Six months.
Half the contract was fulfilled.
Ava stared at her reflection in the penthouse bathroom mirror—collar snug around her throat, faint marks from last night’s ropes still visible on her wrists.
She looked like his.
She felt like his.
And that was the problem.
The isolation had crept up slowly.
At first, the luxury cocoon had been intoxicating—private chef meals, designer wardrobe chosen by him, days structured around his schedule and her submission.
No work. No friends. No outside world except when she was on his arm, perfectly behaved.
Her old life—journalism contacts, brunches with girlfriends, even scrolling social media—had faded to nothing.
He’d taken her phone the first week. Given her a new one with only his number and emergency contacts.
“For your safety,” he’d
