Chapter Seven: Price of Possession

Rhea is seated at her vanity, one hand resting beneath the lamp as she finishes a careful stroke of polish, when her phone vibrates beside her.

She glances at it absently.

Then she freezes.

A credit alert fills the screen, numbers so large her mind refuses to process them at first.

Her breath catches.

One hundred thousand dollars!

The sender’s name is blank. The description is worse.

Reward.

Her heart begins to pound as she stares at the notification, reading it again, slower this time. She has never held that much money. Never even imagined seeing it in her account without explanation.

Another notification follows immediately.

Unknown Contact:

Use it however you want.

Your reward for being mine.

Rhea exhales shakily.

Dominic Ashcroft.

The realization settles heavily in her chest.

She didn’t even ask. Why this much?

Is this what she’s being paid for: his command, his control, the ache he leaves behind every time he touches her just enough to unsettle her?

She presses the phone to her palm, grounding herself.

With this kind of money, her father’s hospital debt would become thin. Stability would stop being a distant dream and become something tangible.

Maybe this is the cost of endurance.

Rhea shakes her head slowly.

She won’t let herself become dependent. Not like that.

She closes her banking app, packs away her manicure kit, and stands to dress for the evening. Julian will be waiting.  Someone Normal. Kind. Safe.

She needs that reminder.

Because Dominic had been clear she could leave. The contract only holds as long as she remains his employee. Freedom is still hers, even if it feels theoretical right now.

And when she’s had enough, secure enough, she can walk away.

That’s what she tells herself as she reaches for the dress she chose to go out with Julian; thin straps, low back, silk that clung to her every curve.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Julian is leaning against his car when she walks up, and the sight of him is like a breath of fresh air. He isn’t wearing a $5,000 suit. He’s in a soft navy sweater and dark jeans, looking relaxed, looking... normal.

His face lights up the second he sees her. No cold assessment. No "noting" of her infractions. Just a genuine, lopsided grin that makes the knot in Rhea’s stomach loosen just a fraction.

“Wow,” he says, pushing off the car. “Rhea, you look incredible.”

“It’s just a dress, Julian,” she says, though her cheeks warm

By habit, her hand drifts toward her face to adjust her glasses, but she freezes mid-motion. 

A sudden, sharp shiver ripples down her spine as the memory of Dominic’s fingers on her panties in the boardroom flashes through her mind. 

He isn't here, yet he’s everywhere. He has a way of colonizing her thoughts, dominating the very air she breathes even when he’s miles away.

She pulls her hand back, curling her fingers into a tight fist.

“It’s not the dress,” he says softly, stepping closer. He doesn't cage her. He doesn't pin her wrists. Instead, he reaches out, hesitating for a second to see if she’ll pull away, and takes her hand.

His palm is warm. It’s a human kind of warmth, not the burning, electric heat she feels with Dominic. Julian squeezes her fingers gently. “Ready to forget about Axiom for a night?”

“More than you know,” she whispers.

The concert is at a small, crowded venue downtown. It’s loud, smelling of spilled beer and expensive perfume, a chaotic energy that Rhea hasn't felt in years. 

Julian doesn't lead her by the waist; he weaves through the crowd, keeping his body between her and the jostling people, looking back every few seconds to make sure she’s okay.

When the band starts playing a slow, soulful track, Julian leans in close to her ear.

“I have a confession,” he shouts over the music.

Rhea tilts her head back, smiling. “What?”

“I actually have no idea who this band is!” he laughs, his breath smelling of peppermint. “I just wanted an excuse to see you outside that nineteen-floor refrigerator we call an office.”

Rhea actually laughs. A real, genuine sound that surprises even her. “You bought tickets to a band you don’t know?”

“I’d have bought tickets to a lecture on tax law if it meant I could see you smile like that,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

He reaches out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. It’s a simple, sweet gesture. It doesn't feel like a claim. It feels like... affection.

If she is been rational, Julian is the man for her and she would make sure to secure him, and when whatever is between her and Dominic ends, she would have Julian to build a proper family with.

For the next hour, Rhea almost forgets. She forgets the "Fragile" text messages. She forgets the boardroom table. She forgets the $100,000 sitting in her bank account.

She lets Julian pull her into a clumsy, rhythmic sway, her head resting near his shoulder. He smells like soap and rain. He feels safe. 

He feels like the kind of man who would take her home to meet his mother and call her by her actual name.

“You okay?” Julian asks, his hand moving to rest comfortably on her lower back, a respectful distance, a friendly touch.

“I’m great,” she says as she moves slowly to the rhythm.

~~~~~~~~~~

Julian pulls the car to a stop in front of her apartment building. He doesn't keep the engine running; he turns it off, giving her his full attention.

“I had a really great time tonight, Rhea,” he says, his voice low and sincere. 

He reaches out and brushes a thumb over her knuckles. It’s a soft, human touch.

“I like you, Rhea. Not the assistant. You.”

Rhea feels a lump form in her throat. For a moment, she forgets she is "Fragile." She forgets she is a line item in Dominic Ashcroft’s budget. She leans over and kisses Julian’s cheek, a soft, innocent thank you.

“Thank you, Julian. For everything.”

She climbs out of the car and watches him drive away, a small, hopeful smile on her face. She feels like a normal thirty-four-year-old woman for the first time in a decade.

Then she walks into her apartment.

She checks her phone. Nothing. No texts from Dominic. No missed calls.

The silence is worse than a command. It feels like the air before a storm; heavy, still, and charged with enough electricity to kill. 

She lies in bed, the $100,000 "Reward" still sitting in her bank account, and wonders if she just bought herself a dream... or a death sentence.