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bleulikedaylight · 1 month ago

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Ms. Delinquent, Natasha

pairing: delinquent basketball captain! natasha romanoff x student council president! reader

synopsis: Y/N L/N, perfect student council president, gets paired with the school’s worst nightmare—rebel basketball captain natasha romanoff—for a major project. she’s late, annoying, and impossible to work with. but one unexpected moment makes Y/N wonder… is there more to natasha than the chaos she brings?

warnings: mentions of school fights and bruises (non-graphic) + tell me if i missed anything !! | wc: 2.3k | genre: romance, fluff, kinda enemies-to-lovers !! ;p

note: WOWOW, two posts in one day??? who is she??? (definitely not someone procrastinating her to-do list by writing about a rebel basketball captain and a stressed-out student council president falling in love—definitely not.)

anyway, hii !! i had way too much fun writing this !! >< also, feel free to send me messages, asks, or requests—i might (emphasis on might because I’m lazy, hehe) turn this into a series if you guys like it, aaa. ALSO, i really, really need to make a masterlist to keep my profile organized, but guess what? i’m too lazy. someone please bonk me with a pillow or smth. 💔

part one ♡‧₊˚ part two ♡‧₊˚

Y/N L/N

Year & Section: 12 - A

Position: Student Council President

Vibe: Miss Goody Two Shoes, Walking Honor Roll, and A Literal Angel

Known For:

- Fixing everyone’s mess (including Natasha’s)

- Straight As, Complete notes, and a color-coded Google Calendar

- Always wearing her ID. Always.

- Literally the only reason the faculty hasn’t given up on this school

- Smiles sweetly while saying, “That’s against school policy.”

NATASHA ROMANOFF

Year & Section: 12 - A

Position: Captain, Women’s Basketball Team

Vibe: Rebel Without a Cause, Hotheaded Heartthrob, and Leather Jacket Energy

Known For:

- Cutting class but still scoring MVP

- Pulling up to school on a motorcycle (allegedly)

- Has a permanent seat in detention—but makes it look like a throne

- Once made a guy cry during a scrimmage... with just a glare

- Looks like she doesn’t care—until it’s Y/N.

What would you do if you got partnered with your polar opposite for a school project? Like... the girl who's practically allergic to rules, shows up late to every class—if she even shows up at all—and somehow makes your life as student council president ten times harder just by existing?

Well, I have... and here's how the story goes.

She's Natasha Romanoff.

If there’s one person on this campus who gives me a headache at least three times a week, it’s Natasha Romanoff.

Captain of the women’s basketball team. Standing at six feet of pure chaos. The type of student who thinks rules are suggestions and uniforms are optional. She’s the exact kind of person I swore I’d never get involved with. You know—the delinquent, the rebel, the walking red flag your mother warned you about.

She rarely shows up to class. And when she does? She’s either asleep, doodling in her notebook, or getting sent out for being a 'distraction.' Her file in the faculty office is thicker than the student handbook—and I would know, I helped revise it.

She picks fights like it’s a sport. She’s been banned from three different cafeterias for fighting in line. Her knuckles are always bruised, her lip usually split, and yet she still walks around like she owns the whole school—because somehow, she kind of does.

It drives me insane. I’m the student council president. I run this place on schedules, protocols, and peacekeeping. I solve disputes between orgs, approve event permits, and enforce policies like my life depends on it—which, sometimes, it kind of does. So imagine my horror every time her name pops up on my desk. 'Romanoff punched someone again.' 'Romanoff’s skipping classes again.' 'Romanoff's motorcycle is parked on the faculty lawn again.'

She's a walking nightmare for someone like me.

Worse, she seems to have no plans for her future. No goals. No ambition. Just… basketball. That’s all she ever thinks about. Practice. Games. Scores. Like the world outside the court doesn’t exist. It’s frustrating. It’s pathetic. And yet—she plays with so much fire, it almost makes you forget everything else. Almost.

Tip: don’t be fooled by her soft-looking face. Sure, she’s got those calm green eyes and a lazy smile that makes girls weak in the knees, but trust me—she’s all sharp edges underneath. Dangerous. Reckless. Untouchable.

Naturally, girls chase after her like she’s a rom-com lead in real life. I’ve seen love confessions on paper cups, flowers in her locker, and girls literally waiting outside the gym after practice hoping she’ll so much as glance at them. But you know what’s weird? Despite how egoistical she is—despite the arrogance, the swagger, the attention—I’ve never seen her date anyone. I’ve never even heard rumors of her with anyone. Not once.

And then came the groupings for our Humanities project. A randomized draw, they said. Fate, I’d argue.

It was one silly project. That’s all it was supposed to be. A one-time, two-week, half-grade assignment. But it led to the one thing I never expected...

Actually knowing her.

That was the day everything changed.

That was the day Natasha Romanoff looked at me like I wasn’t just the school president... but something more.

—

You hear your name and Natasha Romanoff’s in the same sentence and immediately feel the universe collapse.

“Group three… Romanoff and L/N.”

The room goes silent. A beat of stunned silence, and then—

“WHAT?”

“Oh my god.”

“No way.”

“Lord, this is my Roman Empire.”

You shut your eyes and exhale slowly.

“Y/N,” Wanda whispers, clutching your arm like you’re on a sinking ship. “Tell me I heard wrong.”

You stare at your teacher. “Miss, is there a mistake—?”

“No mistakes,” she says cheerfully. Too cheerfully. “I think this will be a… fun dynamic.”

Yelena is already cackling. “Good luck, president,” she sings. “You’re gonna need it.”

Behind you, Natasha Romanoff stretches in her seat like she didn’t just cause a classroom-wide scandal. She yawns, leans back, spins her pen between her fingers like a basketball. You lock eyes for exactly two seconds. She smirks.

And just like that, you know you’re doomed.

—

Later that afternoon

You’re pacing by your locker, chewing your lower lip. You don't have Natasha’s number. But Yelena does.

“I hate this,” you say, typing quickly. “This feels like betrayal.”

“Calm down, you’re literally texting her for school,” Yelena replies while eating fries. “Now go! Be a good president and go manage your delinquent girlfriend.”

“She is not my—never mind.”

You shoot her a glare, then copy the number. You stare at your phone for a full minute before finally typing:

You expect to be left on read. Or worse—no response at all.

But she replies.

You blink.

She does find you. Within ten minutes.

You watch her walk in like she owns the place. In her hoodie, earrings glinting under the warm light, one earbud in, backpack slung over one shoulder. She moves like a secret, like danger with a pulse.

She drops into the seat across from you. “Hey.”

You glance at the time. “You’re… early.”

She shrugs. “Skipped practice.”

Your jaw drops. “What?! Why would you—”

“To work on the project,” she says simply, like it’s obvious.

You gape at her. “You skipped practice. For school.”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it, presidente,” she teases, resting her chin on her hand. “You messaged. I showed up. That’s the arrangement, right?”

You can’t even tell if she’s being serious. But her eyes are calm, and she actually opens the module you printed out. No complaints. No smart remarks. Just… reading.

