#Lexington Class | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

twistedheartsclub · 1 month ago

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Paid For Male X Female Reader short story.

⚠️ Warnings: non-con/dub-con, obsessive behavior, emotional manipulation, physical abuse, psychological captivity, grooming, coercive control, stalking, forced domesticity, class disparity, trauma, identity erasure, gaslighting, power imbalance, implied threats, and graphic intimacy.

New York City – late fall, neon lights reflected in puddles, steam curling up from subway grates, and the constant thrum of sirens in the distance. It’s gritty but romantic, raw but glowing with possibility. Y/N works the midtown beat near expensive hotels and sleazy bars—twenty-five, clever, jaded but not broken. She's street-smart, responsible, always keeps protection in her purse, lectures her roommate about boundaries and health, and never touches drugs. Just the occasional drink to take the edge off.

It had been a year since the engagement that never was. Since the headlines. Since her tears on national television, blaming the "coldness of his ambition" and the "emptiness behind his eyes."

She wasn’t wrong.

Now, Cassian Vale stood in a private rooftop club above Midtown Manhattan, the city twinkling like glass beneath a god’s feet. The party below him pulsed—red lights, black silk, liquor-soaked laughter, and women in chains they wore like diamonds.

His best friend, Roman Hawthorne, was celebrating his thirty-fifth birthday like a devil should: sinfully. A party themed around the seven deadly sins. Gluttony in the form of gold-dusted desserts. Lust in the writhing bodies on velvet lounges. Wrath in the form of cage matches in the back room.

Cassian watched it all from the balcony, untouched.

His whiskey sat warm in his hand, untouched.

He didn’t drink much anymore.

He didn’t feel much anymore either.

Not since the woman who was supposed to be his future left him—left because of him. He could still hear her voice, bitter and broken: “You’ll never be capable of love. Only ownership.”

She had no idea how right she was.

The music shifted below. He turned slightly, the overhead heaters casting amber light over his sharp profile. Cassian Vale was a man made of chiseled restraint. Dark suit. Dark hair. Unreadable eyes. A predator who no longer needed to hunt—because everything already came crawling to him.

He was about to leave when Roman reappeared, shirt half-unbuttoned, lipstick smeared on his neck.

“You’re boring as ever, Vale,” Roman grinned, clapping him on the back. “At least pretend to sin tonight.”

Cassian smiled faintly, a predator’s smile. “I don’t sin in public.”

Roman laughed. “That’s the lie you always tell before you take someone home.”

Cassian didn’t answer.

Because tonight—he wasn’t planning to take anyone home.

But fate had other ideas.

And she would arrive soon—wearing heels too high, eyes too sharp, and lips that dared to mouth off to men like him.

He just didn’t know it yet.

“Jesus, you look like a slut,” Marcie cackled, leaning against the chipped bathroom sink, blowing a puff of cheap menthol into the air.

Y/N smirked at her reflection. “Thank you. I was going for ‘slut with ambition.’” Her eyeliner was sharp enough to kill. Her lipstick—dark plum—was the kind that smeared with purpose. Her hair? A glorious disaster of curls teased high and wide like she’d lost a fight with the wind and liked it that way. She wore fishnet stockings with a rip on one thigh, a leather mini barely covering anything, and a tube top that made it clear she didn’t believe in bras on Wednesdays.

It was Wednesday.

“Where we working tonight?” Marcie asked, digging through a makeup bag with half its zipper broken. “Third and Lexington or—”

“Seventh,” Y/N answered, blotting her lips with the back of her hand. “Convention in town. More suits. Less creeps.”

Marcie rolled her eyes. “They’re all creeps, babe.”

“Yeah, but suits tip better.” Y/N grabbed her purse—a knockoff Dior with a broken strap—and dug out a small silver packet. She slapped it into Marcie’s hand. “Don’t forget to wrap it this time. I’m not raising a niece with chlamydia.”

Marcie snorted. “That was one time—”

“Twice.”

“Fine.”

They stepped out onto the cold stairwell of their run-down apartment building. Fifth floor walk-up, no heat, one busted window covered with duct tape. Rent was due in six days.

As they hit the street, neon signs buzzed overhead and steam hissed from nearby grates. The city was alive and indifferent. Another girl passed them—Janine, too young and too soft, already showing.

“Six weeks pregnant and still working,” Marcie whispered, side-eyeing her. “You believe that shit?”

“She’s gonna get torn apart,” Y/N muttered back. “Clinic opens Friday. I’ll remind her.”

“You remind everyone. What are you, the hooker hall monitor?”

Y/N didn’t laugh. She just said, “I like having a clean cooch and a full wallet. Sue me.”

They split at the crosswalk, Marcie heading west. Y/N lingered by a streetlamp, pretending to check her phone. She lit a cigarette instead and took a drag, the smoke curling against the chill air. So far, nothing. Just drunks. A few gawkers. A car slowed—too beat up. A kid leaned out. “How much?” he called.

Y/N flipped him off and kept smoking.

Then—headlights.

A sleek black car, all teeth and money, rolled to a stop in front of her. Windows tinted. Engine humming like a beast under control. Her eyes narrowed.

The back door flew open.

And there he was.

Cassian Vale.

Jaw clenched. Hair slightly mussed. Eyes cold, burning.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t ask.

“Get in,” he demanded, voice like gravel and thunder. “Now.”

Y/N blinked once, mouth parting.

She didn’t move.

He leaned forward just enough for the light to catch the sharpness in his eyes. His control frayed, barely holding.

“Don’t make me ask again.”

The door slammed shut behind her.

The leather seat was too soft. The air inside the car too quiet, too clean. The moment she settled in, her skin prickled with unease.

Cassian didn’t look at her—just reached over, plucked the cigarette from between her fingers like it offended him, and rolled down the window.

Flick.

The butt flew out into the dark.

“The fuck?” Y/N snapped, jerking slightly in her seat.

“You reek like an alleyway,” he said coolly, straightening his cufflinks. “If I wanted to smell smoke, I’d light a match and burn down something worthwhile.”

Y/N blinked. Then laughed—sharp and fake. “If I wanted to listen to an entitled dick talk down to me, I’d call my stepfather.”

He turned to her, just barely. His gaze dropped to her thighs, then up to her face. Not lustful—assessing.

“Still dressing like desperation, I see,” he said, voice like ice. “At least you’re consistent.”

Y/N scoffed. “And you’re still pretending you don’t pay for company like the rest of the sad suits. At least I’m honest about who I am.”

Cassian didn’t respond. Just turned his head forward, jaw ticking once.

“Take us to The Gramercy,” he said to the driver, voice sharp enough to cut steel.

“Yes, sir.”

Silence settled like concrete between them.

No music. No small talk.

Just the occasional flick of Cassian’s watch as he adjusted it, the soft hum of the engine, and the sound of the city fading behind them. Y/N crossed her legs, tugged her skirt lower, stared out the window like he didn’t exist—though she could feel him, watching her through the reflection.

It was like being caged with a lion pretending to nap.

When the car finally turned down a private drive and slowed at the curb of a towering luxury hotel, she let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

The driver opened her door.

Cassian didn’t wait for her to move.

He was already stepping out, fixing his blazer, his presence like a storm rolling off him.

And just before the door shut again, he looked back at her with quiet command:

“Move, sweetheart. I didn’t bring you here to sit pretty.”

The hotel lobby gleamed like it had never known poverty. Crystal chandeliers spilled light onto marble floors, the scent of fresh-cut lilies curling through the air. Y/N’s heels clicked too loudly, her outfit clashing hard with the evening gowns and tailored suits drifting around her.

