Chapter Nine
It wasn't a dress.
It was a command.
Crimson silk slipped down Cassie's body like a threat whispered in the dark—tight at the waist, scandalously low at the back, and sinfully clinging like it had been stitched with secrets. She hadn't even glanced at the thing until five minutes ago, when one of Christian's staffers laid it gently across her bed with a single note, no greeting, no preamble:
"Wear this. Or don't bother coming."
The neckline dipped between her breasts like a blade. Sharp. Daring. But it was the gold clasp resting at the base of her spine that made her breath catch—a delicate, unmistakable "C." Not stitched. Fastened. Meant to hold. Meant to brand.
It clung to her like something she wasn't ready to admit.
Cassie stood in front of the vanity, adjusting one earring, her hand brushing the curve of her bare back. Her chest rose and fell too fast, but her face gave nothing away.
Then she felt it.
Christian.
He didn't make a sound when he entered—he never did. But she knew the heat of his presence instantly. His eyes met hers in the mirror, cool and unreadable, yet flickering with something darker. Something alive.
"If you wanted to be touched, Princess," he murmured, voice low, smooth as silk over steel, "all you had to do was wear that."
He stepped behind her, slow and deliberate, and let his hand fall on her ass—not hard, not even sexual. Possessive. Like a claim. Like punctuation.
Cassie inhaled sharply, spine taut, but she didn't flinch.
He leaned in, his breath warm against the shell of her ear. "Be good tonight."
And then he walked out. Just like that.
Left her standing there—trembling, flushed, furious… and wet.
The gala looked like something out of a fantasy: a palace of glass and whispered deceit. Light dripped from chandeliers like molten gold. Waiters glided past in silence. Guests sparkled in designer gowns and tailored suits, faces fixed with smiles too polished to be real.
Cassie walked in on Christian's arm, radiant in crimson. A walking scandal. Flashbulbs exploded. Conversations stilled. Eyes followed.
But it was his hand on her lower back that anchored her.
Not supportive. Not affectionate.
Commanding.
He didn't guide her. He positioned her. Like art.
At the center of the ballroom, Cassie caught sight of a tall man standing near the bar. Silver hair, sharp suit, a mouth made for charming lies, and eyes like sharpened metal.
Lang.
So this was the infamous rival. Smooth. Dangerous. The kind of man who smiled while plotting your ruin.
Cassie leaned in, her voice a touch too warm. "That's Lang?"
Christian's expression didn't change. "That's the man who once tried to buy what already belonged to me."
Mine.
The word settled over her skin like a collar—intimate and infuriating.
Cassie smiled sweetly, eyes gleaming, and drifted toward Lang.
She didn't touch him. She didn't have to.
She laughed too easily, leaned just a little too close, let her gaze linger where it shouldn't. Fingers brushed the stem of her wineglass like she was thinking of something far more dangerous.
Let him watch.
Let him see how far I'll go to remind him: I'm not yours yet.
Christian didn't react. He didn't storm over. Didn't raise his voice or clench his fists.
He simply stood at the far end of the room and watched her.
Like a man who knew exactly how the game ended—and had already accepted the price of collecting her.
The ride home was silent.
The city passed outside the car in a blur of headlights and shadows. Cassie sat stiff beside him, jaw tight. Christian lounged with one arm draped over the back of the seat, legs spread, every inch of him looking relaxed—except for the tension carved into his jaw.
Cassie glanced sideways at him, then back out the window. "I thought you'd punish me," she said quietly, the words light but laced with challenge.
Christian didn't turn. "I am."
The penthouse door shut behind them with a soft, final click.
Cassie stepped out of her heels and padded barefoot down the hall. She didn't speak. Didn't glance back.
But she knew he followed.
In the bedroom, she stood in front of the mirror. The dress still clung to her curves, gleaming like liquid sin under the lights.
She reached for the zipper, slowly drawing it down. The silk peeled away from her shoulders, whispering down her body—over her breasts, her hips, her thighs—until it puddled around her feet.
Christian leaned in the doorway, watching.
His voice was calm. Low. Dangerous.
"Again. Slower."
Cassie froze.
Then, without a word, she bent, picked up the dress, and slipped it back on. The fabric kissed her skin like a memory. This time, she undressed deliberately, her eyes locked on his in the mirror.
She peeled the dress down inch by inch, exposing herself slowly, steadily. Daring him to break.
Cassie tilted her head. "You want to touch me, don't you?"
Christian stepped forward. His hands didn't lift.
"I want the moment when you beg me to."
Her breath caught.
He circled her like a storm in a suit, each step deliberate, measured. Then—
Smack.
His palm landed hard on her ass. Sharp. Clean. Final.
Cassie gasped, jolting forward. The burn bloomed hot across her skin.
"That," he murmured, voice flat, "was for Lang."
He didn't stay. Didn't reach for her. Didn't even glance at the red flush rising on her skin.
He just turned and walked away.
Left her standing there, half-naked and breathless.
Twenty minutes later, she saw it.
A black velvet box on the vanity. No ribbon. No note.
But heavy. Deliberate.
Cassie opened it with shaking hands.
Inside: a collar.
Not coarse. Not crude. Not a joke.
Sleek. Polished. Understated. Designed to be worn—not as punishment, but as a symbol.
Of belonging.
There was a card tucked underneath. One line, in his clean, slanted handwriting:
"Wear this when you're ready to submit. I'll know."
Cassie stared at it.
Her fingers hovered over the leather. Her pulse thudded in her throat.
She didn't cry. Didn't rage.
But her breath came shallow, her chest tight.
She stood there for a long time.
Then she moved.
She tossed the box into the fireplace. Watched it catch, black velvet curling into flame.
The note—she tore it cleanly in two.
But the collar?
She couldn't burn it.
Couldn't let it go.
Instead, she placed it on the mantle. Carefully. Silently.
Where she could see it.
Where he could see it, if he ever looked.
The firelight glinted off the leather, casting shadows on the wall.
It didn't speak.
It didn't need to.
The collar sat, gleaming and patient.
Waiting.
Just like him.