Page 33 of His By Contract

Georgia entered the kitchen, the click of her heels announcing her arrival. Adrian sat at the marble island, his broad shoulders and dark gaze claiming every inch of space without a single word. Steam curled from his coffee cup while he studied the financial pages spread before him, his suit jacket tossed across the chair back with careless perfection.

Next to him, an empty chair waited. A plate sat before it. Egg whites, avocado, grilled chicken breast. A meal planned to the calorie, arranged with the same attention he gave to million-dollar contracts.

Her stomach clenched. The meal mocked her independence, another piece of her life carved out and ordained. She glanced at Adrian, but his eyes remained fixed on his paper, though his finger tapped once against the counter.

Georgia’s chin lifted. She walked past the waiting chair, past the carefully arranged plate. The pantry door opened with a soft click. She pulled out bread, dropped it into the toaster with deliberate movements. The appliance hummed to life, filling the kitchen with its steady drone.

The financial pages rustled. Adrian hadn’t moved, hadn’t acknowledged her choice, but tension crackled in the air between them. Georgia kept her back straight, her movements unhurried as she waited for the toast. Each second stretched, weighted with unspoken challenge.

The toaster popped. Georgia reached for the butter dish, her fingers brushing cool ceramic. Before she could grip it, Adrian’shand slid it away, a fluid motion that looked almost casual. No force. No argument. Just the butter, gone.

Her jaw tightened. The bread cooled on her plate, untouched, while Adrian returned to his paper. Not a word passed between them. No ultimatum. No threat. Just the quiet rustle of newsprint and the faint ticking of the kitchen clock.

Georgia’s gaze fell to the strawberry jam, still sitting innocently beside the fruit bowl. Her fingers closed around the jar. The lid twisted off with a soft pop, and she spread the sweet preserve across her cooling toast. Each stroke of the knife felt like a small victory.

But even as she took that first bite, sweetness flooding her tongue, the triumph rang hollow. Adrian hadn’t stopped her. Hadn’t needed to. The butter’s absence spoke volumes about who truly held power in this kitchen, in this marriage.

She chewed slowly, the jam suddenly too sweet. Because this was Adrian’s game. Letting her believe she had choices while reminding her that every option existed only because he allowed it. Even her small acts of defiance played into his hands, became part of his careful choreography.

The toast turned to ash in her mouth. Georgia set down the remaining half, appetite gone. Across the island, Adrian turned another page, his coffee cup lifting to his lips in a smooth, unhurried motion. He didn’t need to look up. Didn’t need to acknowledge her presence.

He’d already won.

Georgia strode toward the private elevator. No security guards shadowed her steps. No permission sought. The lobby stretched empty before her, a clear path to temporary escape.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Georgia stepped inside, inhaling the leather and polished brass scent. Her finger hovered over the lobby button, steady but tense with the weight of defiance.

A shadow fell across the threshold. Adrian appeared in the doorway, darkness made flesh, crowding the elevator’s confines before he took a single step. No words passed his lips as he stepped inside, close enough that his cologne wrapped around her, but not touching.

The doors whispered shut.

Georgia’s spine stiffened. She kept her gaze forward, watching their reflections in the mirrored walls. Adrian stood perfectly still, hands relaxed at his sides, but power radiated from him in waves. The air grew thick with unspoken warnings.

The space between them crackled with tension, each floor passing in weighted silence. His calm was infuriating, as if her defiance was nothing more than a minor inconvenience in his perfectly ordered day.

“You know,” Adrian said finally, his voice cutting through the silence, “most wives would simply ask their husbands for permission before deciding to change their schedules.”

Georgia’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t aware I needed your approval to leave the building.”

“You don’t.” His gaze never left her reflection. “But the car waiting for you downstairs does. As does Marchesa, who’s expecting you for the fitting I arranged.”

Adrian stepped closer, not touching her, but close enough that she felt the warmth radiating from his body. “You can walk outthose doors, Georgia. You can hail a cab, visit that little fabric shop in Chelsea you’ve been researching. You can spend the afternoon choosing fabric and telling yourself you’ve won.” His breath stirred the loose strands of hair at her temple. “But we both know you’ll be back before dinner, wearing this emerald dress I gave you, because deep down, you understand what I’ve known since the moment I saw you.”

Georgia’s breath caught as his hand rose, hovering just beside her cheek without making contact. “And what’s that?” she whispered, hating the tremor in her voice.

“That you don’t want freedom.” Adrian’s fingers finally brushed her skin, a whisper-light touch that sent electricity racing down her spine. “You want to be perfectly, exquisitely controlled by hands worthy of the task.”

His hand lifted, his movement slow and calculated. His fingers brushed under her collarbone as he adjusted the neckline of her dress higher, the touch lingering a fraction too long. His knuckles grazed the swell of her breast, and Georgia’s breath caught. A glint of satisfaction flickered across his face, the kind that came from knowing exactly what effect he had on her.

Heat bloomed where his skin met hers, and Georgia fought to keep her expression neutral. His eyes darkened as he smoothed the fabric with his thumb, his usual ice-blue gaze stormy with something that made her pulse skip. His jaw tightened, the muscle there jumping as his fingers traced the edge of the silk.

The elevator chimed.

Adrian stepped back, his hand falling to his side, but the heat from his body still radiated through the small space. “The car iswaiting.” He gestured toward the open doors. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer that cab?”

Georgia moved past him, the silk of her dress whispering against her skin. She forced herself to walk steadily, refusing to rush though she felt his gaze tracking each step like a physical touch against her skin.

The lobby stretched before her, all marble and gleaming brass. She didn’t turn around, wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. But she felt his gaze like a physical touch, trailing down her spine, across her hips, marking her as clearly as if he’d branded her.

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