You snap out of it and start discussing your plan. She listens. Occasionally nods. Offers surprisingly decent ideas. You make notes. You don’t notice that your voice grows more relaxed. You don’t notice how she’s been watching you the whole time—not the paper. Not the topic. You.

“You know,” she says once you finish outlining the draft, “you talk a lot when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Hmm,” she hums. “Cute.”

You nearly choke on your water.

—

Once you pack up

“Okay, I’ll message you updates after I type the outline,” you say, stuffing your planner into your tote. “Thanks for actually showing up, by the way. I didn’t expect you to.”

Natasha stands, slinging her bag onto her shoulder. “I’ll walk you home.”

You pause. “What?”

“It’s late. You’ve got three books in your bag, and your tote’s heavier than Yelena’s sarcasm. Come on.”

You blink at her. “Are you… being nice?”

“Don’t ruin it,” she deadpans.

You roll your eyes but… follow her. She doesn’t ask for your address. She already knows it. (You don’t want to know how.)

The walk is quiet. She keeps her hands in her pockets, glancing at you every few steps like she’s making sure you’re still there. At one point, she slows down to match your pace. You pretend not to notice. But your heart’s doing cartwheels.

When you reach your gate, you turn to her. “Okay, um… thanks. Again.”

She shrugs. “Text me when you’re editing. I wanna see what it looks like.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You care about the final output now?”

She gives you a lopsided smirk. “You care. That’s enough reason.”

Before you can respond, she’s already walking away.

You stand at your gate, heart thundering, cheeks warm.

What just happened?

—

Meanwhile, the group chats are on fire.

—

Your phone buzzes again—more group chats lighting up, your friends collectively losing their minds—but you don’t check them right away. You’re still thinking about her voice. The way she said you care, that’s enough reason. It loops in your head like a song you’re not ready to skip. And for the first time since the semester started, you’re not thinking about deadlines, reports, or disciplinary forms.

Outside, your phone buzzes again.

You smile.

You think that’s it. But then…

Your jaw drops. You type furiously.

You let out an annoyed huff. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself it is. But deep down, you’re smiling like a fool under the covers, kicking your feet just a little—just enough to feel ridiculous.

Because Natasha Romanoff just told you sweet dreams.

Because she showed up. Listened. Skipped basketball for a group project.

Because somewhere between the chaos and the attitude and the teasing, you’re starting to realize something terrifying:

She’s not just a delinquent.

She’s not just trouble.

She’s kind of wonderful.

And she’s starting to mean something to you.

You’re so doomed.

You’re thinking about Natasha Romanoff.

You fling your pillow over your face to muffle the scream

You close your eyes, the ghost of her smirk burned into your mind.

Tomorrow’s going to be interesting.

Very, very interesting.

#natasha romanoff x reader #black widow x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x you #wlw #female x female #mcu #fanfiction #fanfic #natasha romanoff

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luckyroll3 · 19 days ago

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Thank You, Daddy Chapter 9

Masterlist and Summary

Previous Chapter

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, sex work, power dynamics, daddy kink, possessive behavior, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Word Count: 10,097

A/N: We've finally made it to the end my friends! Enjoy. [I've been trying to post this for the past 3 hours, but kept getting pulled into meetings. As if they don't know I have important schedules to keep! 😂]

You push through the door of your penthouse, yoga mat tucked under one arm, too much sweat cooling uncomfortably against your skin after an hour at hot power yoga. The air conditioning hits you like a reprieve, and you're already mentally mapping the path to your shower when you see him, Christopher, perched on your pristine white couch like he owns it, like he owns you. His eyes track your movement, dark and intent, a predator watching prey. The mat slips from your grip, thumping softly against the marble floor.

"What the fuck?" The words escape before you can collect yourself. Your leggings cling to your thighs, sports bra damp against your chest. You feel suddenly, acutely exposed.

Christopher doesn't move, just watches you with that infuriating stillness of his. He's dressed impeccably. Black slacks and a cream long-sleeved crew neck shirt, both tailored to mathematical perfection, the glint of his watch worth more than most people's cars peeking out from beneath his sleeve. His hair is swept back, not a strand out of place. A stark contrast to your post-workout dishevelment.

"Good afternoon to you too," he says, voice level in a way that raises the hair on your arms. "Your doorman is remarkably accommodating when you flash the right credentials."

Mental note: File a complaint with management about the doorman. And put your foot so far up his ass you’ll rip him a new one.

"Breaking and entering is a crime, Christopher," you say, crossing your arms. You don't move closer. "Even for rich assholes."

A muscle in his jaw twitches. "I wouldn't have resorted to this if you'd answered a single one of my calls."

"Did it occur to you that there was a reason I wasn't answering?" You bend to pick up your mat, needing something to do with your hands. "That perhaps I didn't want to talk to you?"

"It's been three weeks." His composure cracks slightly, a fissure in perfect marble. "Three weeks of silence. Not even the courtesy of a response to my offer for renewal."

You laugh, though nothing about this is funny. "Courtesy? That's rich coming from you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" He stands now, unfolding his frame from your couch, and you hate that part of you still responds to his presence. His confident stance, the breadth of shoulders under expensive fabric, the dangerous line of his mouth. And those fucking lips.

"It means I'm not renewing the fucking contract." You say it flatly, letting each word land. "I'm done. And I don't want you as a client anymore."

His entire body tenses, as if you've physically struck him. He wasn't expecting that; you can see it in the momentary widening of his eyes, the subtle step backward he takes. Christopher Bahng, master of the universe, actually caught off guard.

"That's absurd," he says, recovering quickly. "We have a good arrangement. The best, by your own admission."

"Had," you correct. "Past tense."

He moves toward you, crossing the cool expanse of your living room in three long strides. You force yourself not to retreat, even as he stops close enough that you can smell his cologne, that familiar blend that's imprinted itself on your senses, on your sheets, on your skin.

"This is about what happened that night." It's not a question. His chest rises and falls more rapidly now, control slipping. "About what I said."

"This is about me making a business decision," you counter. "Our arrangement has run its course."

His hand reaches for you, and you step neatly out of his grasp. Something flashes in his eyes… hurt, anger, both.

"You're being childish," he says, and the words strike a match inside you.

"Childish?" Your voice rises despite your best efforts. "Because I don't want to fuck you for money anymore? Because I had the audacity to develop feelings, that you encouraged by the way, and then got crushed when you made it clear all I am to you is a fantasy in a convenient body?"

Christopher's face darkens. "That's not what happened."

"No? Then what would you call it?" You're in dangerous territory now, the words spilling out unchecked. "Because from where I'm standing, you made it perfectly clear that our arrangement was purely transactional when I asked if you had feelings for me."

"You blindsided me." His voice rises to match yours.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," you spit back. "Next time I'll be sure to schedule my emotional vulnerability in your Outlook calendar. Would that work better for you Christopher?"

"Don't twist my words." He steps closer, invading your space. "You know damn well that's not what I meant."

"Do I?" You tilt your chin up, refusing to be intimidated despite the hammering of your heart. "When I asked if there was something real between us, you shut down faster than the stock market on Black Monday."

"And you ran." His accusation hangs in the air between you. "You didn't give me a chance to process, to explain. You just disappeared."

