Chapter 7

CHAPTER EIGHT

—Aphrodite—

They don’t whisper my name anymore.

They scream it.

At castings. On magazine covers. Behind closed doors. In private group chats between billionaires who now know exactly what I look like when I want to be wanted.

Aphrodite Sivan isn’t a woman anymore.

She’s a fever.

And I’ve never felt more powerful.

It started the moment he left. The man in the shadows. The one who owns me.

He never leaves without taking something first. A kiss. A bruise. A command.

This time it was all three.

He stood beside the window, zipping up his tailored black jacket while I sat cross-legged on the bed, still naked, still throbbing from the way he’d used me like a possession and not a person.

His voice was as smooth and sharp as always. “You’ll be working while I’m gone.”

“Working?” I asked, already knowing better than to believe I had any choice.

He crossed the room slowly, crouched in front of me, and slipped an envelope into my hand. His fingers grazed my chin, tilting it up until I met his eyes.

“I’ve arranged something for you. Castings. Shoots. Every major agency wants your face now.”

I didn’t breathe.

He smiled—cold, satisfied.

“I want you on every screen. Every billboard. Every ad that makes men ache and women starve. You’ll become worship, Aphrodite. Living worship. And Duncan?” His lips brushed my ear, soft as poison. “Make him fall publicly. Make him beg where the world can see it.”

And then he left.

No kiss goodbye. No softness. Just the door closing, and the silence curling around my bones.

---

By the next morning, my inbox was a war zone.

Three editorials. A luxury perfume campaign. A talk show request. One brand wanted to fly me to Paris for a rooftop shoot overlooking the Seine.

But the one I took was local. Intimate. Dangerous.

An exclusive gallery opening, hosted by a private investor with ties to Duncan Moretti.

It was the perfect storm.

I chose my dress carefully—liquid black satin with a deep, plunging back. No bra. No underwear. No modesty.

Just a high slit, a dangerous smile, and the confidence of a woman who knows every man in the room will look—and only one will lose his mind.

But first, the setup.

---

I post the photo an hour before the event.

The lighting’s soft. Intentional. Sunlight painting my bare shoulder as the silk robe slips down. I’m barefoot, hair damp from the shower, lips parted. I look like I just let someone ruin me and smiled through it.

The caption?

🖤

The comments pour in.

“You’re not real.”

“This photo made me kneel in my own house.”

“You look like the kind of sin I’d beg forgiveness for before doing again.”

And then his name flashes across my screen.

DUNCAN: What the fuck are you doing?

I smile.

I don’t reply.

A minute later—

DUNCAN: Who took that photo?

Still, I say nothing.

Let him picture it.

Someone else. Naked. Close. Holding the camera with one hand and my thigh with the other. Let him feel that fire start to consume him from the inside out.

Good.

Let him burn.

---

I don’t go to the event alone.

I pick a boy—a producer’s son with cheekbones, money, and nothing to say. His jaw is sharp, his smile eager. He’s harmless. Perfect.

He wears Tom Ford. I wear Valentino. Together, we make a scene.

And when we step onto the carpet, flashbulbs pop like gunshots.

He leans in. Kisses my hand.

I let him.

I even smile for the cameras.

Because I know Duncan is watching.

And I know it’ll drive him mad.

---

He texts me before I even get home.

DUNCAN: He’s a dead man.

I send a kiss emoji.

Then another message.

ME: Come over.

---

He’s at my door in under thirty minutes.

No warning. No pleasantries.

Just a man on the edge.

He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t speak.

He kicks the door shut behind him and storms into my apartment like a storm wearing a suit.

He’s dressed in black. Head to toe. Like he’s mourning something. Maybe the version of himself that used to have control.

I lean against the kitchen counter, sipping wine like I didn’t just send him spiraling.

“You want to tell me who the fuck that was?”

I lift my glass slowly. “Which part are you angry about? The hand kiss? Or the fact that he was prettier than you?”

“You think this is funny?”

I sip.

“I think it’s effective.”

He stalks across the room and slams his palm against the wall beside my head, pinning me with his glare.

“You’re playing games.”

“I always do.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You’re not supposed to be.”

His jaw flexes. “You’re mine.”

I tilt my head. “Prove it.”

His mouth crashes onto mine.

There’s nothing gentle about it. It’s not a kiss—it’s a possession. A punishment.

His tongue forces its way in, demanding, claiming. I moan against him, letting my wine glass clatter to the floor.

He lifts me in one swift motion and throws me onto the kitchen counter.

His hands drag up my thighs. “You wore this to the event?”

“I wore it for you.”

“You wore it for the cameras.”

I smirk. “And what if I did?”

His hand grips the back of my neck. “You want to be watched?”

“I want to be wanted.”

He growls, biting down on my collarbone as his fingers slide under the slit of my dress.

“You’re dripping.”

“I always am when you’re angry.”

He thrusts two fingers inside me, fast and deep.

I cry out, my head falling back.

His free hand grips my thigh, nails digging into skin.

“Did he touch you?”

“No.”

“Did he try?”

“No.”

He curls his fingers inside me and watches as I writhe against the countertop.

“You’re mine.”

I gasp. “So take me.”

He does.

Until I’m shaking.

Until I’m breathless.

But just as I start to break apart, I grab his wrist.

Stop him.

His eyes blaze.

“What are you doing?”

I slide off the counter slowly, licking his fingers clean as I descend.

“You don’t get to finish this time.”

He stares at me like he doesn’t understand the words.

“Excuse me?”

I press a kiss to his jaw.

“You’ll have to earn it.”

I step back and adjust my dress, hips swaying as I walk away.

He doesn’t follow.

Not yet.

He’s too stunned.

Too angry.

Too hard.

I turn at the doorway, smirking over my shoulder.

“Worship me harder, Duncan.”

And I disappear into my bedroom, leaving the door cracked just enough to keep him wondering.

---

Twenty minutes later, I find him in the living room, pacing.

Still hard. Still flushed. Still vibrating with frustration.

“I could’ve taken you,” he growls as I reenter in a silk nightgown.

“You didn’t.”

“I should’ve.”

“But you didn’t.”

I walk past him to pour another glass of wine.

He watches me like he wants to devour me.

“You want me to beg?” he asks.

I glance at him over my shoulder.

“No. I want you to burn.”

He crosses the room in three steps, grabs my face in both hands, and kisses me again—this time not with rage, but with hunger.

Raw.

Needy.

Worshipful.

He drops to his knees in front of me, palms sliding up my thighs.

My breath catches.

“You want me to kneel?” he murmurs.

I nod.

“I already have.”

He spreads my legs and kisses up my inner thigh.

And when his mouth finds me, I moan like I’ve never been touched.

He devours me.

Tongue slow. Worshipful. Desperate.

And when I come, it’s with his name on my lips and his pride shattered at my feet.

---

He falls asleep in my bed that night, arms wrapped around me like I’m oxygen.

But I don’t sleep.

I stare at the ceiling and wonder how long I can play both sides before something breaks.

How long until Duncan discovers the man who really owns me?

How long until he tries to take me back?

How long until he returns?

The shadows are already creeping back.

And the leash around my throat is starting to tighten again.