7. UNSPOKEN TERMS

The party ended the way all things did for Davis—too slowly for his liking.

By the time the last applause faded and the final copy of Fire was signed, Davis’s smile had tightened into something practiced and hollow. He stood beside Chelsea as flashes popped and congratulations poured in, nodding, shaking hands, congratulating his cousin like the dutiful relative everyone expected him to be.

But boredom clung to him like a second skin.

When the final photograph was taken and the crowd began to thin, Davis adjusted his cufflinks and glanced at his watch for what felt like the hundredth time.

“We will be leaving now,” he announced coolly. “I have things to attend to tomorrow, and I can’t afford a hangover.”

Alex smiled, unbothered. “Well, that’s a shame. I would have loved both of you to stay a little longer.” His gaze lingered briefly on Chelsea, curious and warm.

Chelsea returned a tight smile beside Davis. She, too, wished she could stay—long enough to hear Alex speak more about his plans for the forthcoming sequels of Fire, the passion in his voice when he spoke of characters yet to be born. But Davis was already shifting, already turning away.

Of course, they had to leave.

She had to leave when he wanted, stay where he wanted, say what he wanted.

The realization settled heavily in her chest.

She wasn’t here because she was wanted.

She was here because she was owned—at least for now.

The thought sent an angry flush creeping up her cheeks. With effort, she forced a polite smile and waved Alex goodnight as Davis circled an arm around her waist, steering her firmly toward the exit. The pole-faced chauffeur opened the car door, and moments later, the engine hummed to life as they pulled away from the venue.

The silence inside the car was thick.

“Where is Amber?” Chelsea asked softly, breaking it.

Davis glanced out the window, then back at her. “Home. To her family,” he drawled, studying her face. “Why do you ask?”

“Nothing.” Chelsea turned her gaze to the darkened city streets, hiding the irritation tightening her jaw.

“You seem very familiar with Alex,” Davis remarked casually.

She shrugged, choosing her words carefully. “He’s quite famous. And wonderful. I love his work.”

“You flatter my cousin,” Davis scoffed. “That’s cute. I’ve never read his books, but I’m glad the event didn’t go badly for you.”

“Well, not until you kissed me,” she muttered under her breath.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

Before he could press further, his phone buzzed in his pocket—to her relief. He spoke briefly with Amber, issuing crisp instructions about a meeting scheduled for the next day. Chelsea sank back into her seat, exhaustion pressing down on her.

Soon, the car slowed and turned through wrought-iron gates.

The mansion loomed ahead.

Chelsea’s breath caught despite herself.

The structure rose like something out of a dream—glass, stone, and steel blending seamlessly, warm lights glowing against the night sky. When the car came to a stop, the chauffeur opened her door, and she stepped into a space that stole the air from her lungs.

The living room unfolded before her—vast yet intimate. Marble walls gleamed beneath a cascading chandelier, light reflecting off polished floors and carefully curated art pieces. The space was open, airy, and deliberate—every angle considered, every detail intentional.

It felt powerful.

And intimidating.

“Well?” Davis’s voice came from behind her, pulling her back. “What do you think?”

She turned, her hair swishing as she faced him. He was striding toward her with easy confidence, arms spreading as though presenting a masterpiece.

“How do you like it?” he asked. “Everyone always has something to say upon first view.”

“Oh yeah.” Chelsea’s eyes drifted from chandelier to marble walls, then to the golden-railed spiral staircase curving upward. “It’s… magnificent.”

“Thank you. We had the finest architects and engineers work together to bring this to reality. Under my supervision, of course.” His lips curved in a proud smile. “The vastness, the view, the wind direction, the sun—everything was calculated. My mom always loved a romantic setting for home. I wanted her to feel that whenever she comes here.”

Then, unexpectedly, he looked at her.

“How do you feel?”

The question caught her off guard.

For a moment, she almost believed he cared.

Then reality snapped back into place.

“Can we get to the important part?” Chelsea snapped, the words tumbling out sharper than she intended. “You’re not really interested in how I feel. And I’m sure you find my company drab. You hired me for sex. I wish you’d just get on with it.”

Silence stretched between them.

Davis stared at her, surprise flickering across his face before he masked it. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, anger and tension crashing through her.

“I’d like to head to the bedroom,” she added stiffly. “And have something to drink while I wait.”

Davis hesitated, then nodded. “Upstairs. Last door on the left wing. Julia will show you.”

An elderly woman appeared at the top of the staircase, hands folded neatly.

Chelsea didn’t wait. She brushed her dress smooth and climbed the stairs, gripping the railing for support.

“This way,” Julia said gently when she reached the top.

