The mansion no longer felt like a home.
Security cameras blinked silently from every corner, guards stationed at entrances that had once felt merely decorative. The air itself seemed tense, waiting for something to break.
Elena stood by the window in Victor's private sitting room, watching the iron gates below. Her phone lay cold and useless in her hand. Victor had taken it earlier—temporarily, he said—to prevent tracking.
She hated that part.
"I feel trapped," she said quietly.
Victor stood a few steps behind her, arms crossed. "I know."
"That doesn't make it better."
"No," he agreed. "But it makes you alive."
She turned sharply. "You don't get to decide that for me."
He met her gaze evenly. "Then decide."
The room fell silent.
Elena's heart pounded. This was the moment. The one line she couldn't uncross.
"If I leave," she said slowly, "you can make all this stop."
"Yes," he replied immediately.
"And if I stay?"
His voice dropped. "Then you step into my world fully. No illusions. No half-measures."
She swallowed. "You'll always be like this—controlling."
"I'll always be honest," he countered. "About the danger. About what I can give. About what I can't."
She searched his face, looking for manipulation.
She found none.
Another message pinged on Victor's secured tablet. His jaw tightened as he read it.
"What now?" she asked.
"They've moved from warnings to pressure," he said. "A journalist was paid to dig into your past."
Her breath caught. "My past isn't clean."
"I know," he said quietly. "That's why they chose it."
Fear curled in her stomach. "This is too much."
Victor stepped closer, stopping just short of touching her. "Then say the word. I'll disappear you from this situation."
She laughed weakly. "Disappear. That's how you talk about people."
"That's how I keep them safe."
She closed her eyes briefly.
When she opened them, her voice was steady. "I won't run."
His expression shifted—surprise, relief, something dangerously close to emotion.
"You're sure?" he asked.
"No," she said honestly. "But I'm choosing anyway."
He nodded once. "Then I'll do this properly."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you move to the east wing—closer to security. It means a driver at all times. It means my name shields yours."
"And emotionally?" she asked softly.
Victor hesitated.
"That," he said, "is where I don't make promises."
She stepped closer now, closing the distance herself. "I'm not asking for safety from feelings."
His breath slowed. "You should."
"Too late."
For a long moment, they stood inches apart, tension thick and fragile.
Victor lifted his hand, stopping halfway, giving her time to pull back.
She didn't.
His fingers brushed her wrist—light, grounding.
"This isn't possession," he said quietly. "This is responsibility."
Her throat tightened. "Then don't let me become a weakness."
His gaze burned. "You already are."
The admission stunned them both.
A guard knocked sharply on the door. "Sir. We have confirmation. The threats are coming from a rival consortium."
Victor's jaw hardened. "Increase lockdown. No leaks."
"Yes, sir."
When the door closed, Elena exhaled shakily. "You don't scare easily."
"No," he said. "But losing control does."
She reached out, resting her hand briefly against his chest. "Then learn to share it."
He covered her hand with his own, firm and warm.
"I don't know how," he admitted.
"We'll learn," she said.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance.
Elena knew then—staying meant danger, scrutiny, and fear.
But leaving would mean walking away from something powerful, raw, and real.
She looked up at Victor Hale, the man who ruled everything around him—
And chose the fire.