His Terms

*Chapter 8: Ours*

*Elena*

The penthouse didn’t look like a home. It looked like him.

Floor-to-ceiling glass. Black leather. No photos. No clutter. Just space and the city underneath it.

We’d been there for two days and I still hadn’t unpacked the small bag he’d had the driver bring from my place.

Damian didn’t ask me to. He just left his shirts on the chair next to the bed and let me wear them.

“You’re not answering him,” he said that second night.

Josh.

My phone had been on silent since the jet. Twenty-three missed calls. A dozen texts. The last one read: `El, please. Just tell me you’re okay.`

I stared at it. Then I blocked him.

Damian watched me do it. No comment. No smug look. He just pulled me into his lap on the couch and kissed me until the guilt stopped ringing in my ears.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” he said against my mouth. “But you do have to choose.”

I chose.

That night was different. No rush. No anger. He took his time. Hands in my hair, mouth on my neck, telling me to breathe when I got too loud. When it was over he didn’t let me go to the guest room. He kept me against him until I fell asleep.

I woke up to coffee. And a new phone.

“Yours was a liability,” he said, sliding it across the marble counter. “This one’s encrypted. Only three numbers saved. Me. The driver. And my assistant.”

I didn’t ask why. I already knew.

*Damian*

She blocked him.

I didn’t tell her to. I wouldn’t. That had to be her.

But when she did, something in my chest unclenched.

She’s twenty-one. She shouldn’t be in my penthouse with no plan to leave. She should be in a lecture hall, arguing about economics, planning a future that doesn’t include me.

Instead she was wearing my shirt, drinking coffee I made, looking at me like I hadn’t ruined her life yet.

I gave her a new phone because I’m paranoid. Because Vance Holdings has enemies. Because the last woman who got close to me ended up with her picture on a gossip blog and her career shredded.

Elena won’t be that.

The second thing I added: her brother’s tuition. Paid. In full.

She found out when the email came through.

“You did what?” She was standing in the kitchen, the email open on the tablet.

“You said he was your reason,” I said. “Now he’s handled. You don’t owe anyone anything, Elena.”

Her eyes filled. She didn’t cry. She just walked to me, put her hands on my chest, and didn’t say thank you.

She didn’t have to.

That night she came to me. No words. She pushed me back onto the bed, climbed on top, and kissed me like she was trying to prove something.

I let her.

After, with her curled against me, she whispered, “What now?”

“Now you’re mine,” I said. “Publicly. Privately. All of it.”

She went still. “People will talk.”

“Let them.” I tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’m done hiding you.”

*Elena*

Monday morning I didn’t go to campus.

Instead, Damian took me to the 40th floor at 9 AM. No intern badge. No laptop.

He walked me past his executive team, past the glass conference room, and sat me at the chair next to his.

“Miss Carter will be shadowing me directly from now on,” he told the room. “Her reports go to me. Only me.”

No one questioned it.

On my new phone, a message popped up from his assistant: `Your class schedule has been withdrawn. You’re listed as on corporate leave.`

I looked at him.

He didn’t look guilty. He looked certain.

“Other things,” he said later, when we were alone. He set a folder on the desk. Inside: a lease for a flat near the office. In my name. A black card. A key.

“You’re not moving me in,” I said.

“I’m not asking,” he said. “You can hate me for it later. Right now, you’re staying where I can see you.”

I should’ve fought him.

I took the key.

Because when he touched me that night, when he said my name like I was the only thing that mattered, I stopped pretending I wanted to leave.

I was his.

And for the first time, I didn’t care who knew it.