You laugh. "You had a fucking month to process. Yet nothing. Even as you continued fucking me. And what was there to explain? You said everything I needed to hear."

"I said what I thought I was supposed to say!" The words explode from him, echoing off the high ceilings. You raise an eyebrow at his sudden loss of composure. "Christ, do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I planned for any of this?"

"Poor Christopher," you mock. "Did the girl you were paying to fuck actually expect to be treated like a human being? How inconvenient for you." You roll your eyes.

His hands curl into fists at his sides, not threatening but restraining. "Is that really what you think of me? After everything?"

The question catches you off guard. There's genuine hurt in his voice, and it makes something inside you falter. But you've come too far to back down now.

"What I think doesn't matter," you say, more quietly. "Our arrangement is over. We’re done. I'd like you to leave."

"No." His refusal is soft but steel-lined. "Not until you hear me out."

"There's nothing to hear."

"I'm in love with you."

The words hang between you like a suspended moment of time. You stare at him, certain you've misheard. "What? What the fuck did you just say?"

"I said I'm in love with you." His voice is different now, raw, stripped of its usual polished confidence. "I love you. I've been in love with you since... I don't even know when. And it terrifies me."

You shake your head, disbelief warring with a dangerous spark of hope. "Don't do this," you warn him, your voice soft. There’s nothing you hate more than men trying to use ‘love’ to get their way.

"Do what? Tell the truth?" He laughs, a harsh sound. "Believe me, I tried not to. I told myself it was just sex, just companionship. That you were just another beautiful thing I could buy."

"Stop it," you whisper.

"But you're not. You never were." He runs a hand through his perfect hair, mussing it. "I see you. That ditz Rebecca got one thing right; you are a beautiful soul. You’re smart, you’re strong, you’re your own person. And you see me. Not Christopher Bahng the financial titan. Not the rich client. Me. Chris. The kid from the Bronx who grew up with nothing. And you're not afraid to call me on my shit. Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

Your throat feels thick. "This isn't…"

"When you asked me that night about my feelings, I panicked." His confession rushes out now, unstoppable. "Because admitting I loved you meant admitting I could lose you. That you had power over me. And control is... it's all I've ever had. I wasn’t ready to take that risk."

"So you pushed me away instead," you say, voice hollow.

"I fucked up." The admission costs him, you can see it in the tight line of his shoulders. "In our last month together, I tried to let you have your space, allowed you to disconnect yourself and your feelings from me. I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t that attached to you.” He sighs deeply. “But these weeks without you? They've been hell. Every call you didn't answer, every message you ignored... I realized that the control I thought I needed was worth nothing if it meant losing you."

Your pulse thuds in your ears. This is everything you wanted to hear and everything you're afraid to believe.

"What exactly are you saying?" you ask, needing clarity.

Christopher takes a breath, steadying himself. "I'm saying I want you. Not as an arrangement, not as a transaction. Just you. I want a real relationship. I want to wake up with you every morning and fall asleep with you every night. I want to watch sunrises with you. I want to lay my head in your lap when I have a shitty day. I want to eat your scrambled eggs for breakfast on the days I have time for breakfast. I want you to move in with me, properly, this time. No separate rooms. No conditions."

"And my work?" The question slips out before you can stop it.

His jaw tightens. "I won't share you. Not anymore. But I'll take care of you financially, if that's what you're worried about."

And just like that, the momentary spell is broken. "Take care of me? Like I'm what, your dependent? Your pet? Your toy?"

"That's not what I meant…"

"But it's what you said." The anger returns, sharper now. "You say you want me for real, but on your terms. You still want to control the situation. Control me."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" You're trembling now, but not from fear. From fury. From the bitter disappointment of almost believing. "You don't want a relationship, Christopher. You want ownership. That’s all you know."

"Why is it so hard for you to believe that I just want to be with you?" His frustration matches yours. "And that I don't want to think about you with other men?"

"Because you're still making it about what you want!" The words tear from your throat, loud enough that you’re sure the entire building has heard you. "My work, my life, my body, my choices; they're mine to make. Not yours to approve or forbid."

"So that's it?" His voice drops dangerously. "You'd rather keep whoring yourself than be with me?"

The slap of his words stings worse than any physical blow could. You step back, ice crystallizing around your heart.

"Heh….” You shake your head slowly in disbelief as you chuckle. This is how he really sees you. “Get out."

"Baby girl…" He steps closer to you. “I didn’t…”

"Don't you fucking dare." Your voice shakes as you move away from him. "I can’t believe I thought you could be a real person,” you say more to yourself than to him. “Get the fuck out of my face. Get out of my penthouse. Get out of my life."

Christopher stands frozen, shock written across his features. For a man so accustomed to control, to getting exactly what he wants, your rejection is incomprehensible.

"You don't mean that," he says, but doubt has crept in.

"Try me." You stride to the door, wrench it open. "Leave, Christopher. Now."

For a moment, he doesn't move, and you think he might refuse. Then, slowly, he walks toward the door. He pauses as he passes you, so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body.

"This isn't over," he says quietly. "What's between us… it's real. You know it is."

You stare straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. "There’s nothing between us. Goodbye, Christopher."

The door closes behind him with a click that sounds like finality. Only when you're sure he's gone do you allow your legs to give way, sliding down the wall to the floor, yoga mat forgotten, sweat drying cold on your skin.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. Christopher, no doubt. You ignore it, head tipping back against the wall, eyes closed against a sting that has nothing to do with post-workout exhaustion.

He loves you. And it changes nothing.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you dial Eva's number, the phone slick against your palm. The penthouse feels too quiet now, Christopher's absence a tangible thing, like furniture moved just slightly out of place. You need another voice, someone who understands this world and its complicated currencies of power and desire. Eva picks up on the third ring, and you don't bother with pleasantries. "I need you to come over. Now."

"What happened?" Eva's voice is sharp, instantly alert. She knows you don't panic easily.

"Christopher was here." Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, stretched thin like worn elastic. "He… We had it out. He said he loves me."

A beat of silence. "I'll be there in twenty."

The call ends with a click, and you're alone again with the echo of Christopher's words. Love. Such a small word for something so dangerous.

You pull yourself from the ground and head to the bathroom. You peel off your damp workout clothes, stepping into the shower on autopilot. The hot water drenches your skin, but it can't wash away the memory of his face when you told him to leave. There was shock giving way to something that looked uncomfortably like heartbreak.

By the time you've dressed in soft loungewear, hair wrapped in a towel, your mind has replayed the confrontation a dozen different ways. Each version ends the same, with Christopher walking out your door and taking something of yours with him, something you hadn't meant to give.

Your phone buzzes with Eva's text.

Eva: Downstairs. Buzz me up.

You: Tell that motherfucker that if he can let some random ass man into my home without my consent, he can let you in. He’s sees you every fucking week.

Eva: Uh… Okay.

You ditch the towel and walk out of your bedroom, then stand in the center of your living room, unsure what to do with your body. The space still feels charged, like the aftermath of a lightning strike. You can almost see the indent in your couch where he sat, waiting for you.

After two quick knocks, the door opens and Eva strides in, all five feet ten inches of her a vision in a crimson wrap dress, lips painted to match. She takes one look at you and arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

"You look like shit," she says, kicking off her heels by the door. It's her way of showing concern.