Eyes followed her. Judging. Curious. Disgusted.

She didn’t care.

Not until they stepped into the elevator—just her and Cassian—and she caught their reflections in the mirrored walls. He looked like old money and generational violence. She looked like a scandal waiting to happen.

Perfect match, she thought bitterly.

The suite was on the top floor.

The moment the door clicked open, her breath caught.

It wasn’t just nice—it was ridiculous. Two stories, skyline view, a fireplace that didn’t even look fake, a glass bar with bottles that probably cost more than her rent. She turned in a slow circle, genuinely speechless.

“Don’t touch anything,” he muttered, walking past her like she was just another piece of street trash that had followed him in.

Then something soft hit her chest.

A white towel. A folded bathrobe.

“Shower. Now.”

She raised a brow. “I didn’t realize this came with a decontamination protocol.”

He didn’t even blink. “You smell like cigarettes and sweat. I don’t let filth sit on my furniture.”

Y/N laughed, tight and mocking. “Jesus. No wonder your fiancée ran.”

His face didn’t change—but the air in the room did.

Sharp. Cold.

“Shower,” he said again, this time a blade behind the word. “Or get out.”

She hesitated just long enough to make a point, then snatched the towel from the floor where it had fallen and disappeared into the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later.

She emerged.

No makeup. Skin flushed from the heat. Her hair fell damp and straight around her shoulders, soft and unstyled. The robe hung loose on her frame, cinched lazily at the waist. Her feet were bare.

For the first time, she looked like someone real.

Cassian sat on the loveseat, a glass of dark liquor in his hand, untouched.

His eyes dragged over her in silence.

Not with lust.

With possession.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the empty cushion beside him.

She crossed her arms. “You planning on housebreaking me next?”

“Sit.”

This time, it wasn’t a suggestion.

She held his stare for three seconds longer than she should have.

Then she sat.

He didn’t touch her.

Didn’t speak.

Just sat beside her in the silence, like he had all the time in the world.

Like this—her beside him, clean, stripped down, quiet—was what he’d wanted from the very beginning.

Y/N sat on the edge of the loveseat, her knees slightly angled away from him, damp hair sticking lightly to her collarbone. She didn’t fidget—but she looked restless. She always did when things got quiet.

Her fingers toyed with the sash of the bathrobe.

She let the silence linger a beat longer before finally speaking, voice low, businesslike.

“Okay… how do you want to do this?”

He didn’t answer.

She turned her head slightly, meeting his stare. “I mean, rough? Slow? Lights on, lights off? You’re not really the cuddling type.”

Her voice dripped sarcasm, but her eyes stayed flat—defensive, practiced.

“Five hundred for an hour,” she added, ticking it off like a list. “Seven-fifty if you want to go twice. A thousand if I stay all night—no anal, no blood, and I leave before sunrise.”

Cassian said nothing.

Just watched her.

Then finally, he set the glass down on the small table beside him. The soft clink of crystal against marble was the only sound in the room.

“I’ll pay you a thousand,” he said at last.

She blinked. “All night?”

He nodded once.

She licked her bottom lip, nodding slowly in return. “Alright. You want to start here or—”

She reached out, hand gentle, fingers brushing toward his chest.

Smack.

He slapped her hand away—not hard, but sharp. Like she’d touched something sacred.

She froze.

Eyes wide. Mouth parted.

Before she could react, he leaned in slightly, voice smooth but flat:

“I don’t want to fuck you.”

She blinked, confused. “Then what—”

“I just want to talk.”

Y/N stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “You paid a thousand dollars to talk?”

“Yes.”

“Are you some kind of serial killer or—”

“No.”

He folded his hands in his lap. His posture was perfect. Controlled. Coiled.

“I want you to sit,” he continued, voice calm but cold. “And tell me who you are. Where you’re from. Why you do this. What you want.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“That’s a hell of a kink.”

“No kink,” he said. “Just curiosity.”

Y/N hesitated. There was something unsettling about how still he was—like a predator studying its prey, not yet hungry enough to pounce.

But money was money.

So she sighed, leaned back against the seat, and muttered, “Fine. But you better pour me a drink first if you expect my tragic backstory.”

Cassian stood, crossed to the bar without a word, and poured her one finger of bourbon in a crystal glass.

Then returned and handed it to her—not touching her fingers when they brushed.

She sipped.

He waited.

And when she finally began to talk… he listened like he was memorizing every breath.

The bourbon burned, but not enough.

Y/N sank deeper into the loveseat, robe tugged tighter around her body like armor. She stared out at the skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights blinking like promises they never kept.

Cassian didn’t speak. Didn’t rush her. Just sat with his body angled slightly toward hers, his silence loud and unrelenting.

Finally, she sighed.

“I moved to New York with a dream,” she said flatly. “Just like the rest of the losers.”

He said nothing.

“I was nineteen. Thought I was gonna be a dancer. Not like ballet or anything—something grittier. Off-Broadway maybe. I had this whole plan… shows, roommates, audition tapes, the works.”

Her lips curled in a bitter smile.

“Turns out dreams don’t pay rent. And neither do casting directors who want to ‘see what else you can do’ after hours.”

She took another sip.

“So I danced at a club for a while. Got close to a guy who said he’d ‘take care of me.’ Spoiler—he didn’t. He left with my rent money and a pair of boots I actually liked.”

She glanced at Cassian.

His jaw was tight.

“But I got smart. Learned the rules. The streets. How to keep myself clean, safe. How to make men feel like gods without letting them touch the real me. And somehow… I’m still here.”

She gestured toward the hotel suite. “Funny, isn’t it? This city chews up people like me, but tonight I’m drinking bourbon I can’t pronounce and sitting in a room most people never see outside a movie.”

Cassian’s stare didn’t break.

He looked at her like she was a riddle he could taste but not solve.

Y/N let the silence stretch.

Then, casually, she said, “I’ve seen you before.”

His brow ticked slightly.

“In the papers,” she added. “That big engagement mess. What was her name—Caroline? Cassandra?”

“Claudia,” he said stiffly.

“Right,” she said, smiling around the rim of her glass. “That ice queen with the hollow laugh and the pearls glued to her neck. She said you were a ‘machine in a man’s body.’ That you didn’t know how to love.”

Cassian didn’t react.

She leaned forward a little. “So what happened?”

He stared at her for a long moment.

Then:

“She didn mistook a cage for a chapel.”

Y/N blinked.

“I gave her everything she wanted,” he continued quietly. “Everything but the one thing I don’t offer freely.”

“Which is?”

He turned to her. “Freedom.”

Y/N’s heart skipped.

The room suddenly felt smaller.

She shifted in her seat, but he didn’t move, didn’t blink—just watched her like she was the first person in years who dared to ask real questions… and stay.

Time blurred.

The city outside the window turned quieter, darker—its heartbeat slowing as the night wore on.

Inside the suite, it was warm. Almost too warm.

Y/N’s drink had been refilled twice, then three times. She’d stopped counting after the fourth. The burn had faded; now it was just velvet on her tongue, smoothing the edges of every story she told.

She hadn’t meant to talk this much.

But Cassian Vale had a way of pulling things out of her without ever raising his voice.

They talked about childhood—sort of. Her small-town boredom, the boys who tried to grab her after gym class, the diner where she used to steal packets of sugar. How she used to think she’d be famous by twenty-one.

He listened without interrupting. Occasionally, he’d offer a story of his own, dry and clinical: an expensive boarding school in Switzerland, fencing lessons he hated, a father who believed weakness was a disease.

“No siblings?” she asked, swirling her drink.

“None worth mentioning.”

