The first message arrived just after noon.
Unknown Number:
Dinner tonight? I'd like to get to know you better.
I stared at my phone longer than necessary.
I knew who it was—the investor from the gala. The one who had laughed too close to Adrian. The one who had watched us with interest that night.
I hadn't given him my number.
Which meant someone else had.
I didn't reply.
By three o'clock, there was another message.
Adrian mentioned you enjoyed quieter places. I know one.
That one made my chest tighten.
I was still debating whether to delete it when my phone buzzed again—this time with Adrian's name.
Adrian:
Are you busy this evening?
I frowned.
Why?
The reply came almost instantly.
Cancel any plans. I need you.
Not we.
Not the contract requires it.
I need you.
I exhaled slowly before typing back.
I don't have plans.
Another lie.
Good.
Adrian's apartment was all glass and restraint—dark wood, muted colors, nothing out of place. It felt less like a home and more like a carefully curated statement.
"You didn't tell me you were giving out my number," I said the moment the door closed behind me.
Adrian paused, jacket still in hand.
"I didn't."
I pulled out my phone and showed him the messages.
His expression changed—not dramatically. Not visibly.
But the temperature in the room dropped.
"Delete it," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
"The messages," he clarified. "Delete them."
"That's not part of the agreement," I said carefully. "I'm allowed a life."
"Yes," Adrian replied. "Just not with him."
The words came out sharper than intended.
We stared at each other.
"I don't belong to you," I said quietly.
"I know," he said immediately. Too quickly. "This isn't about that."
"Then what is it about?"
He looked away, jaw tightening. "He's not discreet. He talks."
"And?"
"And he doesn't understand boundaries."
Something bitter rose in my chest. "You do?"
Adrian's gaze snapped back to mine.
"I understand risk," he said. "And you are a liability if people start asking questions."
There it was.
The professional justification.
The safe excuse.
"Fine," I said, deleting the messages. "They're gone."
Adrian watched my screen until it went dark.
Only then did he seem to realize what he'd done.
"That wasn't—" He stopped. Restarted. "I shouldn't have ordered you."
"No," I agreed. "You shouldn't have."
Silence stretched between us.
Adrian moved past me toward the windows, staring out at the city like it had answers he didn't want to hear.
"You're free to see whoever you want," he said, back still turned. "I don't care."
The lie was immaculate.
I walked closer, stopping a careful distance behind him.
"You checked my schedule," I said. "You knew I wasn't busy."
He didn't turn around.
"You noticed who was watching me," I continued. "You intervened. Twice."
Still nothing.
"That's not indifference," I said softly. "That's possession."
Adrian finally faced me.
For the first time since I'd met him, his control wavered.
"You're imagining things," he said.
"Am I?"
His eyes searched mine—not for strategy, not for leverage.
For something he refused to name.
"This can't happen," he said quietly. "Whatever you think you see."
"I didn't say I wanted it to."
"Good," he replied. "Because I won't cross that line."
He stepped closer. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him—but he didn't touch me.
"I don't own you," he said. "And I don't want to."
The words sounded rehearsed.
Convincing.
Almost.
As I left that night, one thought followed me down the hallway, heavy and undeniable:
Adrian Cross didn't want to possess me.
He already did.
He just hadn't decided what to do with that truth yet.