The door clicked shut, and Jace was alone again. The silence in Damian's bedroom was a living thing, thick and heavy with the ghost of what had happened, the scent of Damian's cologne clung to the sheets, to Jace's skin, a taunting reminder of the ownership that had been brutally enforced.
He didn't move from where Damian had left him. His body felt like a foreign country, its borders violated, its landscapes altered. The physical ache was one thing; it was the seismic shift inside him that terrified him. The part that had responded, against its will, to Damian's ruthless expertise. That was the true betrayal.
His phone, still tucked under the pillow, was a dead weight. Luca's aborted call felt like a lifetime ago. The concern in his best friend's voice now seemed cloying, naive. What the hell did he do to you? Luca had asked. Jace let out a hollow sound that was supposed to be a laugh. He didn't have the words. How could you describe the feeling of your own will being systematically dismantled?
A cold resolve began to crystallize through the shame. He wouldn't break. He couldn't. If his body was the currency, then he'd make it a worthless one. He would be a stone in Damian's bed, silent and unyielding.
The bedroom door opened without a knock. Damian stood there, already dressed for the day in a suit that cost more than Jace's old car. His eyes scanned the room, then landed on Jace, cataloging his state of dishevelment with detached interest.
"Get up," Damian said, his voice devoid of the dark intimacy from the night before. It was all business now. "You have five minutes to shower and dress. Clothes are in the closet."
Jace didn't move. He met Damian's gaze, letting every ounce of his hatred show. "Go to hell."
A flicker of annoyance crossed Damian's face, so brief Jace almost missed it. He strode to the bed, his presence instantly shrinking the room. He didn't touch Jace, just loomed over him.
"Let me be clear," Damian said, his voice low and precise. "Your defiance is noted. But it is not a negotiation. You can get up and walk to the shower, or I can have the guards carry you there. The outcome is the same. The only variable is your dignity. Choose."
The threat was calm, absolute. Jace knew it wasn't a bluff. The memory of being dragged, pinned, and overpowered was too fresh. With a curse torn from the depths of his pride, he shoved the covers back and stood, his legs trembling slightly. He refused to let Damian see it, stalking past him toward the en-suite bathroom without a backward glance.
In the shower, he scrubbed his skin until it was raw, trying to erase the feeling of Damian's hands, his mouth, his control. It was useless. The marks were less on his skin and more on his psyche.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, he found a stack of clothes on the bed dark jeans, a simple black t-shirt, and boxers. All expensive, all his size. The casual intimacy of Damian knowing his size felt like another violation. He dressed quickly, the soft fabric feeling like a lie.
Damian was waiting for him in the living area, holding out a sleek, black smartphone.
"This is your phone now,"Damian stated. "My number, Luca's, and the numbers for my head of security and driver are pre-programmed. No one else. All your calls and messages will be monitored."
Jace stared at the device as if it were a venomous snake. "You can't be serious."
"I am never not serious," Damian replied, placing the phone on a side table when Jace didn't take it. "Your old phone has been disposed of. Consider it part of the severance from your old life."
Severance. The word was a final, slamming door. No family, no friends, no escape. Just this gilded cage and its warden.
"Come," Damian commanded, turning toward the dining room. "You will eat breakfast."
It wasn't an invitation. It was an item on the schedule. Usage: Sexual, domestic, exclusive. The contract's cold words echoed in his mind. This was the "domestic" part.
Jace followed, his hunger warring with his revulsion. A spread of food was laid out on the table: fresh fruit, pastries, eggs. He sat stiffly in the chair Damian indicated, directly across from him.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the clink of Damian's silverware. Jace picked at a piece of toast, his appetite gone.
"You will accompany me to my office today," Damian announced, not looking up from his tablet. "You will sit quietly. You will not speak unless spoken to. You are there to observe, and to be observed."
"Observed by who?" Jace asked, his voice rough.
Damian finally looked at him, a cold, calculating light in his eyes. "By my employees. So they understand what you are. A visual reminder that I always collect what is owed to me."
Jace's knuckles were white where he gripped his fork. He was to be a trophy. A lesson.
"And what if I refuse?" Jace challenged, the last vestiges of his defiance sparking.
Damian took a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze unwavering over the rim of the cup. Then I will call Luca. And I will have him brought here. And you can watch as I make it very, very clear what happens to people who interfere with my property."
The air left Jace's lungs. It was the perfect threat, aimed with sniper precision at the one vulnerability he hadn't been able to armor. Luca. His stupid, reckless, innocent friend.
The fight drained out of him, leaving behind a cold, hollow acceptance. He looked down at his plate, the food now looking like ash.
He had thought the night before was the worst of it. But he was wrong. This the calm, systematic stripping of his autonomy, his connections, his very identity was the true beginning of his ownership.
