Chapter 11: Escalating Intimacy Tests
1665 Words
The days blurred into a rhythm that felt both suffocating and strangely addictive.
Mornings began the same way: Damian’s text arriving at 7:00 sharp on the black phone.
**Breakfast. Dining room. 7:30. Black cashmere sweater dress. Hair down.**
Elena would stare at the screen until the words burned into her retinas, then rise, shower, dress exactly as instructed. The cashmere hugged her curves like a lover’s hands—soft, expensive, possessive. She hated how much she liked the feel of it against her skin.
Downstairs, Damian was always already seated—tablet in hand, black coffee steaming, expression unreadable. He never greeted her with words. Just a slow, appraising glance that started at her bare feet and ended at her eyes.
She sat.
He pushed a plate toward her: poached eggs, smoked salmon, a single slice of sourdough. No butter. No salt. Control, even in calories.
“Eat,” he said.
She picked up her fork. “You know, most people say good morning.”
“Most people aren’t paying two million dollars for compliance.”
She speared a piece of salmon. “And most people don’t buy companionship like it’s a stock option.”
His gaze flicked up. “You’re in a mood.”
“I’m always in a mood when I’m dressed like your personal mannequin.”
A faint curve touched his mouth—not quite a smile. “The dress looks better on you than on the hanger.”
She rolled her eyes. “Flattery doesn’t make the leash disappear.”
He set the tablet aside. “It’s not a leash. It’s structure.”
“It’s a collar with a two-million-dollar price tag.”
Silence stretched.
He leaned forward slightly. “You could have walked away that first night.”
“And let you ruin my life? My mother’s care? My name?”
“You could have fought harder.”
“I’m fighting right now.” She met his eyes. “Just not with fists.”
Something flickered in his expression—respect, maybe. Or irritation. Hard to tell.
“Finish your breakfast,” he said. “We have a schedule.”
The “required” dates started that week.
Monday: private box at the Metropolitan Opera. La Bohème. She wore emerald velvet—his choice—neckline plunging just enough to make her hyper-aware of every breath. He sat beside her in black tie, hand resting on her thigh the entire second act. Not moving. Just there. Heavy. Claiming.
During intermission, in the private lounge, he poured champagne.
“To art,” he said, clinking her glass.
“To captivity,” she countered, sipping anyway.
He studied her over the rim. “You hate it that much?”
“I hate the performance more than the cage.”
His thumb brushed her wrist—right over the leather cuff. “Then stop performing.”
She laughed—short, sharp. “Says the man who wrote the script.”
Tuesday: dinner at Le Bernardin. Corner table. No menu. Courses arrived like clockwork—tuna tartare, lobster, black truffle risotto. He fed her the first bite of dessert—chocolate soufflé—holding the spoon to her lips until she opened.
She took it.
Then leaned in close enough that only he could hear.
“If you wanted a trained bird, you should have bought a parrot.”
His eyes darkened. “I wanted you.”
The words landed heavier than the spoon.
She pulled back. “You wanted control.”
“I wanted both.”
Wednesday: a charity gala at the Guggenheim. Black gown—floor-length, backless, slit to mid-thigh. He kept her close—arm around her waist, fingers splayed against bare skin. Photographers swarmed. He smiled for the cameras—perfect, practiced. She smiled too—brighter, sharper, the smile of a woman who knew exactly how dangerous the man beside her was.
A board member approached—older, silver-haired, eyes lingering too long on her cleavage.
“Damian, you’ve been hiding this one,” the man said, chuckling.
Damian’s arm tightened. “She’s not hidden. She’s mine.”
Elena turned her head slightly, lips brushing his ear. “Possessive much?”
“Very.”
She pulled back, met the board member’s gaze. “He’s right. I’m not hidden. I’m just expensive.”
The man laughed uncomfortably.
Damian’s fingers dug into her hip—warning, promise.
Later, in the car, he pushed her against the leather seat the moment the partition rose.
“You enjoyed that,” he growled.
“Making you jealous? Yes.”
His mouth crashed down on hers—hard, punishing.
She kissed him back just as fiercely.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against hers.
“You’re going to ruin me.”
“Good,” she whispered. “Then we’ll be even.”
Thursday night brought the breaking point.
Another “required” date—dinner in the penthouse this time. No staff. Just them.