She’d laughed at that. Genuinely. And the way he’d watched her—dark eyes fixed on her mouth, like her laughter was a rare delicacy—made her pulse skip.

“You always this intense?” she asked lightly, stretching her legs beneath the robe. “You’re starting to stare like you want to wear my skin.”

“I’m just listening.”

“No, you’re cataloging.”

His mouth twitched—half amusement, half warning.

Another drink.

Her tongue had gone loose. Her shoulders relaxed. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like a transaction.

Until he asked:

“What do you want, Y/N?”

She blinked. “Huh?”

He leaned back slightly, voice low. “What’s the endgame? You ever think about leaving this life? Marriage? A family?”

Y/N laughed—too hard, too fast.

The sound rang loud in the high-ceilinged suite, hollow.

“Oh, God,” she said, wiping her mouth. “You’re serious.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile.

His expression stayed carved in stone.

“I mean, sure,” she added, snorting. “When I was fifteen and still believed in Hallmark movies. Husband, house, couple kids. But that was before I realized it takes money to dream. And luck. And men who don’t break you in half for fun.”

Still, he said nothing. Just sipped his drink, watching her over the rim like he was waiting for something.

“And anyway,” she added, shifting awkwardly, “guys like you don’t marry girls like me.”

At that, his eyes darkened—just a flicker.

And he said, so softly she almost missed it:

“Not yet.”

4:30 A.M.

Y/N woke up to a headache blooming behind her eyes and a bitter taste crawling up the back of her throat.

Her mouth was dry.

Her limbs ached.

The robe she’d fallen asleep in had twisted around her body, the sheets rumpled and cold beneath her. The lights in the suite were dimmed, the city outside still dark—just the faint orange hue of a skyline not yet waking.

She sat up slowly, head spinning. God, bourbon.

Her eyes drifted across the room.

Cassian Vale was asleep on the couch. One arm draped across his chest. The other dangling toward the floor. Even in sleep, he looked composed—too composed.

His shoes were still on.

At some point in the night, he’d given her the bed and taken the couch without a word.

She blinked, then turned to her purse on the nightstand. Half-expecting it to be empty.

It wasn’t.

Folded neatly on top of her wallet, tucked in with a precision that made her stomach turn, was a small stack of bills.

She counted it quickly.

A thousand.

No—twelve hundred.

More than she’d quoted.

Enough to cover rent. Maybe even groceries for once.

She dressed fast—jeans, hoodie, yesterday’s smeared eyeliner. No time for second thoughts. She grabbed the cash, shoved it deep into her purse, and slipped out of the suite without a sound. She didn’t even glance back at the sleeping man in the living room.

Her apartment smelled like cheap incense and leftover Chinese food.

She stepped over a bra in the hallway—Marcie’s, probably—and tossed her bag onto the futon before deadbolting the door. The silence was thick. Her roommate still wasn’t home.

Good.

She pulled out the cash and counted it again, slower this time.

Still twelve hundred.

Still real.

She moved across the tiny apartment and stuffed it into a hollowed-out perfume box in her closet, under three old shirts no one would look twice at.

Then she peeled off her clothes, changed into pajamas, and dropped face-first onto her mattress.

She didn’t cry.

Didn’t think.

Just lay there, staring at the ceiling as the blur of last night flickered through her mind like broken film—his voice, the heat of his stare, the way he hadn’t tried to touch her.

How he just watched.

And then—

She closed her eyes.

And finally, finally fell asleep again.

Cassian Vale sat behind a massive glass desk in his penthouse office, the skyline framed behind him like a painting he no longer cared to look at. The sun was setting, bleeding gold over the city. He wasn’t paying attention.

Not to the contracts on his screen.

Not to the quarterly report printouts in front of him.

Not to the phone call he had just ended with a French investor worth seven figures.

His hand tapped a slow, rhythmic beat against the polished desk. Controlled. Calculated.

But his mind?

Not here.

“Jesus, you’re brooding again,” Roman drawled from the doorway.

Vale looked up, jaw tight.

Roman Hawthorne—his oldest friend, and greatest irritation—strolled in like he owned the place. Hair tousled, blazer unbuttoned, sunglasses pushed to the top of his head like he forgot it wasn’t 2008 anymore.

“You look like you haven’t blinked since last night,” Roman smirked, collapsing onto the leather couch. “Tell me—was she that good?”

Vale didn’t answer.

Roman chuckled. “You’re not going to deny it? Damn, must’ve been real good.”

“She didn’t do anything,” Vale muttered.

Roman arched a brow. “Didn’t do anything? You dragged her to a hotel like a fucking fever dream, and you’re telling me you didn’t even—?”

“I said she didn’t do anything,” Cassian snapped, eyes hard. “We talked.”

“Talked,” Roman echoed, incredulous. “Since when do you pay a whore to talk?”

Vale didn’t respond.

Just looked back at his screen, the text blurring.

Roman laughed and stood. “You’re getting soft, old man. Come get a drink. We’ll find someone who doesn’t talk.”

“I’m not twenty-three anymore.”

“Exactly. Which means we’ve only got ten more good years before things stop working without pills. Come on, I’ll drive.”

Cassian shook his head. “I’ve got a meeting.”

Roman shrugged and left with a whistle.

The meeting was dull.

Strategy, numbers, digital market shifts. His executive team spoke, gestured at slides, pitched campaigns. Cassian sat through all of it in complete silence.

At least outwardly.

Inwardly?

He saw her again.

That robe. Her bare feet on his carpet. The sound of her laughter when he’d asked about marriage. The moment she’d called herself a loser without flinching.

He clenched his jaw.

She’s just a whore.

A smart one. A mouthy one. But still one of thousands who roamed this city like shadows. He’d given her a night, a conversation, and too much money.

It should’ve ended there.

It should have.

That night, just past midnight, he sat in the back of his town car.

The city was quieter, but not asleep. His driver didn’t ask questions.

“Take me back to Seventh,” Cassian said flatly.

The man nodded.

They rolled through the neon-lit haze of Midtown, past cheap bars and corner vendors, strip clubs and chain hotels. The sidewalks were still alive—girls pacing, lingering, laughing too loud under red-tinted streetlamps.

But she wasn’t there.

They passed the exact spot where he’d seen her first—that same flickering lamppost, the same steam hissing from the grate.

Nothing.

He told himself he was relieved.

But as they turned the corner and the street disappeared behind them—

His jaw clenched harder.

And he realized—

He had no fucking clue what to do if she never showed up again.

A week passed like smoke.

Y/N paid the rent in full—cash, no questions asked. Her landlord barely looked at her as he took it, muttering something about interest and late fees that never came. She walked out of that office feeling—what? Proud? Numb? She didn’t know.

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was being back out here. Same hustle, different block. New faces. New fish. Same damn cold.

Tonight, she was dressed for attention.

Short red skirt. Black lace halter top with her bra straps exposed—barely. Her jacket was thin and more for the illusion of modesty than any kind of warmth. Her hair was curled, teased just right. She chewed bubblegum lazily, jaw working as she leaned one hip against the lamppost.

“You should’ve seen the guy I had last night,” Marcie was saying, snorting. “Looked like someone microwaved a leather boot.”

Y/N burst out laughing. “Did he at least pay like a man with a decent face?”

“Girl, he tipped me with a gas card.”

That sent them both into wheezing laughter, too loud, too bright, just enough to forget they were standing on a corner selling their time.

But then—

Headlights.

That same sleek black car.

Y/N’s smile faltered.

The gum stopped moving in her mouth.

Marcie kept talking, unaware, but Y/N’s heart slammed once—hard—as the car crawled toward the curb like a panther returning to the scene of a crime.

She told herself to look away.

