Aria stood alone in the penthouse hallway, fingers wrapped around the sleek black card Leon had handed her.
No name. No instructions. Just money.
It wasn't generosity. It was ownership.
She opened the door to her assigned room, half-expecting it to be cold and impersonal like everything else in his world.
It wasn't.
The room was elegant. Cream walls. Soft lighting. Plush bedding in deep navy. A walk-in closet already stocked in her size—clothes with designer labels, shoes she'd never afford again, lingerie she'd never wear for anyone but herself.
Except none of it was hers.
She shut the door slowly, a lump forming in her throat.
This wasn't a home. It was a cage made of luxury.
By noon, she was summoned to the living room by a woman named Clara—Leon's personal assistant.
Tall. Blonde. Efficient. And cool in a way that made Aria want to pick a fight just to see if she could make her blink.
Clara handed her a sleek folder. "Mr. Castellan asked that you familiarize yourself with your new schedule and conduct expectations."
Aria flipped through it.
Pages. Bullet points. Time blocks.
7:30 AM: Breakfast (optional, but punctuality preferred)
9:00 AM: Public appearance briefings, wardrobe fittings, media training
12:00 PM–6:00 PM: Accompany Leon to events or remain on standby
7:00 PM: Dinner (mandatory when scheduled)
Overnight: Residence restrictions apply unless invited
At the bottom: "Noncompliance may result in contract termination and financial penalty."
Aria looked up. "So if I breathe wrong, he charges me for it?"
Clara gave the faintest smile. "Mr. Castellan values precision."
Of course he does.
Hours later, Leon returned.
He didn't knock before entering her room—just walked in like he owned the walls and air and everything in between.
"You read the schedule?" he asked.
"I skimmed it," Aria replied, deliberately folding her arms.
Leon's eyes narrowed. "Skimming is for grocery lists, not contracts."
"I'm not your assistant. I'm not your employee. I'm not—"
"My property?" he interrupted smoothly.
Her jaw tightened.
He stepped closer. Not touching. Just close enough for the air between them to shift.
"You agreed to thirty days. You stay here. You wear what I ask. You act how I need. You leave when it ends. That's the deal."
"And if I don't?" she asked, defiant.
His eyes dropped to her mouth, then rose again.
"Then I remind you who holds the terms."
He handed her a small box.
Inside: a slim silver bracelet.
It gleamed against the velvet lining, delicate and deceptively simple.
"What is this?" she asked warily.
"Your access key. Without it, you can't open the elevator. You don't leave the penthouse."
Her head snapped up. "So I'm a prisoner now?"
"No," he said softly. "You're mine."
Silence hung between them.
Then Leon turned and walked toward the door—but paused just before leaving.
"One more thing," he said without facing her. "Don't enter my study. That's the second rule."
"What's the first?" she asked.
He looked over his shoulder, expression unreadable.
"Obedience."
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Aria stared at the silver bracelet in her palm.
It was beautiful.
And it might as well have been a collar.