He cooked.
She watched from the island stool—arms crossed, still in the day’s outfit: black silk blouse, high-waisted trousers, heels he hadn’t let her take off.
He moved with quiet precision—searing scallops, reducing white wine sauce, plating with the same focus he applied to boardroom takeovers.
She couldn’t stop staring at his forearms—sleeves rolled, tattoo stark against tanned skin.
He set a plate in front of her.
“Eat.”
She looked at the food. Perfect. Beautiful. Controlled.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Elena.”
She pushed the plate away. “I’m tired of eating on command. Tired of dressing on command. Tired of breathing on command.”
He stilled.
She stood. “You want intimacy? Then stop treating me like a possession you wind up every morning.”
His jaw tightened. “This is the arrangement.”
“The arrangement is bullshit and you know it.”
He rounded the island.
She backed up until her spine hit the counter.
He caged her with his arms—hands braced on either side of her hips.
“You think I enjoy this?” he asked quietly.
“I think you need it.”
“I need you safe. I need you here. I need—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I need to know you won’t disappear like she did.”
Elena’s anger cracked.
She lifted a hand—slowly—touched his cheek.
“I’m not disappearing tonight.”
His eyes closed briefly.
“Then stop fighting every breath.”
“I can’t stop fighting,” she whispered. “If I do… what’s left of me?”
He opened his eyes.
Something raw stared back at her.
“I don’t want what’s left,” he said. “I want all of you. Even the parts that hate me.”
Her breath hitched.
She rose on her toes.
Kissed him.
Not angry this time.
Not defiant.
Just… honest.
He groaned—low, broken—and lifted her onto the counter.
Plates forgotten.
Hands everywhere—his in her hair, hers under his shirt, nails dragging down his back.
He pulled the blouse open—buttons scattering.
Mouth on her throat. Her collarbone. Lower.
She arched.
“Damian—”
He froze again.
Pulled back.
Breathing hard.
“No,” he said—voice rough.
She stared at him. “What?”
“Not like this.”
“Like what?”
“On a counter. After a fight. Because you’re angry and I’m desperate.”
She laughed—disbelieving. “You’re turning me down?”
“I’m saying wait.”
“For what?”
“For it to mean something more than resentment.”
She slid off the counter.
Adjusted her ruined blouse.
“You want meaning?” she asked quietly. “Then stop hiding behind rules.”
He watched her—chest rising and falling.
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
She walked past him.
Toward the spiral staircase.
At the bottom step she paused.
Turned back.
“I’m going to my room. Alone. Because I choose to. Not because you commanded it.”
His hands clenched at his sides.
She climbed the stairs.
He didn’t follow.
In her room—still not calling it hers—she stripped off the clothes.
Showered until the water ran cold.
Crawled under the sheets n***d.
Stared at the ceiling.
The chemistry between them was a live wire—sparking, dangerous, impossible to ignore.
But the resentment?
That was the insulation.
And neither of them knew how to strip it away without getting burned.
Friday morning.
New text.
**Breakfast. 7:30. No dress code. Just you.**
She stared at the screen.
No instructions.
No command.
Just… her.
She wore what she wanted: soft gray hoodie (hers, from the duffel she’d brought), black leggings, bare feet.
Downstairs, he was waiting.
No suit.
Black T-shirt. Gray sweatpants. Hair still damp from his own shower.
He looked… human.
She sat.
He pushed a plate toward her—pancakes. Real ones. With butter. Maple syrup. Blueberries.
No lecture.
No rules recited.
Just food.
She picked up her fork.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He nodded once.
They ate in silence.
Not tense.
Not comfortable.
Something in between.
After the plates were cleared, he spoke.
“Tonight. No gala. No opera. Just dinner here. No staff. No schedule.”
She looked at him.
“And after?”
“After… we talk. No commands. No contracts mentioned.”
She searched his face.
“Okay.”
He exhaled—like he’d been holding his breath for days.
“Good.”
She stood.
Rounded the island.
Stopped in front of him.
Rose on her toes.
Pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.
He closed his eyes.
She pulled back.
“See you tonight.”
She walked away.
This time he watched her go.
And for the first time, the resentment felt smaller than the chemistry.
Small enough, maybe, that something real could grow in the space between.
- Writer