"Thanks. You look stunning, as always."

Eva crosses to you, bracelets jangling as she takes your face between her hands, examining you like a doctor checking for symptoms. "Have you been crying?"

You pull back. "No."

"Liar." She releases you, moving to the kitchen where she pulls a bottle of red wine from your rack with familiar ease. "So. Christopher Bahng, love confession. Start from the beginning."

You sink onto the couch, pulling your legs up beneath you. "He broke into my apartment."

"Dramatic. Is that why the doorman is now terrified of you?" Eva pours two generous glasses. "This is not surprising. Men like him don't handle rejection well, and three weeks of ghosting is definitely a rejection."

"I wasn't ghosting him. I was..." You accept the wine she hands you, searching for the right word. "Processing."

Eva settles beside you, her eyes, sharp and knowing as ever, never leaving your face. "And what conclusion did this processing lead to? Before he showed up with his grand declaration."

You take a sip, letting the tannins bite at your tongue. "That it's over. That it has to be."

"Why?" The question is simple but pointed.

"Because he wants to own me." The words come automatically, rehearsed. "Because he thinks he can buy me like everything else in his life. He didn’t come here to tell me he loved me. He came to offer terms for an extended arrangement. His love confession only came after I said I wasn’t interested in another contract."

Eva makes a noncommittal sound, swirling her wine. "And what exactly did he say, when he professed this earth-shattering love?"

You relay the conversation, trying to keep your voice detached, clinical. But even as you speak, you hear the tremor creeping in, feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Eva watches, her expression unreadable.

"So," she says when you finish, "he wants a real relationship. No contract, no arrangement. Just you and him, playing house in his mansion."

"With conditions," you counter. "No more work. Complete financial dependence on him."

"Did he say that explicitly?"

You pause, remembering. "He said he'd 'take care of me financially.'"

"Mmm." Eva sips her wine. "And that's a deal-breaker."

"Of course it is!" The vehemence in your voice surprises even you. "I've worked too hard for my independence. Where does that put me when he decides he wants a new toy and he’s done playing house with me? I’ve already tasted that. For five months he worshipped me, was emotionally vulnerable with me, let me see the parts of him he hid from everyone else; then all of a sudden I was just something he paid to fuck again with no warning. And when I tried to get him to be open with me, he shut me down and basically told me my role was to fulfill his fantasies and anything else I felt I was imagining. I’m not interested in that shit again. And I'm not trading one form of transaction for another."

"Are you sure that's what he's offering?" Eva's tone is mild, but her gaze is penetrating. "Are you sure you're not using your work as a shield?"

You blink at her. "A shield?"

"Against vulnerability. Against the possibility that this might actually be real." She leans forward, bracelets clinking. "Think about it. How many clients have said they loved you? How many have offered to make it exclusive?"

"Several." You shrug. "It's part of the fantasy. They all think they're fucking special."

"And how many have you believed?" She doesn't wait for your answer. "None. Until Christopher."

The truth of it sits heavy in your chest. You stare into your wine, seeing nothing.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Eva asks, her voice softer now. "Are you sure you want to walk away?"

"I don’t doubt that he loves me. And yes, despite everything, I've fallen hard for him," you admit, the words leaving a burn in their wake. "But I can't let this control me. Not when he thinks he can use love as chains. And that’s what he’s doing. I can't become another possession."

Eva sets down her glass, turning fully toward you. Her expression is unusually grave. "Listen to me. I've been in this business longer than you. I've seen every kind of relationship, every kind of arrangement. I know what I said about Christopher at the beginning. But what you and Christopher have? It's not typical. And I don't just mean the black card and the mansion."

"What do you mean, then?"

"I mean he sees you." Eva's words echo Christopher's uncomfortably. "The real you, not just the fantasy you sell. And you see him; the man behind the money, behind the power. That's rare. That's worth considering, even with the complications."

"He wants me to stop working," you say stubbornly.

"So negotiate." Eva shrugs, as if it's simple. "Set boundaries. Find compromise. That's what real relationships require."

You shake your head, a hollow laugh escaping. "Christopher Bahng doesn't compromise."

"He does. He did it with your arrangement. Gave you everything you asked for. And that was before you got to know each other. Maybe he’s changed." Eva drains her glass, standing in one fluid motion. "Or maybe you'll realize some things are worth surrendering for. Not your independence, never that. But maybe your fear."

She gathers her things and walks to the door. “I have to run, babe. An appointment.” She slips back into her heels, then pauses, looking back at you with an expression you can't quite decipher. "For what it's worth," she says, "I've never seen you look at anyone the way you look at him. Not even when you're trying to hate him."

And then she's gone, leaving you with a half-empty wine glass and thoughts that refuse to settle into any coherent pattern. You sit motionless, watching shadows lengthen across your floor as afternoon slides toward evening.

Eva's words circle in your mind, bumping against Christopher's. Love. Compromise. Fear. The shape of them changes each time, like a kaleidoscope turning.

Your phone rings, startling you from your reverie. An unfamiliar number. No, not unfamiliar; just one you keep forgetting to save. Hyunjin.

Your finger hovers over "decline." At the last moment, something makes you swipe to answer instead.

"What?" Your greeting lacks warmth.

"Good evening to you too." Hyunjin's voice is smooth as aged whiskey, with just a hint of amusement. "I think we need to talk."

"Let me guess. Christopher sent his attack dog to clean up his mess."

A soft chuckle. "If I were in 'attack dog' mode, believe me, this conversation would be very different. And no, he doesn't know I'm calling. In fact, he'd probably fire me from my job and as his best friend if he did."

That gives you pause. "Then why are you?"

"Because I've known Christopher Bahng for almost twenty years, and I've never seen him like this. He's a wreck."

Something twists in your chest: concern, satisfaction, guilt. You push it away. "Not my problem."

"See, I think it is." Hyunjin's tone remains conversational, but there's steel underneath. "I think you're both making this far more complicated than it needs to be."

"He broke into my apartment."

"Technically, he was let in." Hyunjin sounds almost bored. "And yes, it was excessive. Christopher doesn't do anything by halves. Surely you've noticed."

You bite back a caustic reply, because he's right. Everything about Christopher is intense, all-consuming. It's what drew you to him, even as it terrified you.

"Look," Hyunjin continues, "I understand why you're pissed. Chris can be extremely stubborn, especially when he's scared."

"Christopher Bahng, scared?" You can't keep the skepticism from your voice.

"Terrified." Hyunjin says it matter-of-factly. "He's never been in love before. Not really. Not like this."

The word hangs between you, a live wire. "He has a funny way of showing it."

"Does he?" Hyunjin sounds genuinely curious. "He's given you everything you've asked for, hasn't he? Well, except for the one thing he couldn't admit to himself; that he loves you. Always has. But he's admitted it now, hasn't he?"

You swallow hard. "He also wants to control me. My work, my life…"

"He wants exclusivity," Hyunjin corrects. "He's possessive, yes. Jealous, absolutely. But controlling? I don't think that's quite fair."

