The next morning, Ethan woke to a view that stole his breath away—skyline glittering, clouds drifting across the high-rise windows, and silence that felt expensive. The king-sized bed cradled his body like a cloud, the sheets smoother than anything he'd ever touched. For a second, he forgot where he was.
Then he remembered.
Vanessa.
Her voice. Her robe. The way she looked at him.
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his tousled hair. As he stood and padded barefoot across the suite, he found a black box on the vanity beside the door. A note sat atop it.
> "Dress appropriately. Breakfast on the terrace. – V."
Inside the box was a tailored white shirt, soft gray slacks, and polished shoes—all his size.
He dressed in silence, still not quite sure what game he'd walked into.
---
The terrace was bathed in morning sunlight. Vanessa sat at the end of a long glass table, sipping black coffee in a white silk blouse that hinted at the lace beneath. Her long legs were crossed, her posture perfect, her aura commanding.
"You clean up well," she said without looking at him.
"Thanks for the clothes," he replied, unsure whether to sit or wait for permission.
"Sit."
He did.
An attendant brought eggs benedict, croissants, and fresh juice—everything Ethan hadn't tasted in months. He stared at the feast like it was a hallucination.
"You're not used to being taken care of," Vanessa said, watching him. "It shows."
"Not exactly part of my daily routine," he admitted. "Why are you doing this, Aunt Vanessa?"
Her eyebrow lifted. "'Aunt'? That's charming. A little awkward, though, don't you think?"
He flushed. "I don't know what else to call you."
She sipped her coffee. "Let's just go with Vanessa."
There was something in the way she said her name—like she was inviting him to cross a line.
"Okay… Vanessa."
"Much better."
---
Later that day, Vanessa gave him a tour of the penthouse. Every room was like a gallery—sculptures, modern art, sleek lines, hidden doors. Ethan followed her, unable to look away from the curve of her hips or the low dip of her blouse.
They ended in her private study, a room scented with leather and jasmine. Books lined the shelves, and a deep red chaise lounge sat under the window.
"Sit," she said again, almost like a test.
Ethan obeyed.
She walked to the window, letting the light spill across her.
"I'm a woman who believes in indulgence," she said, staring out at the skyline. "Pleasure. Control. Power. And I find myself curious about you."
"Curious how?"
She turned to face him. "About how far you'd go. What you'd be willing to do… to stay."
Ethan's heart thumped in his chest. "I don't follow."
"Oh, I think you do."
She walked over and perched on the edge of the chaise beside him. Her fingers trailed up his arm. Her eyes locked on his.
"I've been alone a long time, Ethan," she whispered. "Men chase my money, not me. They fear me. They want to conquer me. But they never satisfy me."
He swallowed hard, the heat in the room suddenly overwhelming.
"I shouldn't—"
"I didn't ask what you should do," she said firmly. "I asked what you want."
Ethan's voice came out rough. "I don't know what this is."
"This," she said, her hand sliding down his chest, "is the beginning of your education."
Then she kissed him.
Soft at first—just lips brushing lips.
Then deeper.
Wilder.
Forbidden.
Her body pressed against his, and Ethan felt himself surrender, caught between shock and desire. Her hands were bold, guiding him, exploring him, awakening something raw and primal. He kissed her back, fingers tangling in her hair, mind spinning.
She pulled away, breathless but in control.
"I don't want your love, Ethan," she said. "I want your surrender."
Ethan looked at her, dazed, lips swollen from her kiss.
And he whispered, "Then take it."