Book 5

Book 5

The Voss estate wasn't just a house; it was a fortress of glass and limestone that sat on a hill, overlooking the city like it owned every soul within it.

When the Maybach pulled through the massive iron gates, Emma felt a sharp prick of fear. She had played the game well so far.

Julian was waiting for her in the grand foyer, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked far more composed than the man she had seen in the hotel room.

He didn't greet her with a hug or a kiss; he didn't even offer a welcoming smile. Instead, he greeted her with a look of quiet possession, his eyes scanning her as if she were a piece of land he had just acquired.

He had already cleared out an entire wing for her, a suite of rooms larger than her mother’s entire house, filled with art that probably cost more than her mother’s life.

Julian didn't want her hidden away in some hotel where he had to travel to see her; he wanted her here, under his roof, where he could monitor every breath she took. He led her toward the guest wing, his footsteps silent on the polished marble, while Emma struggled to keep her composure. She wasn't just a guest; she was a project.

He had realized immediately that she had come to him with nothing but a single bag of cheap, worn-out clothes, and that was a reality he intended to erase before the sun went down. Within an hour of her arrival, the quiet of her new suite was invaded by a team of high-end tailors and stylists who moved with the clinical efficiency of a surgical team.

The lead stylist was a woman with sharp, horn-rimmed glasses and a tape measure draped around her neck like a snake waiting to strike. She didn't ask for permission or wait for Emma to feel comfortable. She began to strip away Emma’s old life, layer by layer, discarding her faded cotton shirt and worn jeans as if they were contaminated rags.

Emma stood in her basic undergarments, feeling exposed and small under the glare of the bright chandelier while the cold metal of pins brushed against her skin.

It was a silent, intense ritual that felt more like an interrogation than a fitting. Every time the stylist pulled the tape tight around her waist or measured the slope of her neck, Emma could feel Julian’s presence in the doorway.

Julian stayed in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a glass of scotch in his hand. He watched the entire ritual with a detached interest, staring at Emma like she was a block of marble he was preparing to carve into something he could show off.

The Wardrobe War had officially begun, and Julian was determined to win it by burying her in excess. Boxes were brought in by the dozen, filled with the kind of shoes, bags, and dresses that any girl her age would only ever see in the glossy pages of a magazine.

There were heels made of butter-soft leather, handbags that cost more than a year of her mother’s rent, and silk gowns that felt so light they almost floated. But to Emma, every piece of fabric draped over her felt like a weight, a new link in the chain Julian was forging. She had to pretend she was used to this level of luxury, nodding stoically while they discussed silhouettes and seasons, but inside, her skin was crawling.

Emma caught her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror and barely recognized the girl looking back. The girl from the damp, cramped house was being buried under layers of French lace and Italian silk.

Every time a new dress was draped over her, she felt a little more like a ghost in her own body. Julian didn't look away once. He watched the way the emerald silk highlighted her eyes and the way a black velvet gown clung to her frame. He was building a masterpiece, and he was enjoying every second of the process.

Julian finally set his glass down on a nearby side table and walked into the center of the room, dismissing the stylists with a sharp, wordless nod. The room emptied in seconds, leaving a ringing silence behind. He stepped into Emma’s personal space, his expensive cologne filling her lungs, and stopped just inches away.

He reached out, his fingers cold but controlled , and raised her chin so she had no choice but to look directly into his eyes. The intensity of his gaze was suffocating, a mix of genuine fascination and the cold arrogance of a man who was used to buying whatever he wanted. He didn't speak immediately; he just studied the fire in her eyes, trying to figure out if it was passion or something much more dangerous.

“You look like you belong here now,” Julian said, his voice dropping into a low, predatory register. He didn’t move his hand, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with a slow, deliberate pressure that felt like a claim. He leaned in closer, his shadow completely swallowing her under the bright lights of the suite, ensuring she couldn't look anywhere else but at him.

He was a man who took what he wanted, and right now, he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. His grip on her chin tightened just enough to be felt, a silent reminder of who was in control of this house.

“You’re mine now,” he said.