Don’t move. Don’t go near it.

There was no way a man like that came back twice. Not for her. Not for any girl. They didn’t do that. They didn’t need to.

But then the back door opened.

Slow.

Smooth.

Deliberate.

And there he was.

Cassian Vale.

Still in a suit—this time charcoal gray, black shirt, no tie. His collar unbuttoned. Hair slicked back like he’d stepped out of a magazine ad for power and control.

“Get in,” he said, voice low but firm enough to silence traffic.

Y/N stood frozen for a beat too long.

Marcie blinked, glanced between her and the car. “Yo… is that—?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

That part of her—the tired, smart, cynical part—screamed to walk away. That nothing good came from men with money and silence in their eyes.

But something deeper… something stupid and aching whispered back:

Go.

And so—

Without a word, she stepped off the curb and into the lion’s den.

The door shut behind her like a vault.

And the car rolled away into the dark.

She should’ve known the moment they crossed the bridge that he wasn’t taking her back to the hotel.

This was farther—too far. Half an hour outside the city, maybe more. The neighborhoods got quieter, wealthier, darker. Less streetlights, more iron gates.

When the car finally pulled into a long, winding driveway surrounded by trees, Y/N’s stomach twisted. The house came into view like a ghost—tall, pale stone, black trim, windows that reflected nothing back.

She was quiet when they walked inside. He didn’t say much either, just led her down a long hallway, past expensive art and walls that looked like no one lived inside them.

Until—

A door opened.

His bedroom.

And suddenly she was swallowed by dim lighting, cool air, and sheets that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe.

She didn’t even have time to comment before his voice cut the air.

“Wash off that horrendous makeup.”

Y/N blinked, turned toward him slowly. “Wow. Ever think of saying ‘please’?”

He stared at her.

Didn’t blink.

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Fine. Asshole.”

Still, she obeyed.

The bathroom was colder than expected, all marble and silence. She stood under hot water again, the second time in a week, scrubbing her face until the layers ran down the drain—foundation, mascara, color, protection.

She hated how light her face felt without it.

She came out in nothing but a towel, water dripping down the back of her thighs. Her hair damp and frizzy again, her skin bare, vulnerable.

Cassian was seated on the edge of his bed, sleeves rolled to his forearms, watching her.

Not hungrily.

Possessively.

He gestured behind her with a small nod.

She turned her head.

On the dark wood dresser: a folded silk nightdress the color of blood and matching slippers.

“Change.”

Her jaw clenched. “You’re lucky you’re rich,” she muttered.

But she dropped the towel anyway.

Right in front of him.

The fabric pooled at her feet with a soft thud.

She reached for the nightdress, slipping it on slowly, the silk whispering over her damp skin. It clung to her curves, sheer in the wrong light, delicate where it should have been protective. She dropped the slippers next, stepped into them carefully.

She didn’t rush.

And he didn’t look away.

His gaze dragged down her body like a man memorizing every inch—her breasts, the swell of her hips, the softness of her stomach. There was no heat in his stare. Just ownership.

When she was done, she turned to face him fully, chin tilted.

He cleared his throat once.

Then quietly:

“Come here.”

The fabric of the nightdress clung to her, still slightly damp where water hadn’t dried, and she could feel his stare—sharp and heavy—settling over her skin like pressure.

She didn’t flinch when he stood.

Not even when he stepped close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath near her collarbone.

One hand found her waist—firm, spreading wide as if anchoring her to the moment.

The other moved slower.

Up her side.

Over her breast.

Fingers splaying, gripping, not roughly but deliberately, as though testing the weight of something that already belonged to him. She tensed slightly, but didn’t pull back. Instead, she kept her eyes straight ahead, breathing even.

He moved behind her then, the hand on her waist now low on her hip, the other drifting over her ass through the thin silk.

She felt his head dip lower—

Inhale.

The scent of her hair, her skin, the soap he’d laid out for her in his bathroom.

His favorite scent.

Cassian exhaled slowly, like something inside him finally released.

“You smell clean now,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Glad I pass inspection.”

His hand tightened slightly at her hip, but then let go.

No kiss. No sudden move.

Just stillness.

Until—

He took a step back, his hand sliding into hers—cool, commanding.

“Come.”

She blinked. “You want to—?”

“Dinner.”

He led her through the darkened house, their footsteps soft against polished hardwood, the only light a warm golden glow from the dining room ahead.

Two plates.

Slightly warm, steam fading.

Silverware gleaming beside folded napkins.

The table was long—far too long for two people—but the plates were placed side by side, not across from each other.

She hesitated.

This was too intimate. Too domestic.

He gestured to the seat beside his. “Sit.”

Y/N sat slowly, glancing at the food—steak, asparagus, roasted potatoes. Expensive. Perfectly plated.

Cassian sat beside her without another word, slicing into his meal like this was a regular Friday night with his girlfriend.

Like this wasn’t strange.

Like she belonged there.

And for a second—

She wondered if he truly believed she did.

Dinner had been strangely normal. Too quiet, too calm. Like she was eating with a man rehearsing a life that never existed.

After the dishes were cleared—by someone else, she assumed—he stood, extended a hand again, and led her silently down the hall.

The bathroom was spacious. Cold lighting. Clean white marble. Spotless.

He didn’t speak until he stepped toward the sink, fingers undoing his cufflinks, then unbuttoning his shirt with practiced ease.

“Brush your teeth,” he said without turning.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Now.”

Her lips parted like she might argue, but she caught herself.

He was paying.

Again.

So she found the toothbrush left on the counter—brand new, still wrapped—and did as she was told. Mint foam on her tongue, the taste oddly sharp under the pressure of his gaze in the mirror.

Behind her, he finished undressing. Pants next. Socks. No shame, no hesitation. Then the water started, and the glass shower door closed behind him.

She finished brushing.

He didn’t say another word.

Back in the bedroom, Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, still in the silk nightdress, flipping through cable channels with the remote. One of the buttons stuck. The TV had five hundred options and nothing she wanted.

No phone.

No distraction.

Her minute phone—cheap, prepaid, and buried in her purse—was only for emergencies. And this didn’t count. Not yet.

She glanced at the time on the TV screen. 9:48 PM.

The water stopped.

She straightened, putting the remote down, stomach tightening as footsteps padded out of the bathroom.

Cassian stepped into the room, towel low around his waist. Hair wet, dark strands dripping onto his collarbone. Chest bare—solid, sculpted, not like he cared about vanity but because he required control of every part of himself.

And now—

He looked at her.

Not hungry.

Not romantic.

Just… certain.

Certain of what she was there for. Of what he expected now.

Y/N held his gaze.

She didn’t move.

But her breath caught slightly.

She knew.

And so did he.

He dropped the towel without ceremony.

Y/N’s throat tightened.

She knew what was coming the moment he crossed the room—barefoot, silent, heat radiating from him like a storm about to break. His body was tense, but not frantic. He moved with the kind of control that made it worse. Like he wasn’t being overtaken by desire.

He was choosing this.

Choosing her.

And he was going to take his time.

He didn’t ask.

He didn’t whisper sweet things.

He just pulled back the silk nightdress with steady fingers, exposing one breast, then the other, his mouth following like a brand. He bit—hard—on the swell of her left breast, then her right. She gasped.

“Don’t mark me,” she breathed, sharp.

He didn’t respond.

Just bit again.

A sharper one. Deeper. A bruise already forming beneath his teeth.

“Cassian—” she began, voice tight.

But he was already guiding her back onto the bed, his weight pushing her down, their hands tangling above her head. His grip was firm. Not painful—but unmistakably final.

He was going to do what he wanted.

