Damian couldn't stop thinking about her.
After the ball, after the way she had stood before him—defiant, trembling, resisting even as her body betrayed her—he knew he was right about Elena Russo. She was something rare. A challenge. A temptation he would never walk away from.
He sat in his penthouse, a glass of whiskey in one hand, watching the city lights stretch beneath him like a kingdom that was his to command. The problem was, power had always come easily to him. People bent to his will. They feared him, obeyed him, respected him. But Elena—she fought. Even if she didn't realize it, even if her body betrayed her resolve, she still clung to the illusion of control.
He found it amusing.
And irresistible.
The moment she had turned her back on him at the ball, he had made his decision. He would not wait. He would not let her run, pretend, convince herself she had a choice. Because she didn't. She had belonged to him from the moment he first saw her.
And now, it was time she understood that.
---
Tracking Elena had been effortless.
He had known where she lived before he even met her, had files stacked neatly in his office detailing every aspect of her life—the debts she struggled with, the art classes she could barely afford, the family she loved more than herself. He hadn't needed to dig deep to find her weaknesses. They were obvious.
But the difference between Elena and the others was that her weaknesses didn't make her desperate. They made her strong. She didn't beg, she didn't compromise. She fought, even when it hurt her.
Damian admired that about her. It made breaking her all the more satisfying.
When she left her apartment the next morning, heading to that quiet, unremarkable neighborhood where her family lived, he followed at a distance. He didn't need to be close to know what she was doing—to seek comfort, to hide from him in the arms of her mother, to pretend for just one day that she wasn't falling into the hands of a man like him.
But pretending wouldn't save her.
While she sat at her family's dinner table, laughing with them, telling them half-truths and avoiding questions about her personal life, Damian was in her apartment, moving through her space as if it already belonged to him.
Because, in a way, it did.
He touched the books on her small shelf, traced a finger along the edge of a paintbrush left carelessly near her canvases. The scent of turpentine and jasmine lingered in the air, uniquely hers. Everything about the space was a contradiction—soft and chaotic, beautiful and fragile.
A perfect reflection of Elena herself.
He took his time, committing everything to memory. The way she folded the blanket on her couch, the single coffee mug in the sink, the photograph of her mother and brother on the bedside table.
This was Elena's sanctuary.
And now, it was tainted with him.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the rose he had brought with him—a deep red bloom, soft petals encasing sharp thorns. He placed it carefully on the counter, alongside a small card with a simple message:
This isn't over.
He imagined the way her breath would hitch when she saw it, the way her pulse would quicken as realization set in. She would know, in that moment, that she was never alone. That she could run to her family, bury herself in the warmth of their love, but it would not change a thing.
He would always be watching.
Waiting.
She was his, whether she accepted it or not.
---
By the time Elena returned to her apartment that evening, Damian was back in his own home, watching through the surveillance feed he had tapped into days ago. The moment she stepped inside, he saw it—the way her body stilled, her breath catching as her eyes landed on the rose.
A slow smile curved his lips as she approached it hesitantly, fingers trembling as she picked up the card.
Good girl, he thought.
She wasn't running. Not yet. Not when part of her already understood that there was no escape.
He leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass. He had already left his mark on her home. Now, it was time to leave it everywhere else.
Tomorrow, he would tighten the leash.
Tomorrow, he would remind Elena that her world, her freedom, and every breath she took—
Belonged to him.