"Oh please, Jin. He’s the literal definition of a control freak. I’m sure if I were to look it up, his picture would appear as the classic example. He wants to dictate every aspect of my life: what I wear, how I smell, how I do my hair. He wants me to quit my job and depend on him financially. What would you call it?"

A pause. "Okay, yes, he’s also a bit controlling. But I'd call it more clumsy than anything. An inelegant attempt to keep you in his life without having to share you. But I think it's less about control… not in the way you mean."

You say nothing, processing this perspective. It's one thing to hear it from Eva, who knows you but not Christopher. But Hyunjin knows him, has known him for decades and is the one person on the planet who knows everything about him.

"Here's what I know," Hyunjin continues into your silence. "You're both in love with each other. And you're both too fucking stubborn to admit it without conditions."

"I told him how I felt," you say defensively. "That I had strong feelings for him. A month before the end of the contract. I asked him to tell me I meant something to him, more than the arrangement. He shut me down."

"So he was on a different timeline. But now he's told you, and you've done the same thing. Shut him down." A smile colors Hyunjin's voice. "You're more alike than you think."

"Stay the fuck out of it, Hyunjin." Your voice hardens. "I don't care if you're the Christopher whisperer. This is between him and me."

"Fair enough." He doesn't sound offended. "But ask yourself this: if your positions were reversed, if you had his money, his power, and fell in love with someone who slept with other people for a living… would you be so quick to share?"

The question hits uncomfortably close to home, touching a nerve you thought you had numbed. It’s one thing for Eva to push you to confront your feelings, but Hyunjin knows exactly how to reframe Christopher’s perspective. To put you emotionally off balance. You know what he’s doing, and it pisses you off even more because it’s working.

“But here’s the thing, Hyunjin,” you say, spitting his name like an expletive while you pace your living room. “He knew I was a whore before all of this started,” you say, using Christopher’s word to describe yourself; a word you never use. “Did he tell you he called me a whore?” You don’t wait for an answer. “What the fuck do I look Iike? Some girl standing on a dusty ass corner begging for a ten in exchange for a blow job only to hand it over to my pimp so he can reward me with two of those dollars? I may not be a billionaire, but my annual take home salary is over two-hundred thousand. I own my penthouse and my mom’s home outright. My IRA is maximized every fucking year and my 401K makes a million annually just on dividends. He can get the fuck outta here with that whore bullshit. He knew what being with me meant. Nobody made him sign up for this; in fact, it was his idea, his deal, his arrangement.” You sigh deeply. “He said he loved me because I was different, not like the rest. And now suddenly I’m supposed to fit into this neat little box because he doesn’t like that I have sex with other men? What happened to being special? What happened to being the one? You don't do that; you don’t put conditions on someone you claim to love."

Hyunjin stays quiet, letting you burn off the frustration. You can almost see his smirk at your rant, the way he’s probably lounging somewhere luxuriously. The world’s most unbothered fixer.

"This is who I am, Hyunjin," you continue, relentless, emotions spilling over. "What I do for a living doesn’t define who I really am as a person anymore than what he does defines him. Yet, he gets to demand I change my life because my job involves fucking people? Do I get to make similar demands about what he does for his job since he fucks people over financially? The hypocrisy and misogyny are astounding." You don’t give Hyunjin the chance to speak, your voice rising in pitch. “Imagine how it makes me feel that he decided to buy me and then changed his mind about what that means. All of a sudden, he can’t stand thinking about me with other men, he can’t stand not having me all to himself. But what about me? Why would I want to be as attached as I am, only for him to one day decide he’s done with me and he wants a new sexy toy? Or that I’m not good enough to love as an equal? I can’t do that again.”

Your words echo in the room, bouncing off the walls with a ferocity that surprises you. You’re panting a little, like you’ve just finished an argument with Christopher himself, and in a way, you have. It feels like Hyunjin is the stand-in, the proxy, navigating through you and Christopher’s bullshit too easily.

"Touché," Hyunjin replies.

He sounds amused, but there’s a hint of admiration in the word. You can picture him quirking an eyebrow, completely unfazed by your tirade. He always was the more perceptive of the two of them, more willing to let you rant yourself into exhaustion. You force yourself to quiet down, steady your breathing.

When he speaks again, breaking the silence with your real name, his tone is different. It’s gentler, almost coaxing. "Look, I know you’re pissed. You have every right to be. And I’m sorry he called you a whore. Everything you’ve said is valid. But have you considered that maybe you’re scared too?"

Scared. That damned word again.

Scared to lose him. Scared to want him. Scared that he has the power to destroy you, and maybe you have the power to destroy him too, if you'd let yourself use it. Scared you can’t trust the love without the transaction and the rules, the security without the walls you keep so carefully constructed.

“Of course I’m fucking scared,” you whisper. “But that doesn’t change the fact that he wants me to act like something I’m not and that he wants to have the upper hand in this relationship where he gets to dictate what everything is, what everything means. I’m not interested in any of that.”

"Just think about it," Hyunjin says softly. "Before you throw away something that could be extraordinary. For both of you." He takes a deep breath. “You know, I also love having you around, as a part of our fam. Not sure that holds any weight for you, but I hope it does.”

The call ends, leaving you with a silence that feels heavier than before. Outside your windows, the city sparkles into twilight, thousands of lights glimmering like promises. Somewhere out there, in his sleek glass tower, Christopher is wrestling with the same questions, the same fears.

You close your eyes, letting yourself imagine, just for a moment, what it might be like to choose him. To be chosen by him, not for your body or your companionship, but for yourself. The thought is both exhilarating and terrifying.

Your wine sits forgotten on the coffee table. The night stretches ahead, full of possibilities and pitfalls. And for the first time in weeks, you allow yourself to truly feel the ache of his absence, not as a client, but as the man who somehow, against all odds, has become essential to your life.

Hours later, you lie in bed, eyes tracing the subtle patterns of shadow and light that play across your ceiling as cars pass on the street below. Sleep feels like a foreign country, distant, unreachable. Your mind keeps circling back to Christopher's face as he said those three dangerous words.

I love you.

The memory of it sits on your chest like a stone, heavy with possibility and fear. You've been here before, staring at ceilings, dissecting men's words for truth. But it's never felt like this…like your entire future balances on the edge of a decision.

The digital clock on your nightstand blinks 3:17 AM in accusatory red. Hours since Eva left. Hours since Hyunjin's call. Hours of circular thinking that leads you nowhere except back to Christopher's eyes, dark with an emotion you're afraid to name.

You roll onto your side, punching your pillow into submission. This is ridiculous. He's just a man. Another wealthy, entitled man who thinks he can arrange the world to suit him. So what if he's different from your other clients? So what if he makes you laugh, challenges you, sees parts of you that you've kept hidden from everyone else?

So what if you're in love with him?

The thought arrives fully formed, impossible to deny in the honest darkness of your bedroom.

You're in love with Christopher Bahng.

Not with his money or his power or the luxuries he provides. With him. With the man who grew up with nothing, who built an empire through sheer force of will, who looks at you like you're the most fascinating puzzle he's ever encountered.

You close your eyes, and memories flood in unbidden.

