Emma woke to Damien's hand on her waist.
She didn't move. His breathing was normal he was still asleep but his arm had shifted during the night, pulling her closer instead of keeping distance like usual.
She should move. Get up. Create space.
Instead, she stayed.
The sun was barely breaking through the windows. The house was still quiet. In a few hours, staff would move through the halls, breakfast would be served, reality would interrupt whatever this was.
But right now, it was just them.
Damien's eyes opened slowly. He didn't pull away immediately. Just looked at her, assessing, like he was trying to figure out what to say.
"Hi," Emma whispered.
He didn't respond. His hand tightened on her waist instead.
Emma's breath caught. They'd been dancing around this for weeks—sleeping in the same bed, touching carefully, pulling back before anything happened. The contract said no intimacy. But the contract had stopped meaning anything the night she collapsed and he wouldn't leave her side.
"We shouldn't," Damien said, but he didn't move his hand.
"I know."
"The contract"
"I know," Emma repeated.
He stared at her for another moment. Then he shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could see her better. His other hand came up, fingers trailing down her cheek slowly, like he was memorizing the shape of her face.
Emma held her breath.
"This is a mistake," he said quietly.
"Probably."
"You deserve better than this. Better than me."
Emma reached up and grabbed his wrist. "Don't do that. Don't make this about what I deserve. Tell me what you want."
For a long moment, he didn't answer. His eyes searched hers like the answer was written somewhere in them.
"You," he said finally. "I want you."
He kissed her before she could respond.
It was different from the kiss at the gala less desperate, more intentional. His hand moved to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair. Emma's hands found his shoulders, pulling him closer.
When he pulled back to breathe, his forehead rested against hers.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"No," Emma said honestly. "But I want to anyway."
She felt him smile against her skin.
He rolled them over slowly, settling between her legs like he'd been doing this forever. Emma's nightgown—one of the expensive ones from the closet caught between them. Damien pulled back just enough to lift it over her head, tossing it aside.
Then he just looked at her.
"What?" Emma asked, suddenly self-conscious.
"You're beautiful," he said simply. "I don't think I've told you that."
Emma wanted to cry. Instead, she pulled him back down and kissed him harder.
This time, there was no hesitation. No pulling back at the last second. His hands moved across her body with purpose not rough, but confident. He knew exactly where to touch her to make her breath hitch, to make her fingers dig into his shoulders.
Emma reached for the hem of his shirt and he helped her pull it off. She'd seen his chest before—sleeping next to him for days but this was different. This was allowed.
She traced the lines of muscle, feeling the way his breath caught when her fingers brushed certain spots. Power, she realized. Not the kind that came from money or authority. The kind that came from knowing someone wanted you this badly.
"Tell me if you want to stop," Damien said against her neck.
"I don't."
"Say it anyway. If you want to stop, you tell me."
"Okay," Emma breathed.
He moved slowly sliding into her carefully, checking her face for pain. There was some, a slight stretch she hadn't expected, but mostly there was just the feeling of finally, finally having something she'd been wanting since the day he stood in that office and offered her ten million dollars.
They moved together without much talking after that. Just the sound of breathing, the occasional whispered word, the feeling of his mouth on her shoulder, her collarbone, her neck.
When it was over, they stayed tangled. Damien was heavy on top of her, but she didn't ask him to move. His head was buried in her neck, and she could feel his heartbeat slowly returning to normal.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
"For what?"
"For everything. For this place. For letting them hurt you. For"
Emma put her hand over his mouth. "Don't. Don't apologize for this."
He lifted his head to look at her. "The contract said so "
"I don't care about the contract anymore," Emma said. "Do you?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he shook his head slowly.
"No," he admitted. "I don't."
They lay there as the sun got higher, as the house woke up around them. At some point, Emma heard footsteps in the hallway and tensed, but Damien just pulled her closer and didn't let her go.
Later, when they finally had to get up, Damien caught her hand before she could leave the bed.
"This doesn't change the contract terms," he said. "You still get the money. Still have your own account. Still have the exit."
"Okay," Emma said, not sure why he was saying this.
"But I don't want you to use it."
Emma looked at him. "Damien"
"I know. It's not my choice. It's yours." He squeezed her hand. "I'm just asking. Don't leave."
Emma didn't know what to say. So she kissed him instead.
When Claire showed up that afternoon with coffee and her usual friendly smile, something in Emma had shifted. She watched Claire's eyes land on the marks on her neck—the ones Damien had left and saw something flash across Claire's face before the smile returned.
Something that looked like rage.
But when Emma blinked, it was gone.