Chapter One

The Mistress Clause

I slapped him.

The sound rang out like a gunshot in the penthouse, cutting through the silence with the violence of my fury.

Julian Thorne didn’t move. His head turned slightly from the impact, then slowly righted itself. No anger. No shock. Just a flicker of something far more terrifying in his storm-gray eyes—amusement.

He smiled.

God, I hated that smile. Cold. Calculated. The kind a man wears when he knows he owns the board, and you’re just another pawn pretending you have a choice.

“Feel better?” he asked calmly, straightening the cuffs of his Italian suit like I hadn’t just tried to bruise his jaw.

“You bought my building?” I seethed. “You seriously bought the entire building just to control me?”

“I like knowing where you sleep.”

I took a step back, shaking. “You’re insane.”

“And you,” he said, taking a deliberate step toward me, “are breaking the terms of our agreement.”

That damn contract.

Mistress. Exclusive. No emotions. No outside entanglements. No public exposure. A list of rules written like law—by a man who thought he could purchase compliance the same way he bought everything else: with obscene wealth and a twisted sense of ownership.

I had signed it.

Because back then, I was broke. Desperate. Naïve enough to think I could sell my time, not my soul.

I stared him down. “It was never part of the deal that you’d stalk me.”

“I don’t stalk you, Camille.” His tone cooled like marble. “I protect what’s mine.”

My heart twisted. “I’m not yours.”

Julian raised a brow. “That’s not what you said last night.”

I flushed. Dammit.

Last night had been a mistake. A moment of weakness. One that ended with my body betraying my brain, tangled in silk sheets, breathing his name like a curse and a prayer.

This morning, I’d woken up determined to be done. I’d packed my bags. Moved into a cheap studio across town. Blocked his number.

Apparently, none of that mattered when your ex-mistress was you and your ex-lover was Julian Thorne, billionaire tech mogul and emotional black hole in a three-piece suit.

“You signed the Mistress Clause, Camille.”

“I burned it.”

He tilted his head, like a predator mildly entertained by its prey.

“Clause Sixteen,” he murmured.

“What the hell is Clause Sixteen?”

Julian stepped in close, so close I could feel his breath—cool, sharp like mint and menace.

“If the mistress attempts to leave, emotionally manipulate, or engage another man, the beneficiary of the agreement has the right to reclaim control by any means necessary.”

I gasped. “You’re not serious—”

“I had lawyers make it ironclad.” He smiled again. “And I’m very serious.”

My skin went cold. “You’re blackmailing me.”

“I’m reminding you who you’re dealing with.”

I stared at him, hating the way my pulse betrayed me—too fast, too loud. Julian wasn’t yelling. He didn’t need to. His power wasn’t in volume.

It was in precision.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, voice low.

He didn’t answer immediately. He turned away, poured himself a drink—always neat, always scotch—and spoke without looking at me.

“Because I told you not to make me feel anything.”

The glass clinked on the counter.

“And you did.”

My throat tightened.

He turned to face me again. “You kissed someone else last night.”

“I was trying to move on.”

“You don’t get to move on. Not until I say so.”

“You don’t get to own people!”

His smile vanished.

“I don’t own people,” he said slowly. “I own you.”

I stumbled back like he’d struck me. The words were too sharp, too real. My vision blurred.

This wasn’t just toxic. This was dangerous.

“You’re sick,” I whispered. “You’re actually sick.”

His gaze softened—just a little. “Maybe. But you came back.”

“To tell you I’m done.”

Julian stepped closer, and this time I didn’t move. I was too tired. Too raw. His voice dropped to something softer.

“We both know you’re not done, Camille. You never were.”

His hand brushed my cheek.

I slapped it away.

And then—God help me—I kissed him.

Rage. Grief. Lust. It exploded between us like an earthquake, shaking the lie we were both clinging to: that this was just a transaction.

When I pulled back, breathing hard, I saw it. The look in his eyes.

Not control.

Not victory.

But something scarier.

Need.

He cupped my face gently. “I broke the rules too,” he said.

“What?”

“I caught feelings.”

He kissed my forehead like a promise and walked away.

“But don’t worry,” he added over his shoulder.

“I’ll fix it. One way or another.”

And just like that, I realized—

This wasn’t love.

It was war.