جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 10

Morning at Voss House didn’t come with sunlight.It came with instructions.A black folder had been slid under her bedroom door while she slept, its contents as crisp and cold as the man who owned the mansion.Inside:A single page.> House Rules1. Breakfast is served at 8. You will sit. You will speak when spoken to.2. Do not enter the East Wing.3. My study is off-limits unless I call you in.4. Do not speak of your mother.5. When I call, you come.6. When I touch, you stay still.7. When I look at you, you will not look away.Calla stared at the words, pulse thudding.What kind of arrangement was this? And why did her skin flush at the idea of rule six?---She arrived in the dining room one minute past eight.He was already seated.Dark suit. Clean-shaven. Cold as ice.“You’re late,” Damien said, without looking up from the paper he held.“It’s one minute,” she said, voice sharper than intended.“Your body is mine for ninety days,” he replied. “So is your time.”Calla sat slowl

There were moments in the mansion when time seemed to stretch.Like silk pulled tight.Like breath held.And tonight was one of them.Calla stood in front of the full-length mirror in the guest wing’s walk-in closet — though “guest” was too small a word for this space. A floor-to-ceiling mirror watched her like a silent witness as she fastened the last button of the black dress Damien had left her.He chose her clothes now.He hadn’t said it aloud — but she could feel it in every hem, every fabric that kissed her skin like a test. Tonight’s dress was satin. High-necked. Sleeveless. With a slit that defied modesty.She didn’t hate it.She hated that she liked it.A knock on the door.No—three knocks, slow and deliberate.Damien.When she opened the door, he didn’t speak. His eyes swept over her in that chilling, heated way that made her skin rise and her thighs ache. He didn’t compliment her. He didn’t need to.The silence was the compliment.He simply offered his arm.Tonight, it wasn

The next morning, the mansion felt colder.Damien had disappeared before sunrise, leaving nothing but a note.> Stay in the house. No one gets in. No one gets out.Calla stared at the crisp handwriting for a full minute.Controlling.Predictable.Except this time, he wasn’t doing it out of dominance.This felt like protection.Which meant… something was coming.She padded barefoot through the mansion, her silk robe trailing behind her like smoke. Her thoughts were tangled — her father, the file, the kiss.She hated how easily she had let herself melt under Damien’s hands.But she hated something else more: how much she wanted him to do it again.She entered the garden to breathe, to get out of her own head.And that’s when she saw her.A woman—seated on the stone bench beneath the willow tree.She was dressed in a long white coat, her legs crossed with careless elegance, and a cigarette dangling from her fingers. Her lips were red. Her expression unreadable.Stranger. Beautiful. Dange

Calla woke with the taste of him still on her lips.Her body ached deliciously — a reminder of last night, of his hands, his words, his hunger. She reached across the bed.Empty.Damien was already gone.Of course he was.For a man who demanded complete control, he was a master at slipping away. And that, more than anything, scared her. Because every time she touched him, he felt a little further from reach.She rose, wrapped herself in his oversized shirt, and moved toward the window.The mansion grounds stretched before her — trimmed hedges, silent fountains, armed guards who pretended not to look up when she appeared.And then she saw him.Julian. In the east courtyard.With someone else.She squinted.A woman. Lean, athletic. Red lips, short platinum hair, a serpent tattoo curling around her exposed shoulder.Not Elira.Someone new.She looked like trouble.Calla made a mental note and left the room. Something in her stomach coiled — not quite jealousy. Suspicion.---Downstairs,

The penthouse was too quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed on the skin. The city lights outside stretched long and gold through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling across the polished marble floor in molten streaks.Sienna stepped out of the private elevator, her heels clicking in the vast living room before she caught sight of him. Adrian Blackwell was in his study, the door half open. From where she stood, she could see him behind his desk—sleeves rolled, tie undone, collar loosened just enough to expose the hard lines of his throat. He held a glass of whiskey in one hand, swirling the amber liquid lazily.He didn’t glance up when she appeared in the doorway. “You’re late.”Her pulse spiked. “I didn’t realize I was on a schedule.”Now he looked at her, and the weight of his gaze pinned her where she stood. Steel-gray, unwavering, with a glint that said he’d already decided the ending to this conversation before it had even begun.“You are now,” he said.Her mouth went dry. “And