Chapter Seven
Sebastian Maddox
Ray Chen thinks choice is still on the table.
That's the mistake.
I watch her sit across from me, spoon hovering over the soup she hasn't tasted yet, lashes trembling as she tries to steady herself. She's telling herself stories—pretty ones. That I'm misunderstood. That I'm harsh because the world made me that way. That if she's gentle enough, patient enough, I'll soften.
Sunshine lies to survive darkness.
I allow it.
Because belief is the most efficient leash.
"You're not eating," I say.
She flinches, then lifts the spoon obediently. Good. Not because she's weak—but because she wants peace. People like her always do.
"You don't have to watch me," she murmurs.
"I do," I reply. "You'll get used to it."
Her jaw tightens. "I don't belong to you."
I lean back, considering her like a puzzle that's already solved.
"Ownership isn't something you announce," I say calmly. "It's something you realize after everything rearranges itself around you."
She meets my eyes—brave, stubborn, trembling. "You can't control who I talk to. Who I smile at."
I stand.
The movement alone quiets the room. I step closer, close enough that her chair bumps softly against the table as she instinctively retreats.
I place my hand on the table beside her. Not touching her. Not yet.
"You smiled at a man yesterday," I say quietly. "Your schedule changed. His career collapsed. Today, you left work early. Tomorrow, you'll stop thinking that's coincidence."
Her breath stutters.
"That wasn't because of me," she whispers.
"It was," I correct. "Because you matter."
Her eyes shine with confusion—hope trying to bloom in a place it shouldn't.
I tilt her chin up with two fingers. Not hard. Controlled. Enough to command her attention.
"Don't mistake priority for affection," I murmur. "I don't do romance. I do permanence."
Tears spill despite her effort to hold them back. She hates that. I can see it. She hates losing composure more than she hates me.
"I can help you," she says, voice breaking. "You don't have to be like this."
There it is.
I almost smile.
"You think I'm broken," I say softly. "That you're the exception. The cure."
My thumb presses lightly at her jaw—just enough to remind her who's holding it.
"You're wrong."
I release her and step back, giving her space that feels like mercy.
"I'm not changing," I continue. "I'm not improving. And I'm not being saved."
She looks at me like she wants to argue. Like she wants to run. Like she wants to stay.
All at once.
"But you," I say, lowering my voice, "will adapt."
The waiter appears as if summoned by fear itself. I sit, composed, unbothered.
"Finish your soup," I tell her. "I don't like repeating myself."
She hesitates—then eats.
That's when I know.
Not because she obeyed.
Because she wanted my approval when she did.
I don't need to cage her.I don't need to threaten her.
All I need is time.
Because by the moment she realizes there was never a beginning to this—
She'll also realize there was never an ending.
Ray Chen was always mine.
She just hadn't learned the language yet.