The morning sunlight streamed through the high glass windows of Darren's mansion, slicing the air into golden shards. Somewhere down the hall, a clock ticked softly, counting down to something Darren couldn't quite name.
He'd been awake for hours—his sleep fractured by shadows he couldn't escape. He had thrown himself into work before dawn, running calls, reviewing contracts, calculating risk. Numbers. Control. Order. The things that made sense.
Until she appeared.
The sound of soft footsteps descending the grand staircase pulled his attention away from his assistant Carlos's report. He didn't look at first—he didn't need to. He could feel her presence before he saw her, the way one feels a change in temperature before a storm breaks.
Then he turned.
And the world tilted.
Ophelia.
She was descending the marble stairs like something half-born from his own chaos—light and shadow and quiet defiance wrapped in silk and skin. The fitted black pencil skirt hugged her hips like sin itself, and the beige top bared just enough of her shoulders to make his throat tighten. Her hair framed her face softly, catching the morning light, and for the first time in weeks, she didn't look like a prisoner.
She looked like temptation.
Darren's breath stilled. The papers in his hand lowered without him realizing. Every logical thought scattered.
For a brief, electric moment, he forgot who he was.
The man who built empires. The man who controlled every variable. The man who didn't feel.
All of that burned away under the weight of hunger—raw, unfiltered hunger.
He wanted to touch her. No, he ached to.
It hit him fast and brutal, like something dormant had woken in his chest and decided it would no longer be tamed. His jaw flexed. His pulse throbbed in places that had no business reacting to a simple outfit. The image of her walking down those steps would etch itself into him like a scar.
Then came the jealousy. Sharp. Violent.
Because in that skirt, in that soft, dangerous confidence—she wasn't his anymore. She looked like she belonged to the world again. And something primitive in him rebelled against that truth.
Carlos's voice cut through the silence. "Sir, the supplier in—"
Darren lifted a hand, silencing him without looking away from her.
She reached the last step. The faint click of her heels echoed through the foyer, steady and deliberate, as if she knew exactly what she was doing to him.
He swallowed once, slow and controlled, though his control felt like glass ready to shatter.
"What are you wearing, Ophelia?" The question came out lower than intended, rough-edged and dangerous.
The air thickened. Even Carlos straightened, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.
She met his gaze without flinching, though her heart was racing. "Clothes," she said simply. "You wanted me to have some for school."
His eyes darkened. The sound of her voice—steady, unyielding—poured gasoline over the fire already burning inside him. It wasn't just attraction. It was something darker. Something he'd spent years burying under discipline.
Carlos shifted uneasily beside him. "Sir—"
"Leave us," Darren said, his tone final.
Carlos hesitated for only a breath before retreating, the heavy door shutting behind him with a soft thud.
The silence that followed was taut, charged, intimate.
Darren took a step forward.
Her perfume was faint, something clean and soft—like vanilla and defiance. He could almost taste it. He stopped inches from her, the heat of his body brushing against the air between them.
"No," he said, the word an exhale of restrained fury. "You will go back upstairs and change."
Her chin lifted slightly. "No."
For a heartbeat, the air between them stopped moving.
Darren blinked once. Slowly. As if he hadn't quite heard her right.
Then something sharp and dangerous flickered in his eyes. Not rage yet—something quieter, darker. Disbelief. Hunger wrapped in disbelief.
Her defiance was soft-spoken but seismic.
"No?" he repeated, his tone low, disbelieving. A single syllable dragged across the quiet like the scrape of a blade.
She didn't move, didn't look away. "I'm not changing. This is normal. Appropriate."
He could feel his pulse hammering in his throat, in his wrists, in the places that used to stay calm when everyone else lost their nerve. But this girl—this stubborn, infuriating, beautiful girl—unmade every calculation.
The sunlight from the tall windows slid across her bare shoulders, gilding her skin in gold. And all he could think was that the world didn't deserve to look at her that way.
He stepped closer, his shadow spilling over her. "Do you have any idea what you look like right now?"
Her breath caught, but she didn't step back. "Like a girl going to college."
"No," he said, his voice dark silk over steel. "You look like trouble walking on two legs."
Their gazes clashed—his molten, hers unyielding. She was trembling, he could see it, but she held her ground. That, more than anything, twisted something low and hot inside him.
He wanted to touch her. To remind her what that defiance cost. But the part of him that still remembered what control meant stopped him. Barely.
His jaw flexed. "Go. Change. Now."
"I said no."
There it was again—that word. Small, fragile, and yet it detonated something in him every time.
A muscle jumped in his cheek. The old Darren—the one who never negotiated—would have ended it there. But instead, he found himself looking at her mouth. Her pulse. The faint tremor in her hand clutching her bagpack.
His silence stretched, heavy, until the only sound left in the room was her heartbeat echoing in his head.
Finally, he stepped back—not in surrender, but in precision. His self-control was a blade; he would not dull it for her. Not yet.
"Fine," he said softly, almost dangerously calm. "Have it your way." His mouth curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "But understand this, pequeña gatita—every choice you make comes with a consequence."
Her chin lifted. "Then I'll take it."
That small, stupidly brave sentence did something to him. Something that made him both furious and alive.
He turned away before he did something reckless. "We're leaving."
The words snapped the moment in half.
Carlos reappeared like a man walking into a storm. He opened the door without a word as Darren moved past, his jaw tight, his aura coiled and dangerous. Ophelia followed, her heels clicking softly behind him.
The drive was silent. Heavy.
Darren sat beside her, his hand on his thigh, motionless except for the occasional flex of muscle. The car's tinted windows reflected their faces—hers, quiet and unreadable; his, a storm of restrained fury.
Minutes passed before he reached into his jacket and pulled out a sleek, matte-black box. He placed it on her lap without looking at her.
"What's this?" she asked quietly.
"A phone." His voice was calm again, too calm. "Encrypted. Secure. You'll use it for emergencies."
She opened it. The latest model — sleek, black, beautiful. "Why do I need this?"
His eyes flicked to her, dark and unreadable. "So I can reach you. And you can reach me. If you're ever in danger." He paused. "And so I know where you are."
Her fingers tightened around the box. It wasn't just a phone—it was a leash. But the part of her that remembered being powerless, being alone, stayed silent.
"Thank you," she said, because it was easier than starting a war inside a moving car.
The corner of his mouth lifted—barely. "Good girl."
The words slithered under her skin, equal parts command and caress.
When they arrived at campus, Carlos opened her door. Darren didn't move. He sat back, watching as she stepped out, sunlight spilling across her bare legs and skirt.
He wanted to tell her to stay. He wanted to drag her back into the car. He wanted—
God, he didn't even know what he wanted anymore.
"Your first class is at nine," he said finally. "The driver will pick you up after your last. Don't be late."
She nodded, her face unreadable.
"Ophelia." His voice dropped lower.
She turned back to him.
He leaned forward, his gaze lingering on her face, then lower. "Don't make me regret this."
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then she turned and walked away, her back straight, her steps steady. He watched until she disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the sea of students.
Only then did he lean back, exhaling slowly. His hand found the armrest, gripping hard enough for the leather to creak.
"Back to the club," he said.
The drive was a blur of noise and silence, but his mind stayed fixed on her—on that last look, that defiant "No."
Carlos drove in silence for a few minutes before glancing at Darren through the rearview mirror. "You're letting her go alone?"
Darren's eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead. "She's not alone."
Carlos didn't argue. He didn't need to. There would be eyes on her—always.