And tonight, what he wanted—was all of her.

She squirmed under him slightly, one hand reaching toward the drawer, toward her bag—

His voice came low, breath hot against her throat.

“No.”

She stilled.

Her legs curled slightly, but she didn’t fight him—not really. Not when he looked at her like that. Not when his mouth was everywhere, his hands bruising her waist, his body slotting into hers like it had been designed for this singular moment.

No condom.

No protection.

Just skin.

Possession.

He entered her hard and fast, burying himself deep with a guttural exhale that shuddered against her throat. His pace was rough, relentless, his breath coming out in hot pants against her breast as he thrust into her again and again—hands still locked with hers, pinned like he needed the anchor.

Y/N bit her lip, eyes clenched shut, head turned to the side.

It hurt—but not unbearably.

It meant something.

To him, at least.

He came with a sudden growl, hips pressed tight to hers, his entire frame trembling above her. He stayed like that—still buried inside—his face pressed into her chest, his lips parting against her skin.

And then—

He looked up.

Leaned in.

Almost kissed her.

His mouth hovered just above hers, breath mingling, eyes searching her face like he wanted permission.

She turned her head away.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t offer anything.

So he exhaled softly, and let his forehead fall against hers.

Not a kiss.

Not affection.

Just contact.

Heavy, silent, and full of everything he couldn’t say.

Morning light leaked through the tall windows in thin gold ribbons, falling across Y/N’s bare legs tangled in expensive sheets. The room smelled of linen, cologne, and something unmistakably male.

Cassian Vale's arm was draped across her waist.

Heavy.

Possessive.

She could feel the slow, deep rhythm of his breathing against her back. Still asleep.

Perfect.

She moved carefully, inch by inch, trying not to wake him. One breath. Two. Then she slipped free from his grip like a thief in her own skin. The robe was too far. She reached for her clothes on the floor—her halter top, her skirt, bra crumpled nearby. No underwear. That had vanished somewhere in the dark.

She pulled her bra on first. Then her top, fingers trembling slightly as she twisted the hook into place. She reached for her skirt, halfway up her legs—

“You’re leaving?”

His voice was quiet. Hoarse. But awake.

She froze.

Then turned her head.

Cassian was propped on one elbow, eyes locked on her, unreadable.

She forced a smile, masking the tension in her jaw. “You can call me an Uber, yeah?”

She tried to zip the skirt but it stuck—cheap zipper.

Cassian sat up slowly.

Then stood.

He didn’t answer.

He crossed the room without a word and reached her before she could move.

His arms slipped around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. She tensed. His mouth brushed against her damp hair.

“I said,” he whispered, “I want you to stay.”

She gave a tight laugh, masking unease. “You already paid me, Vale. The meter’s off.”

His hand moved up.

Found her breast.

Squeezed—hard enough to make her suck in a breath.

Then his mouth was at her neck, teeth grazing that same spot he’d marked the night before.

“Hey—wait—” she said, stumbling slightly as he backed her toward the bed.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t give her time to think.

Her skirt was still halfway up her thighs, no underwear beneath it. And when her legs hit the mattress, she fell forward with a soft grunt, catching herself on her hands.

Before she could speak again—

He was behind her.

Pressed up.

And inside.

No warning. No words.

No chance to say no.

She gasped—sharp, startled. The intrusion was sudden, stretching her painfully. She clenched around him, still dry from sleep, her body unprepared. She tried to lift herself up, say something, anything, but his hand was already at the back of her neck, pressing her down into the mattress.

Trapping her.

Her cheek against the cool silk sheets.

He groaned above her—low, satisfied.

“God, you feel even better like this,” he murmured, voice thick with lust, hips rolling forward again.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.

Told herself: Just get through it. Let it happen. He's paying you. He always pays.

But something about the way he held her—flattened her—made her heart hammer.

He moved harder now. His grip bruising her hip with each thrust, one hand still curled around her neck, not choking, just keeping her in place.

“Mine,” he growled against her shoulder, biting it. “You know you are.”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

Just took it.

Let him finish.

And when he finally did—shuddering inside her, his breath sharp and ragged as he collapsed over her back—he didn’t say another word.

He didn’t move.

He stayed there, buried deep, body heavy, head resting between her shoulder blades like she was a bed, not a person.

And all Y/N could do was stare at the wall, too numb to cry, too tired to be angry.

It was just after noon when Cassian finally told her to get dressed.

No kisses.

No soft goodbyes.

Just quiet, purposeful movements. He buttoned his cuffs while she dressed in silence, and when she glanced up at him, there wasn’t a trace of guilt or satisfaction on his face.

Only ownership.

“Victor will drive you home,” he said simply, already reaching for his phone.

She didn’t ask who Victor was.

She just nodded, grabbed her purse, and followed him down the long corridor toward the front door. Every step hurt. Her thighs ached. Her lower back throbbed. She was raw in places she didn’t want to name.

Outside, the car idled.

The driver, a clean-shaven man in his forties, held the door open without comment.

She slid in, eyes distant.

But when they got close to her street—too close—Y/N suddenly sat up straighter.

“Hey—just drop me here,” she said, pointing at the corner of a laundromat two blocks from her actual apartment. “This is fine.”

The driver blinked once, then nodded. “Of course, miss.”

She got out fast, waited until the car turned the corner, then stayed standing there another full minute before walking home on foot, head down, shoulders tense. She checked twice behind her.

Nothing.

Still, she wouldn’t be surprised if Cassian was watching. Somehow. Somewhere.

Her apartment was quiet when she entered.

Too quiet.

The curtains were half-drawn. Her roommate, Marcie, was passed out on the couch, one leg flopped over the armrest, a bottle of something cheap clutched loosely in her hand. She snored faintly.

Y/N dropped her purse onto the table, walked past her, and went straight to the bathroom. The shower steamed up fast, and she stood beneath it for longer than usual—letting the hot water burn where his hands had touched. Her thighs. Her neck. Her wrists.

She didn’t cry.

She was too used to disconnecting.

But when she stepped out and caught her reflection—naked, dripping, eyes dull—she flinched slightly at the bruise forming on her shoulder.

His teeth.

His mark.

She turned away.

The money went back in the perfume box.

Stacked tight, hidden beneath shirts that didn’t fit anymore. It wasn’t much, not really. But it was something.

Rent. Groceries. Maybe a week or two without having to hustle.

She found herself calculating the next visit before she even realized it.

And she hated that.

When she returned to the living room, Marcie was still dead to the world, mouth open, snoring louder.

Y/N didn’t hesitate.

She walked right up and kicked the bottom of the couch.

Marcie jerked awake, groaning.

“Get up,” Y/N snapped, eyes sharp. “You’ve been asleep for fourteen hours. The place smells like feet and piss. Clean something. Breathe air. Act alive.”

Marcie blinked blearily. “Damn, someone got laid…”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Didn’t dare.

She just turned away, headed to the kitchen, and poured herself a glass of water with hands that still trembled slightly.

It had been four days.

Four days of silence.

Four days of no word from him, no surprise drivers, no text from a number she didn’t recognize.

Y/N convinced herself he was done. That the rich always moved on fast. She’d been a novelty. A dirty secret. Now she was nothing again.

And maybe that was fine.

She was back on the corner. Different night. Same hustle.

Her friend Marcie had just been picked up—again. Waved from the window of a Lexus with a wink and a smudged lipstick smile.

Y/N leaned against a brick wall beneath a flickering streetlight, smoking lazily. Her legs ached in the fishnet tights. Her top didn’t cover much, but that was the point. Her skirt was tight and short, her heels loud with every step she made.

Her hair was curled. Eyeliner thick and black. Mouth full of sweet-tasting lip gloss.