Christopher teaching you to play chess in his study, his smile slow and surprised when you captured his queen. His hand at the small of your back as you entered a crowded space, protective but not possessive. The way he listened, really listened, when you told him about your childhood, about the dreams you had for your future, about the compromises you've made along the way.

But there are darker memories too.

His cold fury when another man flirted with you at a charity event. The way he once casually mentioned buying the restaurant where you first met, as if acquiring significant landmarks in your shared history was normal behavior. The times when his need for control slipped into something harder, hungrier, when his hands gripped you tight enough to leave marks, not out of cruelty but from a sheer desperation to keep you close.

Christopher Bahng is complicated. Possessive, yes. Controlling, at times. But also vulnerable in ways he shows to no one else.

You remember the night he told you about his mother's death, how his voice had cracked on the memory, how he'd tried to hide the moisture in his eyes before throwing himself in your lap as he sobbed. You remember how he'd relaxed beneath your hands that night, tension melting like ice under spring sun.

You sit up, giving up on sleep entirely. This circular thinking will get you nowhere. What you need is clarity. A balance sheet of pros and cons, the kind of objective assessment you'd make for any other life-changing decision.

Pro: Christopher loves you. Not the version of you that you present to clients, but the real you. Messy, stubborn, sarcastic, ambitious you.

Con: His love comes with expectations. No more work. Financial dependence.

Pro: You love him too. The real him, not the financial titan or the dominant lover, but the man beneath. The one who sometimes wakes from nightmares he won't discuss, who reads philosophy and poetry and romance books before bed, who still has a soft spot for the bodega cat near his first apartment and keeps a picture of her and one of her kitten litters tucked away in his drawer.

Con: Loving him means vulnerability. It means giving someone else power over your happiness.

Pro: With Christopher, you don't have to pretend. You don't have to be the fantasy: charming, agreeable, endlessly accommodating. You can be sharp-tongued, challenging, a pain in the ass, and he loves you for it.

Con: You'd be giving up your professional independence, the control over your body and time that you've fought so hard to maintain.

You press the heels of your hands against your eyes until sparks dance behind your lids. The list feels inadequate, clinical. How do you quantify the way your heart races when he enters a room or he smiles at you with those fucking dimples? How do you measure the comfort of being truly seen? How do you weigh independence against belonging?

Hyunjin's words return to you: if your positions were reversed… if you had his money, his power, and fell in love with someone who slept with other people for a living, would you be so quick to share?

The truth lands like a blow. You wouldn't want to share. The thought of Christopher with another woman, even professionally, makes something feral curl in your gut. You've been judging him for a possessiveness you also share.

But that doesn't mean you'd demand he quit, become financially dependent on you. You’d leave that choice up to him, and if you were truly in love with him, you’d move past it. There's a line between commitment and control, and that's where the negotiation needs to happen.

Your phone lies dark on the nightstand. It would be so easy to pick it up, to text him, to start repairing the bridge you burned today. But once that door opens, there's no closing it again. Whatever happens next will be irreversible in a way your arrangement never was.

You reach for the phone anyway.

The screen illuminates your face in the darkness as you type, delete, and retype a message. Finally, you settle on simplicity

You: Can we talk? Today, Prospect Park by the lake. 1 PM.

You hit send before you can second-guess yourself, then fall back against your pillows, heart hammering as if you've run a marathon. It's done. The ball is in his court now.

The response comes faster than you expected given how early it is, your phone buzzing against your palm.

Christopher: I'll be there.

Just three words, but they carry the weight of promise. You stare at them until the screen dims, then fades to black. Outside your window, the sky has begun to lighten, night giving way to the first tentative touches of dawn. You close your eyes at last, and sleep finds you easily now, as if it was only waiting for you to make a decision.

****

The park hums with Saturday afternoon life: children shrieking by the playground, joggers pounding past on gravel paths, couples sprawled on blankets enjoying the unseasonable warmth. You spot Christopher before he sees you, a solitary figure by the lake, hands in the pockets of his jeans. Even dressed down in a simple black t-shirt, he stands apart, marked by an innate confidence that draws the eye.

Your pulse quickens as you approach. This is Christopher without the armor of his suits, without the shield of his office or mansion. Just a man waiting by a lake, uncertainty written in the set of his shoulders.

He turns as you draw near, sensing your presence before you speak. His eyes find yours, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. The air between you feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.

"Thank you for coming," you say finally, stopping a few feet away from him.

"Thank you for asking me to." His voice is measured, careful. "I wasn't sure I’d hear from you again."

You gesture toward a nearby bench, and he nods. You sit together, a careful distance between you, watching ducks glide across the lake's surface.

"I've been thinking about what you said," you begin, eyes fixed on the water. It's easier somehow, not looking at him. "About wanting a real relationship."

Christopher shifts beside you, but doesn't interrupt. You can feel him looking at you.

"I need you to understand something." You turn to face him now, needing to see his reaction. "I'm in love with you too. I have been for... longer than I want to admit. That's why I asked you that night, about your feelings."

His expression softens, relief and something like wonder crossing his features. "Baby girl…"

"Let me finish," you say, gentle but firm. "I'm in love with you, but I'm also my own person. I built my life on my terms, and I won't give that up. Not even for you."

Christopher's jaw tightens, but he nods for you to continue.

"If we do this, if we try for something real, it needs to be clear that I am not your possession or your toy. I'm your partner." You hold his gaze, unflinching. "That means we make decisions together. That means the controlling shit stops."

"And your work?" The question is quiet, but there's tension behind it.

You take a breath. "I'm willing to consider stopping escorting. Not because you demand it, but because I want exclusivity too. So I’ll think about it. But it is my decision to make, not yours. If I choose to continue, you’d need to decide if you can live with that. But I can’t be kept; I need financial independence. I need my own money, my own security."

"I could provide that security," he says, a hint of his usual confidence returning.

"I know you could. But I need to know I can stand on my own two feet, with or without you." You soften your voice. "It's not about trust, Chris. It's about who I am, fundamentally."

He's silent for a long moment, processing. The ducks circle back toward your end of the lake, hopeful for bread crumbs that aren't coming.

"I've never done this before," he admits finally. "A real relationship, I mean.”

“What about Julia?”

“Julia was... different. More of a performance. Less complicated."

"I haven’t been in a real relationship either. Not since high school, and that doesn’t fucking count." You smile faintly. "We're both fumbling in the dark here."

His hand finds yours on the bench between you, fingers brushing against your skin. The contact sends a current through you.

"I meant what I said yesterday," he says, voice low. "I love you. Not as a possession or a trophy, though I know I've treated you that way sometimes. I love your mind, your stubbornness, the way you call me on my shit."

"I do that a lot," you acknowledge, warmth spreading through your chest.

"Too much, sometimes." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "But I need it. Need you." He goes quiet again as he looks down at your joined hands. "About that night, when we had dinner with the Thompsons… They talked about being truly vulnerable for the person you love and I didn’t know if I could do that. I thought I would lose you," he admits finally, his voice raw and stripped of its usual confidence. “I was so fucking terrified of losing you that I unintentionally sabotaged us.”

