?" she whispered.
His jaw clenched.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked away leaving her standing in the glow of the fire.
---
She didn't cry.
She didn't chase.
She sat in his place, where the warmth of his body still lingered in the fabric.
And she smiled.
Not because it didn't hurt.
But because it did.
And that meant it was real.
---
Later that night, her room was darker than usual. The lights had been dimmed to a low amber, the sheets turned down, the perfume of jasmine rising from a candle flickering on her nightstand.
But what caught her eye was the folded slip of paper on her pillow.
She sat on the edge of the bed and unfolded it slowly.
There was no name.
Just one line.
Emotions are a weakness. You were never meant to feel.
Her breath caught.
The collar around her throat felt suddenly too tight.
But she didn't remove it.
She didn't scream.
She didn't tear the paper in anger.
She held it above the candle flame.
Watched the edges curl. Blacken. Disappear.
And then she whispered to the fire:
"Then you shouldn't have taught me how."
The paper turned to ash.
And something in her burned with it.
Not sadness.
Not surrender.
But resolve.
---
She was no longer trying to survive his world.
She was going to burn through it.
Rule by rule.
Emotion by emotion.
Until he was the one kneeling.
And he was the one afraid to feel.