She looked like sin, and she knew it.

A pickup truck slowed.

She saw the man inside. Late thirties, Southern accent, grin full of beer and fantasies. She leaned forward, elbows on the window edge, flashing teeth and just enough cleavage.

“Hey there,” she purred, smoke curling past her lips. “Lookin’ for company tonight?”

But before he could answer—

A hand.

Hard.

Unforgiving.

Snatched her upper arm and yanked her backward.

“Hey!” she shrieked, stumbling in her heels as she was dragged away. “What the f—”

The pickup truck peeled off, tires screaming.

And then she was spun around—

Face to face with him.

Cassian Vale.

His jaw clenched. Eyes black.

Rage.

Not the kind of anger you could fake.

The kind that burned.

“You fucking whore,” he hissed. “You think you can walk the streets after I claimed you?”

Y/N’s cigarette fell from her lips, still lit, tumbling to the ground and scattering ash near his polished shoes.

Her heart slammed.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” she yelled, struggling in his grip. “You can’t just show up and—let go of me!”

He didn’t.

He shoved her—hard—toward the waiting town car parked across the street.

The driver was already out, door open.

“No—fuck you,” she spat, yanking her arm back. “You don’t own me! You’re not—you’re insane!”

He shoved her again, this time into the backseat.

She hit the leather seat sideways, her thigh catching the edge as she scrambled to right herself.

“You’re a psychopath,” she barked, still pushing at the door. “You don’t get to do this!”

Then—

Crack.

His hand struck her across the cheek.

Open palm.

Not hard enough to break skin.

But hard enough to stop everything.

The world narrowed.

Y/N’s body froze.

Her hand went to her face, fingers curling over the sting blooming across her cheekbone.

Her mouth opened—but no words came.

Just shock.

Just silence.

Cassian stood over her, chest heaving, eyes wild—but beneath the rage, something even more dangerous simmered.

Need.

Obsession.

The kind that would burn down everything just to keep her.

The silence after the slap was thick, vibrating in the air like static.

Y/N’s fingers still clutched her cheek, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted—but now her shock was curdling into something else.

Fury.

Cassian’s breath came shallow, his hands curling at his sides as if even he was stunned at what he’d just done.

But only for a second.

Then he dropped into the seat beside her, door slamming shut, locking them in a world of leather and shadow.

“I don’t want to see you with other men,” he said, voice tight and low, like he was struggling to stay controlled. “You’re mine.”

She turned toward him slowly, disbelief laced with venom.

“I’ll pay your rent,” he went on, eyes flicking to her exposed thighs. “I’ll give you an allowance. You won’t need to work anymore. You won’t need anyone but me.”

His hand slid across the seat—fingertips brushing her knee, creeping upward toward her inner thigh.

Her breath hitched.

Then—

Smack.

She slapped his hand away with enough force to sting.

Her eyes burned. Her cheek still red. Her jaw trembling.

“Fuck you.” Her voice cracked from the rage sitting just beneath it. “You think throwing money at me makes you my owner?”

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t raise his voice.

Just stared.

“I’m not asking for much,” he said quietly. “Just don’t sell yourself to anyone else. I want you to be mine.”

“You don’t even know me,” she snapped, still shielding her face. “I’m not some pet you can leash and keep in your damn penthouse.”

She reached for the door handle, jiggling it.

Nothing.

The lock didn’t budge.

She tried the window switch next—dead.

Her voice rose. “Let me out. Now.”

Cassian leaned back slightly, one arm draped over the seat like he had all the time in the world.

“You don’t get it,” he murmured. “There is no out anymore.”

She looked at him.

Really looked.

And for the first time, saw it clearly.

This wasn’t a game to him.

Not a fantasy.

Not even obsession.

This was ownership. Seared into his bones, wrapped in silk and power. And he wasn’t going to let her go.

Not now.

Not ever.

The town car hummed quietly around them, the city a blur outside tinted windows. The door was still locked. The air was thick with tension, like the walls themselves were listening.

Y/N sat stiffly in her seat, hands clenched in her lap, eyes darting once more to the lock—still sealed.

Cassian leaned back, studying her.

“I’m offering you comfort. Safety. A life without scraping for coins on a street corner,” he said, voice calm, almost soothing. “In return, I expect loyalty. Exclusivity.”

She stared ahead.

Then let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You mean obedience.”

He tilted his head. “I mean belonging.”

She exhaled sharply, leaned her head back against the leather seat.

If she kept fighting him, he’d just drag her deeper. The slap, the locked doors, the eyes that burned when he looked at her—it was all proof.

She couldn’t escape him.

Not yet.

So she shifted tactics.

“Fine,” she said coolly. “You want me? You want me to be yours? Then I want something too.”

Cassian’s eyes sharpened.

She met his stare. “A better apartment. I’m not staying in that shoebox with roaches crawling up the walls. It doesn’t have to be expensive, just clean. Safe. No drug dealers in the hallway.”

He didn’t speak, but the slight nod gave her courage to continue.

“And Marcie comes with me. My roommate. If I’m leaving, she’s leaving too.”

His expression flickered.

“She’ll have her own room,” Y/N added quickly. “We’re a package deal.”

Cassian’s brow twitched, but he remained silent.

“And I get a job. My job. Something normal. I’m not going to sit around waiting like some pet waiting for a treat. I keep my independence, my own money.”

That’s when the tension snapped.

His body moved so fast she flinched—he sat forward, eyes narrowed.

“No,” he said, voice sharp. “You don’t need a job. You’ll be mine. When I want you, you’ll come. When I need you, you’ll be ready. You’ll be at my side, not behind some counter, smiling at strangers like they’re allowed to look at you.”

Her mouth opened to argue, but his next words cut deeper.

“You’ll learn etiquette. Proper posture. How to speak, how to carry yourself like a lady. You’ll wear what I give you, eat what I tell you, and walk like you were born to be something better than this filth you’ve settled for.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re dressing up a kidnapping and calling it debutante training—”

His hand snapped forward, fingers gripping her jaw.

Not hard enough to bruise—but tight enough to silence her.

And then—

He kissed her.

Hard.

His lips crushed hers with force, not affection. There was no romance, no question. Just a message: you’re mine now.

She whimpered against it, fists balling at her sides.

When he finally pulled back, breath ghosting against her mouth, she could still feel the taste of him—control, bourbon, ownership.

His voice dropped, softer but not gentle.

“And one more thing,” he said. “You don’t smoke anymore.”

She blinked.

“What?”

“No more cigarettes,” he said. “I don’t want them on your breath. On your clothes. In your body. You belong to me now. You’ll be clean. Presentable.”

Y/N’s heart hammered.

She looked away, back out the window.

But she didn’t argue.

Because she realized something far more dangerous than his rules—

He actually believes he’s saving her.

Marcie twirled in the middle of the living room, arms raised, eyes wide like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Holy shit, Y/N,” she laughed, spinning once more. “This place is like… movie rich.”

Y/N leaned against the entryway, arms crossed, watching her with a forced smile.

The apartment was beautiful—no point in denying it.

A twelfth-floor corner unit on Holloway Terrace, an upscale building nestled in the nicer end of Midtown, where the streets were quiet, the elevators silent, and the lobby smelled like jasmine and money. The floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room overlooked the glittering sprawl of the city below. The furniture was minimal and expensive—clean whites and soft grays. Chrome fixtures, real hardwood. The kind of place that didn't have cockroaches.

No broken tiles.

No leaky pipes.

No needles in the stairwell.

Even the closets had a faint scent of vanilla and polished wood.

