Chapter Five
Sebastian Maddox
Ray Chen thinks fear comes from volume.
She's wrong.
Fear comes from inevitability—from realizing resistance doesn't change the outcome.
I watch her leave the building early, shoulders tense, steps quick. She doesn't look back. People who sense the trap rarely do. They move forward and hope the world stops tightening around them.
It never does.
I'm in my office when my phone buzzes. Live feed confirms what I already know: she's shaken. Confused. Still trying to find logic in a system that doesn't run on fairness.
Good.
Confusion makes people compliant.
I didn't audit finance because of her.I audited finance because they forgot their place.
She was simply the line they crossed.
I lean back, folding my hands, replaying the moment she smiled at him. It wasn't flirtation. That's irrelevant. Territory doesn't care about intent—only violation.
She belongs close to power.Which means she belongs to me.
I send a message.
Me: Did you eat?
The reply takes longer this time.
Ray: …no. I was going to grab something on the way home.
I exhale slowly.
That won't do.
Me: You'll stop at the place on 34th. The one with the green sign. Order the chicken soup.
Three dots appear immediately. Panic masquerading as politeness.
Ray: How do you know where I am?
I ignore the question.
Me: You need to take better care of yourself.
Another pause. Longer.
Ray: This feels inappropriate.
There it is.
I smile—barely.
Me: No. This feels unfamiliar. There's a difference.
I stand and move to the window, the city stretching beneath me like a living thing. I built half of it with decisions no one will ever trace back to me.
Power hums in my veins, steady and cold.
Ray: I didn't ask for this.
I type slower now.
Deliberately.
Me: You don't ask for gravity either. You adjust to it.
She stops replying.
I give her five minutes. Exactly.
Then I send the final message.
Me: Look to your left.
The camera feed shows her freezing mid-step on the sidewalk, eyes widening as she turns her head.
My car idles at the curb.
Driver waiting. Door unlocked.
She doesn't move.
Her phone buzzes again.
Me: Get in.
Her chest rises and falls rapidly. I can almost feel it—her fear bleeding into the air, sharp and electric.
She types.
Deletes.
Types again.
Ray: I can't.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk.
Me: You can. And you will.
Her fingers tremble visibly as she types.
Ray: Why are you doing this?
I watch her face through the feed as the truth settles—slow, devastating.
Me: Because I decide what moves.
She looks small standing there. Soft. Out of place in a world that devours people like her.
I don't want to break her.
I want to contain her.
Me: Open the door, Ray.
Seconds stretch.
Then—finally—she exhales, shoulders sagging in defeat, and reaches for the handle.
The moment she gets in the car, something clicks into place inside me. Not relief.
Ownership.
This is how it starts—not with force, but with inevitability. With choices narrowing until only one feels safe.
By the time she realizes she's trapped, she'll already be defending me.
Calling this protection.Calling this care.Calling this love.
And when she finally looks at me with those wide, hopeful eyes and says I can fix him—
I'll let her believe it.
Because possession isn't about cruelty.
It's about control.
And she's already learning the language.