Page 21 of The Billionaire's Obsession

When I return to the penthouse—still can't bring myself to call it home—the first thing I notice is the enormous white box sitting on the bed. My stomach drops, a reaction that should concern me. Gifts from Damon have become almost daily occurrences, each more lavish than the last. Each one binding me to him with golden threads of obligation and gratitude.

The card atop the box simply reads, "For tonight. -D"

I lift the lid and my breath catches. The dress inside is a deep wine-red, liquid silk that pools in my hands when I lift it. No price tag, but the designer name embossed on the box tells me it costs more than my semester's tuition. Beneath it sits a velvet jewelry case.

The necklace inside makes me gasp aloud—rubies set in platinum, a collar of blood and ice that would transform any woman who wore it. Not just a gift. A statement. A brand.

My phone buzzes with a text from Damon.

Car will pick you up at 7. Wear your hair up.

Not a request. Never a request with him.

I sit on the edge of the bed, the dress spilling across my lap like spilled wine, and feel the walls of my carefully constructed independence creaking under pressure. Part of me wants to text back a refusal, to put on my oldest jeans and walk out. But another part—the part that shivers when he looks at me across the dinner table, the part that melts when his hands claim my body in the dark—that part is already imagining how his eyes will darken when he sees me in this dress, these jewels.

I hate how much I crave that look.

At precisely 6:50 PM, I'm standing before the mirror, barely recognizing myself. The dress fits as though it was created specifically for my body, hugging curves I didn't know I had. The necklace sits heavy against my collarbone, the stones catching light with every breath. My hair is swept up as instructed, revealing the vulnerable line of my neck.

The woman in the mirror looks expensive.Owned.

I touch my reflection, tracing the unfamiliar contours of this new self. Who am I becoming? And why does the transformation both terrify and exhilarate me?

The elevator announces Damon's arrival with a soft chime. When the doors slide open, he steps out—not into the penthouse, but into my carefully balanced internal world, disrupting everything. He wears a black suit that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders, the lean strength of him. His tie matches my dress exactly.

"Lucy." My name in his mouth sounds like a possession.

"You coordinated our outfits?" I ask, aiming for lightness but hearing the strain in my voice.

"Of course." He approaches slowly, circling me with predatory appreciation. "Turn around."

I do, feeling the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.

"Perfect," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the skin left bare by the dress's low back. "You'll be the most beautiful woman there tonight."

"Where is 'there,' exactly?" I've learned to ask for details, to try to prepare myself for whatever world he's dragging me into next.

"The Sinclair Foundation Gala. Very exclusive. Very influential people." His hand settles at the small of my back, thumb stroking bare skin. "The perfect opportunity to introduce you properly."

"Introduce me as what?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

His smile is slow, dangerous. "As mine."

The car that awaits us downstairs is not the usual town car but a Rolls-Royce, gleaming black and ostentatious. The driver holds the door with white-gloved hands, not meeting my eyes. No one ever meets my eyes when I'm with Damon. As if looking directly at me would be trespassing on his property.

The venue is a historic hotel transformed by lighting and flowers into something from another century. Women dripping in jewels air-kiss each other's cheeks while men in impeccable suits conduct business in low voices over crystal tumblers of amber liquid. I recognize faces from magazine covers and news programs—politicians, celebrities, titans of industry.

Damon's hand never leaves me—at my back, on my arm, laced through my fingers. He introduces me to a blur of important people, each one assessing me quickly before turning their attention to him. I'm an accessory, beautiful but ultimately unimportant compared to the man who holds my hand.

"Blackwell! Didn't expect to see you here." A man with silver temples and a too-wide smile approaches, hand extended. "Thought you were still in Tokyo closing the Nakamura deal."

"Finished early," Damon says, his tone pleasant but cool as he shakes the man's hand. "Lucy, this is James Harrington of Harrington Media. James, this is Lucy Mercer."

The man—Harrington—turns his attention to me, his assessment more thorough than others have been. "Lovely to meet you, Lucy. That's quite a necklace you're wearing."

"Thank you," I murmur, feeling Damon's hand tighten fractionally on my waist.

"Are you in finance as well?" Harrington asks, his gaze lingering on the exposed skin of my shoulders.

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