Y/N had found her new wardrobe waiting for her that morning—rows of silks, cashmeres, lace. Names on the tags she couldn’t pronounce. Bras that felt like clouds. Heels that looked like weapons.

She didn’t remember asking for any of it.

But there it was.

And Marcie? She’d been thrilled. Her own room. A real mattress. A functioning oven. She hadn’t asked too many questions. Just accepted the lie Y/N gave her with a grin and an eye-roll.

“Some rich guy fell for me,” Y/N had said, laughing. “Weird, right? Man’s got a savior complex and a black card. Don’t look at me like that—he just wants to take care of me for a while. Let’s ride it out.”

Marcie hadn’t pressed.

Why would she?

The rent was paid. The fridge was full.

The bruises could be hidden.

That night, a week ago, still lingered like smoke under her skin.

The town car.

The slap.

The words.

The kiss.

And then—

When they’d gotten to his estate, he hadn’t waited. He’d dragged her upstairs with a hunger in his hands that bordered on violence. Pushed her down onto his bed like she belonged there. And fucked her like he was trying to erase the very idea of any man who’d come before him.

He had bit nearly every part of her body—her shoulder, her breast, the soft underside of her thigh. Growled her name into the sheets, into her mouth. Over and over.

“Mine.”

She remembered thinking, as he thrust into her for the second time that night, This is what ownership feels like.

Not pleasure.

Control.

Now, sitting on the edge of her new bed—king-sized, satin sheets, pillows fluffed by someone else’s hand—Y/N stared out at the glittering skyline through her window.

Bare-legged. Clean. Wearing a slip of silk that cost more than she used to make in a month.

Marcie’s laughter echoed faintly from the other room.

And Y/N?

She sat still, bruises blooming under the silk, her hands resting in her lap as she stared at all the things she'd never dared to want.

This is what you get, she thought, not bitter—just hollow. You wanted out. You got it. This is what it costs.

Luxury.

Silence.

A man’s name branded between your thighs.

It was just after nine on a Tuesday morning when the doorbell rang.

Y/N was still in a robe, hair up in a messy knot, cradling a lukewarm mug of coffee as she shuffled across the apartment. Marcie had gone out earlier, muttering something about mani-pedis and finding a place that delivered crepes.

She expected a package. Maybe a maintenance guy.

What she got was her.

A woman in her sixties, tall and thin, with sharp bone structure and colder eyes. Dressed in a pristine cream suit, hair in a flawless twist, pearls at her throat like armor.

“Miss Y/N,” she said with a brisk nod. “I’m Evelyn Harrow. Mr. Vale arranged for me to assist you.”

Y/N blinked. “Assist me with…?”

The woman stepped inside without waiting for permission, setting down a heavy leather bag near the kitchen island.

“Your posture is poor,” she said absently. “And we’ll have to do something about your speaking tone. It's far too casual.”

Y/N stared. “I'm sorry—who the hell are you?”

Evelyn turned, entirely unfazed.

“I specialize in social reformation. Etiquette, elegance, public comportment. In essence—what a man of Mr. Vale’s standing requires in a… companion.”

She said companion the way a surgeon says incision.

Y/N’s blood ran cold.

“You’re joking.”

“I do not joke,” Evelyn said, already unpacking from her bag—books with titles like Modern Grace, Dining with Diplomats, and Elegance as Art. She laid them out with surgical precision. "We'll begin with poise, then tone modulation. Later, reading comprehension, literature selection, and domestic hosting etiquette.”

Y/N crossed her arms, resisting the urge to scream. “I’m not some charity case debutante in a 1950s boarding school.”

“No,” Evelyn said without a trace of malice. “You’re something far more fragile. And far more valuable.”

She walked to the couch, set a folder on the coffee table, and opened it.

Inside were photographs.

Y/N stared at them.

Her—on the street. In the town car. At dinner. With Cassian. Without him. Laughing. Scowling. Learning.

“These,” Evelyn said, “are examples of behavior to correct. Posture. Diction. Expression. Slouching is weakness. Frowning is unattractive. Emotional transparency is dangerous in your position.”

“My position?” Y/N echoed.

“Mr. Vale has invested in you,” Evelyn said. “He expects refinement. Clean speech. Controlled reactions. A woman who can stand beside him, not shame him.”

Y/N bit her lip hard.

She could already tell—this was going to be a problem.

Two months.

Sixty long days of being polished, rewired, reshaped.

Y/N walked in heels like she was born in them now. She could recite etiquette rules in her sleep. Knew how to hold a champagne flute without smudging the glass, how to laugh softly at men’s boring jokes without sounding fake, how to smile when she was boiling inside.

And Cassian?

Cassian fucked her almost every night—rough, possessive, like she was the anchor to some dark, unspeakable hunger he refused to name.

At first she fought. Then she endured.

Now?

Now she just counted the bruises with her eyes closed and reminded herself: Play the game. Stay sharp. Survive.

Tonight had been a special brand of hell.

A formal dinner party in a chandeliered private estate.

He dressed her in emerald silk, floor-length, slit high up the leg. Her makeup was subtle but perfect. Her hair swept into an elegant twist, pinned with a silver comb. She looked like a woman who belonged.

Like one of them.

Cassian hadn’t taken his eyes off her.

His hand stayed on the small of her back. On her hip. On her thigh under the table.

She performed like a dream.

She laughed in the right places. Sipped slowly. Quoted a passage from Wuthering Heights when one of the wives mentioned reading more “classic romance.” Her posture—perfect. Her smile—dazzling. Her words—clean, clear, graceful.

His best friend Roman gave her a smug, approving once-over.

His mother, distant at first, had narrowed her eyes—but the more she watched her son’s hand never leave Y/N’s body, the more she softened.

That’s what mattered.

Control.

Possession.

Claim.

Later, when the string quartet played something too slow and the night air turned warm, Y/N slipped away to the balcony.

The garden below was manicured to perfection. Not a leaf out of place.

She leaned on the stone railing, barefoot now, shoes discarded behind her. The champagne flute was chilled in her hand.

She wanted a cigarette so bad she could taste the memory of one.

But she just sipped.

And breathed.

And counted down the hours until she could go home and fall into bed like a corpse.

“You look beautiful tonight.”

Y/N startled slightly—then turned.

Cassian’s mother.

Tall. Regal. Wearing a deep navy dress with sapphires at her throat. She moved like royalty, and her voice was softer now, kinder. Less ice.

“Thank you,” Y/N said, her voice smooth, trained.

The older woman stepped beside her, glancing at the garden below.

“I see what he sees in you. Not just the beauty. The restraint. You wear control well.”

Y/N took another sip.

“I wasn’t sure, at first,” the woman continued. “Cassian’s never… gotten attached. Not like this. Not since Claudia. But with you…” She smiled faintly. “He’s changed. Warmer. Protective. It’s good for him. He’s been alone for too long.”

Y/N said nothing.

Then—

“I assume you’ve talked about marriage?” she asked.

Y/N blinked. “Excuse me?”

The woman laughed lightly, waving her fingers. “He’ll propose. When he feels safe enough. He’s too proud to admit it, but he craves permanence. Legacy. And it’s time.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing with pleasant expectation. “The business is expanding. Global reach now. He’s built on his father’s empire, made it cleaner, stronger. But an heir… that’s what will anchor everything. What will keep everything.”

Y/N felt her stomach twist.

Marriage.

Babies.

She nearly said something sharp, cruel—something like, Maybe he should try asking what I want before he starts picking out cribs.

But then—

She took a slow breath.

Tilted her head just slightly. Let her smile curve into something elegant.

“That’s a very… generous vision,” she said sweetly. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to freshen up.”