And as he sat in the oppressive silence, under Damian's watchful eye, Jace made a silent vow. He would play the part. He would be the silent, obedient pet. But he would watch, and he would learn. He would find a weakness in the fortress that was Damian Moreau.
Because one way or another, he was getting out. And he was taking Luca as far away from this monster as possible.
The car was a silent, rolling tomb. Jace sat in the back, as far from Damian as the luxurious leather seats would allow, staring out the tinted window at a world that felt suddenly distant. People hurried to work, laughed on street corners, lived their free, uncomplicated lives. He watched them with the hollow ache of a ghost.
Damian was a statue beside him, scrolling through emails on his phone, the embodiment of cold control. He hadn't spoken since they left the penthouse, the threat against Luca hanging between them, more effective than any lock or chain.
The car pulled up to a sleek, intimidating skyscraper, a monolith of steel and glass that screamed power and money. As they stepped out, a man in a sharp suit the same one from the office the first day materialized and fell into step behind them. The guard.
They moved through the lobby, a cathedral of marble and silence. Employees subtly averted their eyes or offered quiet, respectful nods to Damian. Their gazes, however, snagged on Jace. He felt them like physical touches curious, assessing, and worst of all, knowing. They saw a young man, dressed in clothes that weren't his style, trailing the boss with a storm cloud over his head, they understood exactly what he was.
Damian's office on the top floor was even more imposing than the one where this had all begun. The wall was a single, panoramic window overlooking the city. It felt less like a view and more like a statement: I own all of this.
"Sit there," Damian said, pointing to a single, modern armchair positioned opposite his desk, but off to the side. It wasn't a guest chair. It was a display stand.
Jace sat, his body rigid. He focused on a single crack in the perfect facade a tiny, almost invisible scuff on the toe of his own shoe, a relic from his old life.
The day began. A parade of people entered: anxious junior executives, stern-faced lawyers, a woman who seemed to be his head of security. They presented problems, sought approvals, deferred to Damian's every word. And through it all, their eyes would flicker to Jace. A quick, surreptitious glance. A silent confirmation.
So, this is the one.
He was a living rumor, a piece of corporate lore. Moreau's new possession.
During a lull, an older, braver executive lingered after his report. "Sir, the quarterly projections for the-"
"Leave them," Damian cut him off, not looking up from a document.
The man hesitated, his eyes darting to Jace once more, a little too long this time. "Is... everything alright, Mr. Moreau?"
Damian's head lifted slowly. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "Is my personal life now part of your quarterly projections, Edward?"
The man, Edward, paled. "No, sir. Of course not. My apologies."
"Get out."
The man practically fled.
Damian's gaze shifted to Jace. "See? You're already proving useful. You help me identify the weak. Those who let their curiosity override their judgment."
Jace said nothing. He just clenched his jaw and looked back out the window. He was a tool. A test. A trophy on a shelf.
Lunch was brought in- a spread from a restaurant Jace could never have afforded. He ate because he was told to, the exquisite food tasting like sand in his mouth.
The afternoon dragged on, an exercise in psychological torture. The humiliation was a slow burn, a constant, low-grade fever under his skin. He was trapped in a cage of absolute power, forced to witness the mechanics of the empire that owned him.
As the sun began to set, painting the skyline in hues of orange and grey, Damian finally stood, stretching with the casual grace of a predator.
"The workday is over," he announced, his eyes landing on Jace. "Now, we return home. You will join me for dinner."
Jace finally broke his silence, his voice hoarse from disuse. "Why are you doing this? You have your contract. You have... everything you wanted. Why the fucking tour?"
Damian walked around the desk and stopped in front of his chair, looking down at him. For the first time that day, his expression held a flicker of something other than cold detachment. It was the look of a collector examining his most prized, most troublesome acquisition.
"Because, Jace," he said, his voice low. "Ownership isn't just about possession. It's about context. I'm not just keeping you in my bed. I'm weaving you into the fabric of my world. Into my business, my home, my routine. There will be no part of your life that doesn't bear my fingerprint."
He leaned down, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, caging Jace in.
"You asked me to break you. I'm not a brute. I don't use a hammer." His breath ghosted across Jace's face. "I use pressure. Constant, inescapable, exquisite pressure. Until the shape you are now cracks, and the shape I want is all that's left."
He straightened up, his expression smoothing back into its impassive mask. "Now, come. The car is waiting."
As Jace stood on trembling legs and followed Damian out of the office, past the staring employees and into the elevator, the truth of his situation settled into his bones, colder and heavier than any fear.
This wasn't just a transaction anymore. It was a war of attrition. And Damian had all the weapons, all the time, and all the power in the world.