"Now you want to talk to me about the law?"
Christopher's voice was low, edged with cold amusement.
"Amelie… has it been so long since I taught you your place that you've forgotten who your master is?"
—
The sheer humiliation in those words shattered Amelie completely.
Whatever fragile strength she had left collapsed at once. She could no longer force out angry retorts or desperate arguments—only broken, soundless sobs escaped her throat, her shoulders trembling uncontrollably.
Her tears seemed to please him.
Christopher watched with clear satisfaction as her resistance dissolved, as her body instinctively softened beneath his control. And without the slightest warning, he leaned down and kissed her.
This kiss was nothing like the ones from the night before.
There was no heat, no tenderness, no desire masquerading as affection. It was all force—biting, bruising, claiming. A kiss meant purely as punishment, brutal and dominant, delivered by someone who stood far above her and meant to remind her of exactly that.
—
Just as Amelie felt herself on the verge of suffocating, footsteps sounded outside in the corridor, accompanied by the low voices of two maids.
"…Strange. Didn't you hear something just now?"
"I thought so too. Could it be a thief?"
The footsteps drew closer, stopping right outside the storage room door.
Amelie's pupils contracted sharply. Her entire body went rigid, frozen like stone.
Christopher halted—but he didn't release her.
Instead, he pressed his forehead against hers deliberately, cruelly. Their breaths tangled in the narrow space, hot and audible in the suffocating silence.
Just beyond the door stood the Hayden household staff.
—
If they were discovered…
If she were found entangled with the man who was, by title, her "Second Uncle" in a storage room of the Hayden ancestral home…
She wouldn't survive the scandal.
Amelie bit down hard on her lip, refusing to make even the slightest sound. She barely dared to breathe. Her heart hammered violently in her chest, so loud it felt as though it might betray her at any second.
—
Click.
The sound of the doorknob turning.
Her mind exploded into white noise.
It's over.
But the door didn't open.
Because Christopher had locked it from the inside.
The maid outside seemed to push once, found it unmoving, and gave up.
—
"It's locked. Probably no one inside. Let's go—it must've been my imagination."
The footsteps faded away.
—
The moment danger passed, Amelie's tense body gave out. Her knees nearly buckled, her strength draining all at once.
Christopher felt it immediately.
And instead of easing his grip, he tightened it.
—
The lingering thrill of danger darkened his gaze even further.
"Scared?" he murmured near her ear, his voice hoarse with satisfaction.
His fingers slid upward, reaching for the frog buttons of her high-collared dress.
The instant his cold fingertips brushed her skin, Amelie felt her soul leave her body. Panic overwhelmed her, and she begged through tears, her voice breaking.
"Please… Uncle… don't… not here… please…"
"Not here?" Christopher paused as he undid the first button. "Then where would you prefer?"
The tearful way she addressed him—Uncle—clearly amused him.
He didn't continue unfastening her dress.
But he didn't let her go either.
His hand slipped past her collar instead, the calloused pads of his fingers moving slowly, deliberately along her delicate collarbone—tracing, pressing, marking. There was no tenderness in the gesture, only punishment and possession.
It was as if he were inspecting his territory, reminding her through touch alone that her body had long since been branded by him.
Time dragged on unbearably.
Just when Amelie thought she would suffocate beneath fear and humiliation, he finally released her.
Christopher stepped back. In the darkness, the soft rustle of fabric sounded as he moved.
He reached into the inner pocket of his suit and took out a checkbook and a pen.
By the faint strip of light slipping through the crack beneath the door, he wrote a string of numbers swiftly, tore the check free, and folded it.
Then he closed in again.
Roughly, he pulled open the collar she had just managed to fasten, and shoved the folded check into the edge of her undergarment.
The cold, sharp edge of the paper scraped against her warm skin, sending a sting of humiliation through her chest.
Christopher bent down, his burning lips brushing the shell of her ear. His voice carried lazy satisfaction—and unmistakable contempt.
"Take it and spend it."
"Consider it payment…"
"…for calling me Uncle so sweetly just now."