You cup his face with both hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. “You’re not going to lose me,” you say, your voice steady and full of the truth you’ve come to realize. “You’re not. Not if you continue to be open with me, and share the real version of yourself. The Chris who told me about the chip on his shoulder, who opened up about being scarred physically and emotionally by his dad, who held me when he woke up from nightmares, who cried in my arms about his mom… that’s the man I fell in love with. I could give a shit about all the other stuff like the mansion, the cars, the trips…”

Your fingers interlace with his, the simple contact more intimate somehow than all the nights you've spent in his bed.

“That man sounds pathetic,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

“No, that man sounds genuine,” you counter. “Real. As real as those emerald earrings you bought for me.”

“So you did see those,” Christopher presses, a hint of curiosity in his voice, though his gaze remains fixed on your intertwined fingers, unwilling to meet your eyes.

“I did,” you respond, keeping your voice steady.

“I had them made especially for you," he continues, the corners of his mouth twitching with a flicker of emotion. “Each emerald surrounded by 6 diamonds for the 6 months we spent together. But you didn’t take them with you.”

Your heart tightens as you lean back slightly. “I didn’t want them," you say softly, your voice carrying the weight of unspoken emotions. "I wanted you, Chris.” The words were barely a whisper. You both fall silent, the air growing heavy with unspoken words. "So where does this leave us?" you ask.

Christopher turns to face you fully, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. "It leaves us figuring it out together. I can't promise I won't be possessive or controlling sometimes; it's in my nature. But I can promise to try. To listen. To respect your boundaries."

"And I can't promise I won't challenge you, push back when you get too controlling. But I can promise to be honest. To stay, even when it's hard. To choose you, every day."

His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, a touch so tender it makes your throat ache. "I want you to move back in. We can set up a home office for you, your own space, if you want to continue your business. Or you could finish your MBA. Whatever you want."

The offer is unexpected, a glimpse of the compromise Eva suggested might be possible. "You'd support that?"

"I'd support anything that makes you happy," he says simply. "As long as you're with me."

You lean into his touch, the last of your resistance melting away. "Okay."

"Okay?" Hope flares in his eyes.

"Okay, I'll move in with you. For real this time. No separate rooms, no arrangement." You smile, feeling lighter than you have in weeks. "Just us, figuring it out."

Christopher's answering smile is radiant, transforming his usually guarded features. He leans forward, and you meet him halfway, lips finding each other in a kiss that feels like coming home. His hand slides to the nape of your neck, drawing you closer, and you go willingly, heart hammering against your ribs.

When you part, both slightly breathless, he rests his forehead against yours. "This won't be easy," he murmurs. "I'm not an easy man to love."

"And I'm not an easy woman," you reply with a soft laugh. "But maybe that's the point. Maybe the best things never are."

Around you, the park continues its Saturday rhythm, oblivious to the seismic shift that's just occurred between you and the man who once bought your time but now holds your heart. There will be challenges ahead: his possessiveness, your need for independence, both of your stubbornness, the delicate balance of power between you. But for now, with his hand warm in yours and the sun dappling the lake before you, those challenges feel manageable.

You lean against his shoulder, feeling his arm wrap securely around you. For the first time, the embrace doesn't feel like ownership; it feels like belonging. To him, to yourself, to the complicated, beautiful thing growing between you.

"Take me home," you say softly, and Christopher's arm tightens around you, understanding all the layers of meaning in those three simple words.

The two of you stand, hands still linked, and begin the walk back through the park. With each step, the future unfolds before you. It’s uncertain, imperfect, but yours to create together.

By the time you make it to your penthouse, you're breathless, having barely contained the fire simmering between you. His mouth is on yours before the door finishes swinging shut, an urgency there you haven't felt before. You pull him toward the sofa, but he sweeps you into his arms, carrying you to your bedroom like you weigh nothing at all. This time you're both laughing, giddy, lightheaded with this new possibility.

The bed is a mess of tangled sheets and discarded clothes before you even hit the mattress, and you can see the hunger in his eyes, in the way his hands claim your body like he's never tasted you before. But this time is different; this time you're not afraid to let yourself go, not afraid to give in entirely. It's not something he bought or demanded; it's something you are finally ready to share.

He pins you to the bed, lips tracing the length of your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your breast. Each touch is a promise, each kiss an unspoken vow. You arch against him, breath catching in your throat as he moves lower, lower. "Mine?" he asks in a groan against your skin, and for the first time, the word doesn't feel like a demand, a threat, or a trap. It feels like a choice, a gift.

"Yours," you answer, pulling his head back up to meet your eyes, to catch the look on his face as he slides into you, deep and overwhelming. You hold his gaze, unguarded, vulnerable in a way you’ve never been, surrendering to everything he makes you feel. Your nails rake down his back, and he grinds into you harder, swallowing the sound of your pleasure with his mouth, taking you to the edge and back again. He rolls, pulling you on top of him, wanting you in control, in charge. Your hands brace on his chest as you ride him, unrestrained and unreserved.

His gaze is fixed on you, drinking in every inch of your body in motion above him. His hands grip your hips, guiding your motion. With each rotation of your hips, you teeter on the edge until finally succumbing to an outcry of unadulterated bliss as your climax crashes over you like a tempestuous wave. Christopher soon follows suit, uttering your name with fervor as he finds release within you.

But it doesn’t stop there. Christopher clearly wants to make up for lost time as he flips your bodies once again to continue fucking you. You lose track of how many times you cum, together and apart, until you collapse against him, both of you spent and satisfied, bodies slick with sweat and limbs inextricably tangled. He wraps his arms around you, keeping you close, and your heart feels raw in your chest. There’s no space between you now. No distance, no walls. Just a man and a woman, both finally unafraid to let go completely.

For a timeless moment, you linger there, immersed in the euphoria of your union. Christopher’s chest rises and falls beneath your cheek. The soft rhythm is mesmerizing, comforting, familiar, against your ear.

“When did you know?” you ask quietly, breaking the silence in the room. The words escape your lips with a mixture of curiosity and a hint of vulnerability.

“Hmmm?” Christopher asked, confused as he gently combed his fingers through your hair.

You shift the position of your head on his chest to look up at him, capturing his eyes. You need to know. "When did you realize it was more than just sex? When did you know you were in love with me?" These questions have danced around the edge of your consciousness for the past twenty-four hours, begging for clarity. Some part of you suspects you already know the answer, but you need to hear it from him. You need him to spell it out, to give voice to the things that have remained unspoken between you for so long.

His eyes meet yours, and you brace yourself for the possibility that he might dodge the question altogether. It's the sort of thing Christopher would sidestep, leaving you to piece together the fragments on your own. But then something beautiful and unexpected happens. His gaze shifts, softens, and in that instant, you see the unmistakable traces of everything he’s been holding back: the passion simmering beneath the surface, the hesitation that once kept him at a distance, the sheer vulnerability that he’s risked now by opening himself to you.

Christopher’s fingers still in your hair as he draws in a deep breath, like he’s unsure of where to start or how to open the door you’ve cracked with your question. His lips part, forming something that never quite makes it out into words, and you think, just for a moment, that he will definitely retreat. The anticipation is thick between you, and you barely realize you’re holding your breath until he speaks.

