Chapter Eleven

Tears pricked at her eyes, blurring his sharp features.

“My gratitude? I am grateful, James, but I’m not a servant. I’m a person. I thought we had something real.”

“Real?” He dropped his hand, his expression

hardening. “What’s real, Ella, is the roof over your head. The food in your mouth. The opportunities I provide. That’s real. Your romantic fantasies are not.” He turned away, picking up his glass again. “Perhaps a reminder is in order.”

He rarely spoke to her directly, preferring to issue commands or dismiss her efforts with a wave of his hand. The vibrant, passionate man from Paris had vanished, replaced by a rigid, demanding overlord.

Ella tried to talk to him, to penetrate the icy wall he had erected. She chose a quiet evening, after dinner, when he was reading in the study. She poured two glasses of his favorite Scotch, hoping the gesture might soften him.

She approached his armchair cautiously, the soft lamplight illuminating the tension in his shoulders.

“James,” she began, her voice hushed. “Can we talk? Please.”

He didn’t look up from his book. “What is there to talk about, Ella?” His voice was flat, bored.

“Us. You. Me. Everything. You’ve been so different since you came back. It’s like you’re a completely different person. I don’t understand what I did.” Her voice cracked, a tremor running through her. “Did I do something wrong in Paris? Was it something I said?”

He finally lowered the book, his eyes fixing on her, devoid of any warmth. “You did nothing wrong in Paris, Ella. You simply allowed yourself to believe in something that wasn’t there.” He took a slow sip of his drink. “You grew… presumptive.”

“Presumptive?” Her voice rose, indignation warring with hurt. “I thought we shared something intimate. Something special.”

“Intimate, yes. Special, perhaps, for a moment. But it does not change the fundamental dynamic of our arrangement.” His gaze hardened.

“You are here because I allow it. You exist in this comfort because I provide it. Do not mistake a temporary lapse in judgment on my part for an invitation to equality.”

Her jaw dropped, the words a physical blow. “A lapse in judgment? Is that what I am to you? A lapse?” A hot wave of anger surged through her, eclipsing the fear and hurt. “I am not a thing you own, James! I am not a possession!”

His eyes flashed, a sudden, terrifying fury igniting in their depths. He rose from the chair, his movements swift and predatory.

“You dare to raise your voice to me? In my house? After everything I have done for you?” His hand shot out, a blur of motion.

A sharp, searing pain exploded across her left cheek. The force of the blow snapped her head sideways, a ringing in her ears, a metallic taste blooming on her tongue. She stumbled backward, clutching her face, her vision swimming.

The world tilted, then righted itself, leaving her gasping, a raw, burning sensation where his hand had connected.

He stood over her, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling. His face was a mask of cold rage, utterly devoid of remorse.

“Do not ever forget your place again, Ella. Do not ever question my authority.”

Tears streamed down her face, not just from the pain, but from the shattering of everything she thought she knew. She stared at him, unable to speak, unable to move, a fragile bird caught in the glare of a predator. The world had irrevocably shifted.

He turned abruptly, walking out of the study, leaving her alone, trembling, the echo of the slap still vibrating through her body.

The scent of cedar and Scotch, once comforting, now felt like a shroud. She sank to the floor, her cheek throbbing, the sting a constant reminder of his brutal clarity.

The next morning, the house was silent. Ella woke with a stiff, bruised cheek, a faint purplish mark already blooming beneath her eye.

She avoided mirrors, avoided his gaze, moving through the house like a ghost. She heard him leave for work, the familiar rumble of his car pulling away, and a wave of hollow relief washed over her.

When he returned that evening, he carried a small, velvet box. He found her in the kitchen, meticulously wiping down the already gleaming countertops.

He placed the box on the island, his voice softer than it had been in days, though still tinged with a remote quality.

“For you, Ella.”

She looked at the box, then at him, suspicion warring with a flicker of hope. He offered no apology, no explanation. Just the box.

“What is it?” Her voice was hoarse, still raw from the previous night.

“Open it.” He watched her, his expression unreadable.

With trembling fingers, she lifted the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of cream-colored satin, lay a delicate silver necklace, a single, flawless pearl suspended from its chain.

It caught the light, gleaming with an ethereal glow. It was exquisite, expensive, a stark contrast to the blunt force of his hand.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, her voice catching.

“A token,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “A reminder of my… affection. And your value.” He reached out, his fingers brushing her still-tender cheek, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver down her spine.

“I expect you to wear it.”

His eyes, those blue depths, held a different kind of intensity now, an almost hypnotic pull. The anger had receded, replaced by something else, something primal and possessive.

He closed the distance between them, his body radiating a heat that both terrified and thrilled her.

“Come here,” he breathed, his voice a low command. He pulled her against him, his hands sliding around her waist, anchoring her to his solid frame.

The scent of his cologne, of him, enveloped her, familiar and intoxicating.

Her bruised cheek throbbed, a dull ache, but the warmth of his body, the sudden intimacy, began to stir a different kind of ache within her.

His lips found hers, not with the gentle, exploring tenderness of Paris, but with a hungry, demanding pressure.

He kissed her deeply, thoroughly, his tongue plunging into her mouth, claiming every recess. He tasted of whiskey and something musky, undeniably male.

He sucked on her tongue, then released it, only to draw her lower lip between his teeth, a soft, teasing bite that sent a jolt through her.

Her hands, almost instinctively, found purchase on his shoulders, gripping the expensive fabric of his shirt.

Her mind screamed at her to resist, to push him away, to reject this violent tenderness. But her body, bruised and confused, yearned for the familiar comfort of his touch, for the erasure of the pain he had inflicted. The pearl necklace lay forgotten on the counter.

He broke the kiss, his eyes burning into hers.