Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

—Duncan—

I’ve spent my life mastering control.

Of people. Of money. Of my name.

And yet, here I am—haunted, sleepless, and gripping a phone like it might start whispering truths if I hold it tight enough.

Aphrodite: I’m fine. Just need to rest. I’ll see you soon.

Three hours ago. Still nothing since.

The message is clean. Polished. Void of emotion.

That’s what rattles me.

Because the woman I held last night—the one who trembled beneath my mouth, cried out my name, curled her fingers into my chest like she didn’t want to be anywhere else—that woman didn’t say goodbye with a cold line of text.

No. Something’s off.

And I can’t stand it.

I’ve dealt with women who’ve tried to play me before. Models. Actresses. Heiresses who thought their last name came with power. I saw through every one of them. Stripped them down to their ambition and left them craving what they couldn’t keep.

But Aphrodite Sivan?

She doesn’t crave anything.

She makes me crave her.

And I don’t know how the fuck she’s doing it.

---

I try to focus on work.

Deals wait for no man, not even one unraveling under silk sheets and wine-soaked memories.

But every call, every boardroom pitch, every signature I scrawl—I see her face in the margins.

That mouth. Those eyes. The way her breath stuttered when I kissed the base of her spine. The way she looked at me like she wanted to believe I was different.

The way she left before I could ask why.

I last three hours.

Then I snap.

I tell the car to take me to her apartment. My team doesn’t ask questions. They wouldn’t dare.

I get out at the curb and walk into her building with the kind of presence that turns heads. My name opens doors. Money quiets lips. But today, no one says a word.

When I get to her floor, I stop.

Breathe.

Then knock.

Once.

Twice.

Nothing.

I listen closely.

No movement.

No shuffle of silk over skin. No perfume carried under the door.

I stare at the wood grain like it might bleed truth if I press hard enough.

She’s in there. I can feel it.

I almost knock again. Almost call out.

But I don’t.

Because the man I am—the man I’ve always been—doesn’t beg.

He breaks.

---

The ride back to my penthouse is silent.

City lights bleed across the tinted windows like ghosts. I sit in the back seat with my jaw clenched, one hand curled into a fist against my thigh, the other gripping my phone.

I don’t text.

I don’t call.

Instead, I open my photos and scroll until I find her.

That picture. The only one.

Taken during the gala.

Her back is to me, long hair spilling down her spine like melted ink, her head tilted in laughter, a champagne glass in one hand. The dress she wore that night was a sin stitched into black silk.

It barely covered her.

It made the room hers the second she walked in.

But it was her eyes that made me stop breathing.

Even in that candid shot, they carry something sharp. Heavy.

Pain?

No. It’s deeper than that.

It’s knowledge.

Like she’s lived a hundred lives. Like she’s buried every version of herself and built a new one out of beauty and bone.

I don’t know why that scares me.

Maybe because I’ve only ever built empires out of steel and ruthlessness.

Not secrets.

Not sin.

Not her.

---

I down two glasses of scotch before the ache in my chest dulls.

Then I send flowers.

Something rare. Something deliberate.

Black orchids for her darkness.

White lilies for the lie of her purity.

The florist says she accepted the arrangement.

But I don’t hear from her.

Not a call. Not a message. Not even a picture of the vase in her kitchen.

And that’s when it happens.

That moment when something cold, unfamiliar, and fucking primal snakes through my gut.

Jealousy.

It shouldn’t be possible.

I don’t get jealous.

I get even.

But this isn’t about punishment.

This is about possession.

Who the hell is with her?

Is there a man behind those locked doors?

Did she let him in?

Is he touching her right now?

The image forms before I can stop it—her straddling someone else, that mouth moaning a name that isn’t mine, those hands wrapped around a body that doesn’t belong to me.

I slam the glass down so hard it fractures.

Not enough to break.

Just enough to crack.

Just like me.

---

By the time the night bleeds into black, I’m no longer questioning whether something’s wrong.

I know it.

She’s hiding something.

Or someone.

And I’m not waiting for her to tell me.

I make the call.

“Vince,” I say when the line picks up, “I need a background run. Quiet. No loose ends.”

“Name?”

“Aphrodite Sivan. I want everything. Every man. Every address. Every missed payment, lawsuit, alias, social connection, and fucking rumor.”

There’s a pause.

“You sure?”

“She’s not who she says she is.”

“She hasn’t said anything.”

“Exactly.”

I hang up.

Because I don’t need to explain myself.

Because the second I start asking questions, it means I’ve already lost something.

Control.

And I don’t lose control.

Except when it comes to her.

---

Hours later, I lie in bed, alone.

Sheets cold.

My chest tight.

Sleep doesn’t come.

I keep thinking about the way her body felt beneath mine. How she kissed me like she was starving. How she came undone when I said her name.

It was real.

It had to be.

Unless someone else got to her first.

Unless someone else already owns the pieces I’m trying to hold together.

My mind spirals.

What if she’s in danger?

What if she’s not pulling away because of me, but because someone else is pulling her?

Some fucking bastard in the shadows. Some man who thinks he owns her.

My jaw tightens.

Let him try.

Let him crawl out of whatever hole he’s hiding in.

I’ll find him.

I’ll rip him apart.

Because I don’t share.

And I don’t chase.

I hunt.

And Aphrodite?

She’s already mine.

She just doesn’t know it yet.