Chapter 1
583 Words
Five years later, and Jonathan’s penthouse still smelled like power—sandalwood, leather, and the faintest hint of chlorine from the rooftop pool drifting through the cracked window.
Naked, skin slick with sweat and the ghost of his touch, I lay tangled in the thousand-thread-count sheets.
His arm draped possessively over my waist, fingers tracing idle patterns on my hip bone.
The city glittered below us, a galaxy of ambition and debt I’d never escape. Not really.
He shifted, rolling onto his side to face me. Moonlight carved the sharp lines of his jaw, softened the glacial blue of his eyes.
For a heartbeat, he looked almost… tender. His thumb brushed my cheekbone, rough and warm.
Then his lips met mine—soft, lingering, a whisper of possession. "What did you do today, mi cielo?" The Spanish nickname, learned just for me, still sent a treacherous flutter through my chest.
I nuzzled into the hollow of his throat, breathing him in. "Window shopping with Sofia. Down Fifth Avenue."
My voice was husky, raw from earlier—from the way he’d pinned my wrists, growled mine against the curve of my ass as he took me from behind.
His hand slid down to cup my chin, forcing my gaze up. "And you bought nothing?"
A shrug. "Didn’t see anything that suited me." The lie tasted bitter. I’d seen a dress—silk, emerald green.
It cost more than my mother made in three months. Sofia had elbowed me, whispered "Jonathan would melt seeing you in that." But melting wasn’t equality. It was sugar. Sticky and temporary.
Jonathan’s lips found mine again, softer this time. A reward for obedience. "Did your family get the transfer?"
"Sí. Mamá called crying. Thank you." The gratitude scraped my throat. Fifty thousand dollars. Another brick in the gilded cage.
Suddenly, his phone vibrated on the nightstand—a harsh, insistent buzz against the polished marble.
Jonathan froze. The tenderness evaporated like spilled champagne. In one fluid motion, he was off the bed, snatching the phone.
The screen lit his face: cold, focused, utterly foreign.
"Where are you going?" I propped myself up on my elbows, the sheet pooling at my waist. "It’s past ten."
"Just a meeting." He didn’t look back, already pulling on charcoal slacks.
"At ten PM?" My voice sharpened. "What kind of meeting?"
He paused at the bedroom door, silhouetted against the hallway light. For a split second, I saw it—the flicker in his eyes. Not guilt. Calculation. "The kind that keeps you in emerald dresses, Angela." A ghost of a smile. "I’ll make it up to you."
The door clicked shut. Silence rushed in, thick and suffocating. I stared at the spot where he’d stood.
The scent of s*x and sandalwood clung to the sheets. Outside, the city pulsed—a heartbeat of lies. He’d make it up to me. Like he always did. With money. With jewelry.
With his body pinning mine against the glass wall of his shower this morning, water sluicing over us as he f****d me with brutal efficiency, murmuring "You’re perfect, just perfect" against my neck.
Perfect. For now. Until whatever—whoever—was on that phone demanded perfection somewhere else. I slid my hand over my stomach, flat and taut.
Five years. Five years of being his polished secret. And tonight, the cage felt colder. Smaller. Like the walls were closing in, and the only air left smelled like rain on a November sidewalk.
- Writer