As they walked, Julia glanced at her kindly. “He didn’t mean to upset you, dear. Mr. Davis is very proud of this house. He shows it to everyone.”

Chelsea managed a weak nod.

In the bedroom, the space was softer—muted lights, plush furnishings, an untouched glass of wine waiting on the table. Chelsea sank onto the edge of the bed, hands trembling as she lifted the glass.

As she sipped, her thoughts unraveled.

Her father’s tired smile.

Her mother lying pale in the hospital bed.

The promise she had made—to save them.

Tears blurred her vision.

She curled onto the bed, clutching the pillow, the weight of her choice pressing down on her until exhaustion claimed her.

By the time Davis reached the stairs, Chelsea was already asleep—tear-streaked, frightened, and unaware of the storm still waiting.

****** ****** ******* ******

Chelsea woke with a sharp gasp, her body jerking upright as though she had fallen from a great height.

Her heart slammed violently against her ribs.

For a split second, panic swallowed her whole.

She ran her hands down her arms, her waist, her legs—too fast, too frantic—half expecting to feel unfamiliar marks, proof of a night she could not remember. But the smooth fabric of her red gown greeted her fingers, unwrinkled save for the creases from sleep. Her heels lay neatly beside the bed. Her hair was loose, but untouched.

The other side of the bed was cold.

Empty.

No Davis.

A thousand thoughts crashed into her head at once.

What happened last night?

Had he come in while she slept? Had she missed it? Had she somehow failed him?

Her chest tightened painfully as memory rushed back in fragments—storming upstairs, Julia’s gentle voice, the drink in her trembling hand, the weight of her thoughts pressing her down until sleep claimed her.

She had fallen asleep.

Waiting for him.

“Oh my God,” she whispered aloud.

Work.

Her eyes flew to the clock on the bedside table.

“Oh my God,” she gasped again, louder this time, panic sharpening her voice.

The door opened almost immediately.

“Yes, miss?” Julia said gently, stepping inside with practiced calm. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, ma’am,” Chelsea murmured automatically, her mind still racing. Then she swallowed. “Where is Mr. Dylan?”

Julia’s expression softened. “Oh, he left early for work. Important meeting. He specifically instructed that you be allowed to rest without disturbance.”

Chelsea’s stomach sank.

Of course he had.

Of course she had been left behind like something already used up—even when nothing had happened.

She pressed her lips together, fighting the sting behind her eyes. “I see. Thank you.”

Julia nodded kindly. “Would you like breakfast, miss?”

“No—no, thank you.” Chelsea swung her legs off the bed. “I’m already late.”

Julia hesitated, then said, “There are clothes in the guest room closet. Madam’s. Corporate wear. You’re welcome to them.”

Relief washed over Chelsea. “Thank you. Truly.”

The spare bedroom closet felt like stepping into another woman’s life—tailored suits, silk blouses, muted colors that spoke of authority and elegance. Davis’s mother, she realized, was nothing like the women he surrounded himself with.

Chelsea chose a simple navy skirt and a cream blouse. They fit surprisingly well.

Julia helped her fasten the buttons, smoothed her hair, and handed her a modest pair of heels.

“You look lovely,” Julia said sincerely.

Chelsea forced a small smile. “Thank you. For everything.”

As she hurried down the staircase, the mansion felt different in daylight—less seductive, more imposing. A place built on power, not comfort.

She stepped outside, the chauffeur already waiting.

The ride to work was a blur of anxiety.

Her thoughts spiraled.

Had Davis been disappointed? Would this affect their… arrangement? Was she now indebted twice over—for her father’s job and for failing to fulfill what he expected last night?

And worse—why did it hurt that he hadn’t come?

The question unsettled her deeply.

At the clinic, Chelsea barely made it through the doors before being pulled into the rhythm of work. The smell of antiseptic, the hum of machines, the quiet groans of patients—it grounded her.

This was real.

This was necessary.

Robert was awake when she entered his room.

“Well, look who decided to show up,” he grumbled, though there was less bite in his voice than before.

“I’m sorry,” Chelsea said, smoothening her scrub. “Rough morning.”

He eyed her carefully. “You look like someone stole your sleep.”

She laughed softly. “Something like that.”

As she helped him adjust his pillows, he surprised her by offering a biscuit from the small stash he kept hidden.

Progress.

Elena stopped by later, glancing approvingly between them. “You’re doing well with him,” she said. “He doesn’t share snacks with just anyone.”

Chelsea smiled, pride flickering briefly through her gloom.

But beneath it all, a knot of dread tightened.

Because somewhere between marble walls and borrowed clothes, between a cold bed and an early morning absence, Chelsea knew something had shifted.

She was no longer just struggling.

She was entangled.

And Davis Dylan had not even touched her yet.