“I think I knew it the first time you told me ‘no’,” he confesses, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The words tumble out, ragged and so unexpectedly vulnerable that they leave you momentarily stunned.

You feel a laugh rise in your throat, the sound bright and full of surprise. "Seriously?"

He nods, his expression softening as if the memory lingers just beneath the surface. "Nobody, other than Jin, had ever done that before. Not to me. Not since I became this version of Christopher Bahng. Not the way you did. You said no and walked out, and I thought I'd let it go. But then I just… couldn't. It drove me insane; a beautiful woman, much less an escort, who didn't need me or my money. I wasn't prepared for you, Baby Girl. I wasn't prepared for how much you had unintentionally fucked with my head."

You think back to that night. It was your third time meeting with him. He had asked if you could spend the night, but that wasn’t part of the original engagement and you had plans the following morning that you weren’t interested in cancelling. The disbelief on his face when you refused his offer to triple your pay, the way he had watched you leave, like he couldn't quite believe it was happening. Who knew that something so simple could affect him so deeply?

You let his confession sink in, savoring each word and the weight they carry. "It didn't seem like love then," you say softly. "It seemed like you were pissed."

"I was," he admits with a low chuckle. "God, I was pissed. But underneath that, underneath everything, I realized what I really felt was..." He pauses, as though he still can't quite believe it himself. "Scared. Scared of how much I wanted you, even after just three appointments. Scared that you'd slip through my fingers."

Your heart skips, the admission resonating deep within you. "Chris…"

"A few dates later you called me ‘Chris’ and it did something to me.” That was your fifth meeting. He had fucked you so good, you slipped up and moaned the name Chris. You noticed him react to it, but he hadn’t said anything at the time. “And then you accepted the arrangement," he continues, his eyes never leaving yours. "I thought I'd won. That you were mine. But you kept me at arm's length, added all those extra protections and boundaries and time away from me and the house. It drove me fucking crazy.”

You remember how he barely contained his surprise at the extensive changes you requested to the contract, particularly having a separate bedroom and three days outside the mansion.

"I couldn't stand it," he says, his voice gaining intensity, emotion spilling over the edges. “Having you, but not really having you. I wanted you to love me. But I was too much of a fucking coward to admit it." He brushes a strand of hair from your face, the tenderness in his touch a contrast to the rawness in his words. "I didn't know for sure until I told you about my scar, my dad."

A jolt of something, recognition or maybe relief, sparks inside you, your mind racing through the months you've just lived. The fight in your penthouse. The aching silence when you asked him to leave. The desperate plea in his eyes when he turned back, urging you to consider him.

"Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why wait?" There’s no accusation in your tone, just a genuine need to understand. It’s a need he hears, he feels, because he pulls you even closer, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours.

"Because I thought I could do it," he admits, his voice hoarse with sincerity. "I thought I could keep it professional. I thought I could have you on my terms. But you ruined me, Baby Girl. Ruined me for anything less."

His words wrap around your heart, squeezing, releasing, leaving you raw and filled with a joy you weren't sure you'd ever feel when you first met him.

"What about you?" he asks, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that leaves you breathless. “When did you know you were head over heels in love with me?” he inquires with a smirk.

You laugh loudly, unsure how to put words to what you're feeling or to the journey that brought you here. Then, you start to consider it, the question piercing straight through you. God, when did you know? You look off to the side, the memories flooding back, each one demanding a different kind of attention.

Surely not at the start, not when you had everything planned out so perfectly.

The truth is, you've known for a while now, maybe much longer than you care to admit. But it crept in somewhere, sometime, despite all your efforts to keep it at bay. It caught you off guard, a slow unraveling that you didn't notice until it was too late. You wrack your brain, letting the months and moments unravel like an old film reel, flickering behind your eyes.

Suddenly, a single point in time stands out.

The night he fell apart in your arms, the night you held him through his grief and something shifted inside you. The night you almost let hope ruin everything you believed about yourself.

You look back up at him, seeing the anticipation in his face, the mixture of curiosity and affection that colors his expression. "I felt a connection blooming between us when I learned that our backgrounds were similar. Then when Julia warned me about you, I was confused as to why what she shared about you had affected me so deeply. Paris was certainly a turning point; I felt that we could have something real after we went to the club. But really… I think it was when you told me about your mom," you confess softly, drawing patterns on his chest with the tip of your finger.

He gives you a curious look, and you smile despite the ache of remembering. "When you cried in my arms and let me hold you. When you showed me a side of yourself I never thought I'd see. It terrified me, how much I wanted to hold on to you. How much I wanted to keep you. How much I wanted it to be real."

“So it was real,” he murmurs, relief and something deeper, lighting his eyes. “Even then.”

"Even then," you confirm, brushing your lips against his. "Especially then. You broke my heart that night with how vulnerable you were. How fucking brave you were to be so open about that. And I was so fucking scared of what it meant for both of us."

“And then I fucking ruined it,” he said with a sigh, “by withdrawing, by pushing you away.” After a brief pause he adds, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” you reply.

He rolls you onto your back, pressing his body against yours. You can feel his heart pounding through his chest, matching yours beat for beat. "Promise me you won't run again," he says, the plea rough against your neck. "Promise me you'll stay."

"I promise, daddy," you whisper, wrapping your legs around him and pulling him deeper into this new, uncertain, beautiful life together. "I'm yours, Chris. Yours."

It's a promise you intend to keep, no matter how hard it gets, no matter how much he tests your patience, no matter how much you both have to change. Hell, it’s a promise you intend to keep even when it means challenging everything you’ve ever known about yourself.

You're his. He's yours.

The rest is just details, working themselves out with each push and pull, with each moment spent holding on when it would be easier to let go.

He's yours. You're his.

You're both in so fucking deep that the idea of escaping is the real impossibility now.

There's no contract this time, no countdown to the finish line or safety net to catch you if it all goes sideways. Just desire and commitment and the hope that what you have is strong enough to withstand everything you've thrown away to get here.

How did it come to this? How did you go from a perfectly orchestrated life to this beautiful, terrifying mess of a relationship?

It's addictive, all-consuming, terrifying, and my god… exactly what you both want now.

Beyond you and Christopher, it's a whole new world to navigate. And the challenges are very fucking real. Gossip. Friends. Family. Staying out of the public eye. And maybe the biggest challenge of all: admitting you might actually be afraid of the future.

But for now, for right here, as his lips press softly against yours, you don’t think you’ve ever been this happy.

The contract may have ended, but this… this thing between you and Christopher is only the beginning.

A/N: Thanks so much for coming along for the emotional ride on this story. And also for the great comments, which got me excited about posting and talking with y'all (more so than the likes).

When I first started posting Thank You, Daddy, I was pretty sure this would be the last fic I posted to Tumblr because no one ever commented or shared their thoughts about anything, so I wasn't sure if any of these stories were resonating with folks. Don't take for granted that your engagement is what encourages us authors to continue sharing our work. Otherwise, I'm just writing for myself.

Anyway, let me know you're final thoughts.

Hope to see the comments/engagement keep rolling in for additional fics. I have a one-shot coming probably on Friday or Saturday, and then a new darker story starting next week. Hope to see you there!

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