Control
994 Words
Sleep didn’t come easily.
When it did, it arrived in fragments — flashes of silver, footsteps, and the faint smell of rain on silk.
Amara woke before sunrise, drenched in sweat, heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted out.
The note still sat on her table.
I told you to change your locks.
The handwriting was elegant. Confident. Male.
She tore it in half, then in half again. But the words stayed, echoing beneath her skin.
At eight, her phone buzzed with a new message.
Unknown Number: My assistant will send a locksmith by noon. Don’t argue.
She gritted her teeth and replied, I’m not your project.
His response was instant.
You’re not. You’re my investment.
She nearly threw the phone.
Then, before she could, another text came.
And I protect what I invest in.
Amara exhaled sharply, pacing the studio. The air smelled of wet fabric and anxiety. “You’re not normal,” she muttered under her breath, even though she wasn’t sure who she was talking about anymore — him, or herself for not walking away.
She decided to call her best friend. “Lina, if I say the words ‘billionaire surveillance,’ how crazy do I sound?”
Lina laughed softly. “Like a woman dating a man who doesn’t understand boundaries.”
“I’m not dating him.”
“Sure,” Lina said. “Then why are you talking like you owe him explanations?”
Amara fell silent. Because she didn’t know.
By noon, a man in uniform arrived with a toolkit and an envelope.
“Locksmith,” he said. “Paid for by Mr. Voss. He asked me to give you this.”
Amara hesitated, then took the envelope.
Inside was a note:
New locks. New security code. New rule — don’t open your door without looking first.
— D.
Her anger flared, but beneath it was something else — an uncomfortable warmth. She hated how safety and violation came wrapped in the same voice.
“Just change them and leave,” she told the locksmith.
“Yes, ma’am.”
It took him less than twenty minutes.
When he left, she locked the door twice. Then three times.
At work the next day, she found herself hyper-aware of everything. Every reflection, every whisper, every passing glance.
The company’s top floor was a maze of glass — offices built to be seen through. Damian liked transparency, or maybe he just liked control.
He wasn’t in his office when she arrived. His assistant, a quiet woman with perfect posture, handed Amara a folder.
“Mr. Voss asked that you review these designs before the meeting.”
Amara opened it — and froze.
They were hers. Sketches she’d been working on privately in her studio, designs she hadn’t shown anyone.
Her throat went dry. “Where did you get these?”
The assistant blinked, polite but unreadable. “They were sent directly from your workspace.”
Amara’s pulse quickened. “He hacked my system.”
The woman hesitated. “Mr. Voss doesn’t ‘hack,’ Miss Steele. He supervises.”
“Supervises,” Amara repeated quietly. “Of course.”
When Damian entered minutes later, the room shifted around him. He moved like silence that expected to be obeyed.
“Beautiful work,” he said. “You’ve been busy.”
Her tone was ice. “You’ve been watching.”
“Correction,” he said smoothly. “I’ve been learning.”
“By invading my privacy?”
He tilted his head slightly, studying her. “You call it invasion. I call it preparation. You underestimate how exposed you are, Amara. People would kill to have your talent.”
“And what would you do to have it?” she asked.
His smile was slight, dangerous. “Whatever’s necessary.”
She pushed the folder toward him. “I didn’t give you permission.”
“You signed permission the day you signed that contract,” he said evenly. “You just didn’t read between the lines.”
Her pulse raced. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m effective.”
Their eyes locked. The air thickened with words neither of them said. Finally, she grabbed her bag. “If this is how you operate, then maybe I made a mistake.”
“You didn’t,” he said quietly. “You’re just afraid of what it feels like to be seen.”
She froze. “You don’t see me. You study me.”
His gaze softened almost imperceptibly. “And yet, I’m the only one who noticed when you stopped wearing red.”
That stopped her.
She hadn’t worn the color in months—not since the betrayal that had gutted her confidence.
“How—” she began, but he cut her off.
“I notice everything that matters.”
Her breath caught. For a second, the anger cracked, revealing something raw beneath it—fear, maybe, or recognition. She turned before he could read it.
“I’m leaving,” she said.
“You can,” he replied calmly. “Just remember that every time you try to escape what scares you, you end up designing it.”
That night, Amara didn’t turn on any lights. She sat by the window in darkness, watching the city breathe.
Her reflection merged with the skyline. She couldn’t tell if she looked powerful or trapped.
Her phone buzzed on the table. One message.
I told you, Amara. Control is only frightening until you realize who truly holds it.
She stared at the screen for a long moment before replying.
And who is that?
You’ll find out when you stop running.
She typed, You can’t keep doing this.
Then stop letting me.
She threw the phone onto the couch, breath shaky, heart unsteady. “You’re not in control of me,” she whispered to the empty room.
But the truth whispered back.
Maybe he already was.
Teaser:
He wanted her trust. She wanted her freedom. Only one of them could win.
- Writer