She left without stumbling, her hips swaying in that flawless, taught-back style Evelyn drilled into her.

Graceful.

Poised.

A perfect escape.

Finally—those etiquette lessons had been good for something.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t run.

She endured.

But the moment she stepped back inside, she whispered to herself—

I want out.

The ride home from the party was quiet.

Cassian held her hand the entire time, thumb stroking the back of her knuckles like he was still playing the doting, obsessed prince.

But Y/N sat stiff beside him, eyes fixed out the window, her smile long gone.

She didn’t speak as he led her inside.

Didn’t protest as he undressed her, peeled the gown from her body like he was unwrapping something he already owned. She let him kiss her neck, push her onto the bed, slip inside her like he had every night before.

But tonight—

She tested him.

She turned her face away when he kissed her.

Closed her legs once.

Clenched her jaw when he whispered how beautiful she was.

And he noticed.

He growled. Took her harder. Forced her thighs apart with rough hands and pinned her wrists above her head. Of course he won.

He always won.

But this time, when he finished—sweat-slicked and breathless—she didn’t curl into him like she was trained to.

She rolled to the edge of the bed.

He reached for her.

She flinched away.

Still, she laughed—light, sarcastic, cruel.

“You act like you own the world,” she said quietly, “but all you do is fuck it and hope it doesn't scream loud enough to be heard.”

Silence.

Then—

His body stiffened.

“You think I don’t see you?” she pushed. “Your power trip? Your little fantasy of turning me into some Stepford wife with pedigree? I’ll never be her. I’ll never love you.”

Cassian sat up slowly.

His eyes were colder than she’d ever seen.

“You should watch what comes out of your mouth, darling.”

“Or what?” she bit, venom rising. “You’ll buy my silence like everything else?”

She stood—naked, shaking with rage, grabbing her clothes from the floor.

He moved to intercept her, but she shoved him.

Hard.

"Don't touch me!"

He paused—more stunned than hurt.

She kept moving, pulling her dress halfway on, grabbing for her bag.

She made it halfway down the grand staircase, hair wild, eyes glassy.

Then—

A hand.

A tug.

Then a push.

She stumbled forward—heels catching the edge of the rug, dress not fully zipped—and fell.

Hard.

The wooden stairs bit into her hip, her elbow, her ribs. A sickening twist of her ankle met the impact.

Crack.

She cried out—a sharp, ugly sound.

When she landed, she lay there, dazed, breath coming in shallow gasps. Her skin burned. Her ankle throbbed. Her eyes welled without her permission.

Footsteps behind her.

Slow. Steady.

Then—

Cassian knelt beside her.

Gentle fingers brushed her hair from her face.

“Y/N,” he said, soft. Careful. “You shouldn’t have run.”

She hissed through clenched teeth, eyes sharp with pain and hatred.

“Fuck you.”

“Shh,” he whispered. “You're okay.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re scared.”

She tried to sit up, but he placed a hand on her shoulder, still calm. Still pretending to be the savior.

“Don’t touch me,” she spat.

But he didn’t let go.

Didn’t stop.

Because in his mind—this wasn’t abuse.

It was correction.

“Don’t touch me—stop—stop it!”

Y/N kept swatting at his hands as he crouched beside her, trying to lift her off the stairs. Her body screamed in pain with every movement, but she still fought him, teeth clenched, face hot with rage and fear.

Cassian said nothing.

His grip only tightened.

He gathered her up in his arms like she weighed nothing, ignoring her fists beating weakly against his chest. The sharp, clean scent of his cologne filled her nose and made her stomach turn.

She screamed when his hand slid under her thigh, pressing against the bruises from the fall. “Put me down!”

But he only murmured, sweet and soft like a lullaby:

“Don’t worry, my love. You’re safe now.”

Safe.

The word rang hollow in her ears.

When he reached the bedroom, he kicked the door shut behind him, carried her to the bed, and laid her down—not gently, but not rough either. Just efficient.

Y/N tried to push herself up again, but he was already on her, forcing the ruined dress off her shoulders.

“Stop,” she breathed, twisting.

“I need to see where you’re hurt,” he said, lips grazing her collarbone.

The dress fell in a heap to the floor.

She was in nothing but lace panties now, her chest heaving, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. “Get off me.”

But Cassian was already lifting her foot, examining her swollen ankle with an exaggerated gentleness.

“Hmm,” he said calmly, as if they were discussing dinner. “Might need to see a doctor, my love. You landed badly.”

She tried to yank her foot out of his grip.

But this time—he squeezed.

Hard.

Too hard.

Y/N screamed—raw, hoarse.

The pain exploded up her leg and straight into her spine. Tears finally broke loose and streaked down her cheeks.

“You’re hurting me!”

Cassian looked up, his eyes calm, unreadable.

“I said,” he murmured again, brushing a strand of hair from her face with the same hand that had nearly crushed her ankle, “you might need a doctor.”

His touch was ice.

His words were honey.

She sobbed once, trying to twist away again—but he climbed onto the bed, straddling her waist.

“You should know better than to run, sweetheart,” he said, voice low now, thick with something else. “You made me do that.”

“No—no, I didn’t—please—”

His hands trailed down her sides, slow, steady, possessive. His thumbs pressed into her hips.

He leaned down, face just inches from hers.

“I don’t like hurting you,” he whispered. “But I will, if you try to leave me again.”

And then—

He kissed the tears off her cheek.

And claimed her again.

It had been a month.

Thirty long, aching days since the stairs. Since the snap of her ankle and the harder snap of her pride.

She’d cried once—maybe twice—in the dark, when she was sure he wasn’t watching. But she never cried in front of him again.

He hated when she cried.

Cassian had kept her close after that night. Glued to his side like an accessory. A matching set to his tailored suits and expensive watches. She went to dinners with him. Meetings. He had her hair done professionally, bought her a necklace she hadn’t asked for. Smiled with her on his arm like she was his favorite toy.

He called her my love and sweet girl in front of others.

But behind closed doors?

His words were syrup and glass.

Tender one second, terrifying the next.

The only time she could breathe was when he was gone—on business, in another city, across the globe. He always left someone to “check in,” always had a driver watching the building, but still. Still. Those rare days gave her slivers of freedom.

Today was one of them.

He was in Dubai.

She was home.

No bruises. No broken skin. Just a dull ache in her ankle when she moved wrong and the constant sting of ego that refused to heal.

The apartment was silent. Marcie was out—where, Y/N didn’t know. She didn’t ask anymore. She just hoped Marcie never came home bruised. Never learned what luxury really cost.

Y/N sat by the window, tea cooling in her hands, legs tucked under her. A silk robe hugged her body like a second skin—green, like the dress she wore the night of the dinner party.

The city buzzed below. Cars passed. People lived lives. Free ones.

She blinked slowly, watching them through the glass.

She hadn’t smoked in weeks.

Not since he told her, flatly, that if he ever smelled it again, he’d find worse places to bruise than her hip.

She sipped the tea instead. Bitter. Cold.

Her thoughts wandered—like they always did—toward Claudia.

His ex.

What did she see?

What did she endure?

And how the fuck did she escape?

Y/N leaned her head against the windowpane, the cool glass grounding her as her mind fogged with a quiet, creeping hopelessness.

Is this what she meant to do? Become a kept girl with silk sheets and silent tears?

She didn’t know the answer.

But she knew one thing:

Something had to change.

And soon.

@cutelittlesugarfairy @lilyalone @alebrasil0101 @amanduhh1998

#tw noncon #sfw noncom #dark romance #power dynamics #fantasy #x reader #age g4p #dark fantasy #yandere #breeding k1nk #twistedheartsclub

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