Midnight was not quiet in Aria's mind. It was a drumbeat. A countdown. Every second throbbed beneath her skin like a warning every breath felt stolen. She stood in front of the mirror, staring at the girl in silk. Black. Thin strapped. Backless. No bra. No panties. No comfort. Just a choker. And a question.
"Is this seduction… or punishment?"
On the vanity beside her lay a folded card.
Midnight. Do not be late. —D.
She'd tried asking the maid earlier what this meant what he meant but the woman had simply powdered her face in silence and zipped her into the dress without meeting her eyes. It was worse than fear. It was the anticipation of fear.
11:56 PM. The house was so quiet she could hear the tick of her pulse in her ears. She opened her door. No guards. No staff. Just a hallway of cold light and long shadows. She walked barefoot down the marble corridor. Each step echoed like a whisper. She passed the dining hall. The grand piano. The gallery of silent oil paintings.
Then she saw it. The red door. It had been locked every time she walked past it before. It wasn't now. The handle shimmered in the dim light. Brass. Ornate. Sinister. Her fingers curled around it. And turned.
Inside, the air shifted. It smelled like firewood and aged whiskey. Like heat and memory. The room was dimly lit by wall sconces, their golden glow casting shadows across velvet walls. No windows. No time. Just mood. A single fireplace burned low on the far side of the room. Beside it, Damien Black stood with his back to her, a glass of something dark in his hand. Aria didn't speak. He didn't turn. She stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind her.
"You're late," he said flatly.
Her stomach dropped. "It's midnight exactly."
He turned. Slowly. Precisely. "You arrive when I call. Not when the clock strikes." She swallowed the words forming on her tongue. He wore a black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to the forearms. His jaw was clean-shaven, his hair pushed back. He looked like sin carved from winter.
"Sit." He didn't gesture. Didn't move. Just one word. She obeyed. A velvet chair sat in the center of the room, facing a long, gold-framed mirror. She crossed her legs, but the silk dress betrayed her, sliding up her thigh. She felt exposed. Branded. Owned. Damien walked toward her, his footsteps slow, heavy with control. He stopped beside the chair. Still standing. Still above her.
He extended a glass of wine. She hesitated. "Drink." She took it with a trembling hand and sipped. Dry. Rich. Dangerous.
"Look in the mirror," he said. She obeyed. The reflection was arresting. Not because she looked beautiful but because she looked like someone else. Eyes wide. Shoulders squared. A collar around her neck. Like a doll come alive in the hands of its maker.
"What do you see?" he asked.
She hesitated. "A girl trying not to disappear," she whispered.
He leaned closer. "No," he said. "A girl being reborn."
He circled behind her, standing just out of reach. Her breath slowed.
"I will ask you questions tonight," he said, voice low. "You will answer without lying."
"And if I don't know the answer?"
"Then you will admit your weakness. That, too, is a form of obedience." Her fingers tightened on the stem of the wine glass.
"Do you fear me?"
Her heart pounded. "Yes," she answered.
"Why?"
"Because you want to own me."
He moved closer, until his reflection hovered behind hers like a ghost. "And yet," he said, "you came." Her lips parted—but she said nothing.
His hand reached out. Stopped just short of touching her shoulder. Not contact. Proximity. Power not in touch, but in restraint.
"I don't need your body tonight," he whispered. "I want your thoughts."
She closed her eyes.
"Tell me a truth," he said. "One no one knows."
She shook her head.
"Tell me, Aria."
Silence.
Then "Sometimes," she whispered, "I wish I didn't feel anything."
The room went still.
When she opened her eyes, he was no longer behind her. He was in front of her again, crouched down, eye-level, his gaze like frost.
"Feelings," he said, "are the leash that bind the strongest men. But when I put them on you… they will be mine."
He reached out and touched her ankle. Gently. Barely a brush. She jumped like he'd burned her.
"You think this is about sex," he murmured.
"Isn't it?" she breathed.
"No," he said. "This is about power." He stood. Walked to the table near the fire. Picked up a black silk ribbon.
"I control when you speak. When you eat. When you sleep." He turned to her again. "But I also control when you're safe." A long pause. Then he walked behind her once more and slowly tied the ribbon over her eyes.
Darkness.
Stillness.
Only breath.
"Do you trust me, Aria?"
"No."
"Good." His fingers traced the choker at her neck. "But you will."
She sat motionless.
"Now," he said softly, "kneel."
Her lips trembled. She could feel the carpet beneath her toes. The heat of the fire. The wine in her blood. She could hear her heartbeat louder than his voice.
"You may leave," he whispered. "Or you may kneel." A pause. "But once you kneel… there is no going back."
She froze. This was the moment. Not a sexual one. Not even physical. Psychological surrender. One choice would let her keep whatever pride she had left. The other would erase the last piece of the girl who walked into this mansion.
Her hands slipped the heels from her feet. She stood. She turned toward his voice. Her knees bent. She knelt.
The blindfold stayed on. The silence swallowed them both. Then she heard it
A single word. Soft. Possessive. Final.
"Mine."