OWNED BY A BILLIONAIRE

CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE BREAKING POINT

The morning after the dinner, everything changed.

I woke to an empty bed. His side was cold. But there was a note on the pillow.

"Come to the studio. 9am."

No please. No explanation. Just an order.

I dressed. Black dress. Flat shoes. No makeup. The collar was tight around my throat.

The studio was cold.

He was standing by the chair. The same chair from my first lesson. The leather straps hung loose. The wood was dark.

"Sit," he said.

"No."

"Ava"

"Not until you tell me why."

He walked to me. Stopped inches away.

"Last night, you embarrassed me," he said.

"What?"

"Mr. Delgado. The old man with the gray hair. He asked where I found you. You said, 'She found me.'"

"That's what I said."

"He knew what you meant. He knew you were mocking him. He knew you were mocking me."

"I wasn't mocking anyone."

"You were being clever. Clever is dangerous." His hand touched my collar. "Clever gets people hurt."

"Are you going to hurt me?"

His eyes darkened. "No."

"Then what are you going to do?"

He was quiet. His hand dropped from my collar.

"I'm going to remind you who you belong to."

"I know who I belong to. I signed a contract. I wear your collar. I sleep in your bed." I lifted my chin. "What else do you want?"

"I want you to stop fighting."

"Then stop giving me reasons to fight."

He stared at me. His gray eyes were cold. Then something shifted. Something almost sad.

"You're impossible," he said.

"I'm honest."

"Honest is overrated."

"Honest is all I have."

He turned away. Walked to the window. Looked out at the garden.

"My father used to beat me," he said.

The words hung in the air.

"What?"

"Every night. From the time I was five until the time I was eighteen. He beat me. With his hands. With his belt. With anything he could find."

"Alexander"

"I'm not telling you this for sympathy. I'm telling you this because I need you to understand." He turned to face me. "I don't know how to love. I don't know how to be soft. I don't know how to be anything except what he made me."

"You're not your father."

"Sometimes I wonder."

He walked to me. His hand touched my face.

"I bought you because I wanted to own you. I wanted to control you. I wanted to prove that I could be better than him." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "But I'm not better. I'm the same."

"You're not the same."

"How do you know?"

"Because you gave me a writing room. Because you took me to my mother's café. Because you let me see my father." I touched his hand. "He would never have done those things."

"My father didn't have money."

"Your father didn't have a heart."

He closed his eyes.

For a moment, he looked young. Scared. Human.

"I don't know how to do this," he said.

"Do what?"

"Let you in."

"Then stop trying to control it." I pulled his hand to my chest. Pressed it against my heart. "Feel that?"

"Yes."

"That's what you do to me. Every day. Every night. You make my heart race. You make me feel things I don't want to feel." I held his gaze. "You're not the only one who's scared."

"I'm not scared."

"Liar."

He almost smiled.

"Fine," he said. "I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"Of losing you."

"You don't have me yet."

"I know." He pulled me close. Wrapped his arms around me. "But I want to."

We stayed in the studio for an hour.

Not talking. Just holding each other. The chair watched. The straps hung loose. The room held its breath.

"Tell me about your mother," he said.

"She died when I was five."

"I know. Tell me something I don't know."

I was quiet. Then:

"She used to sing to me. Every night. The same song. About the moon and the stars and a girl who wasn't afraid of the dark."

"Were you afraid?"

"Not when she was singing."

He pulled back. Looked at me.

"Sing it to me," he said.

"What?"

"Your mother's song. Sing it to me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I haven't sung it since she died."

"Then it's time."

I took a breath. Then I sang.

The words were old. Spanish. Soft. A lullaby about light and love and never being alone.

Alexander watched me. His gray eyes were soft.

When I finished, he kissed me.

Not hard. Not demanding. Gentle. Like I was something precious.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For trusting me."

I didn't answer.

But I kissed him back.

The phone rang at noon.

Alexander answered. His face went pale.

"What is it?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

"Alexander, what is it?"

He handed me the phone.

"Your father," he said. "He's asking for you."

I took the phone. My hands were shaking.

"Hello?"

"Ava." My father's voice. Weak. Tired. "Hija."

"Papa. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing is wrong." He coughed. "I just... I wanted to hear your voice."

"You heard it. Now rest."

"I miss you."

"I miss you too."

"When can I see you?"

I looked at Alexander. He nodded.

"Soon," I said. "Very soon."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

I hung up. My hands were still shaking.

"He's getting worse," I said.

"He's getting better. The doctors say he'll make a full recovery."

"Then why does he sound like that?"

"Because he's old. Because he's tired. Because he misses his daughter." Alexander took the phone from me. "You can see him tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"I'll take you myself."

"Why?"

He looked at me. "Because you asked."

I didn't know what to say.

So I kissed him instead.

That night, he made love to me differently.

Not fast. Not hard. Slow. Gentle. Like he was memorizing my body.

"Alexander," I whispered.

"Hmm."

"What are we doing?"

"Making love."

"No." I touched his face. "What are we doing? With this? With us?"

He stopped moving. Looked at me.

"I don't know," he said.

"You don't know?"

"I've never done this before."

"Done what?"

"Cared."

The word hung between us.

"You care about me?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Since when?"

"Since the auction." He kissed my forehead. "Since you looked at me and didn't flinch. Since you signed the contract without crying. Since you called me Alejandro when everyone else calls me Mr. Black."

"You bought me."

"I know."

"You own me."

"I know."

"You're still a monster."

"I know." He kissed me. "But I'm your monster."

I didn't know what to say.

So I held him.

And for the first time, I didn't want to let go.