The car ride back to the mansion was suffocating.
Elena sat rigidly in the back seat, her hands folded tightly on her lap, her gaze fixed on the dark road ahead. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows, but she barely noticed them. Every nerve in her body was aware of one thing only—Victor Hale sitting beside her.
He hadn't said a word since they left the charity dinner.
That silence was far worse than anger.
"You played your role well tonight," Victor said at last, his voice calm and unreadable.
Elena exhaled slowly. "That was the agreement, wasn't it?"
"Yes." He turned to her then, his dark eyes sharp. "But don't confuse cooperation with freedom."
Her jaw tightened. "I didn't do anything wrong."
"No," he admitted. "You did exactly what I wanted."
That didn't sound like praise.
The car pulled through the iron gates of the mansion, the engine humming softly before coming to a stop. The driver stepped out, but Victor was already opening his door.
"Inside," he said.
Elena followed him wordlessly.
The moment the doors closed behind them, the atmosphere shifted. The mansion was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed in on the senses. Victor loosened his tie as he walked, his movements unhurried, controlled.
"Did you enjoy the attention?" he asked without looking back.
She frowned. "What attention?"
"The way people looked at you," he replied coolly. "The way they wanted you."
Elena stopped walking. "I can't control where people look."
Victor turned slowly, his gaze darkening as it settled on her. "But you can control what you provoke."
"I wore the dress you chose," she shot back. "I smiled when you told me to. What more do you want?"
He stepped closer.
"You're still asking the wrong question," he said quietly.
Her heart began to pound. "Then what's the right one?"
Victor stopped just inches away from her. She could smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body. He didn't touch her—but the restraint was worse.
"What I want," he said, "is for you to understand your position."
Elena lifted her chin stubbornly. "And what position is that?"
His eyes flicked briefly to her lips before returning to her gaze. "You are under my protection. My control. And when people see you, they see me."
"I'm not a possession," she said, though her voice wavered.
"No," Victor agreed softly. "You're a temptation."
Her breath caught.
He reached out—not to touch her, but to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed her skin lightly, deliberately.
Elena sucked in a breath, her body betraying her instantly.
Victor noticed.
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. "There it is."
She stepped back quickly. "Don't."
"I didn't do anything," he replied calmly. "Yet."
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. "You're enjoying this."
"I enjoy honesty," he said. "And your body is very honest with me."
Heat flooded her face. "That doesn't mean anything."
"It means everything," he countered. "You can argue all you want, Elena, but you felt it tonight. The way people looked at you. The way I watched them look."
His hand rested on the wall beside her, boxing her in without touching her.
"You didn't like it," he continued, his voice dropping, "but you didn't hate it either."
Her pulse raced. "You don't get to decide how I feel."
"No," he said quietly. "But I get to influence it."
Silence stretched between them, thick and charged.
Finally, Victor stepped back, breaking the moment. "Go upstairs."
Relief and disappointment tangled painfully in her chest.
"But remember this," he added, his gaze steady. "If you test my patience, I won't stop myself next time."
Elena swallowed hard.
She turned and walked toward the stairs, her legs shaky, her thoughts in chaos.
Behind her, Victor watched, his expression dark, conflicted, and unmistakably hungry.
This wasn't just control anymore.
It was desire.
And neither of them was ready to admit how dangerous that made things.