The walls were closing in.
Isabella could feel it—this slow, suffocating pressure that wrapped around her like invisible chains. No matter how hard she tried to ignore it, to convince herself that she still had control over her own life, the truth was undeniable.
She was losing.
Every passing day, Ethan chipped away at her defenses, not with brute force, but with something far more dangerous. Patience.
She had expected him to lash out, to force her into submission like a tyrant. But Ethan wasn't reckless. He didn't demand her love—he waited for it.
And that was so much worse.
Because the more he waited, the more she questioned herself.
She wasn't supposed to feel safe in his presence.
She wasn't supposed to miss him when he wasn't around.
She wasn't supposed to look at him and wonder what it would feel like to belong to him.
But she did.
And it was killing her.
—
Ethan sat across from her at the dining table, his gaze unwavering as she pushed her food around with a fork.
"You're not eating," he observed.
She didn't look up. "Not hungry."
A long pause. Then, "Liar."
Her grip on the fork tightened. "Why do you even care?"
Ethan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Because you're mine."
Her jaw clenched. "I am not yours."
His smirk was slow, infuriating. "You keep saying that, sweetheart, but we both know it's not true."
She slammed the fork down. "You don't own me, Ethan!"
Silence.
Then, without warning, Ethan stood. He didn't rush—there was no aggression in his movements. Just quiet, terrifying certainty.
He walked around the table, stopping behind her chair. She could feel his presence, his warmth. Her breath hitched as he leaned down, his lips grazing the shell of her ear.
"You're free to leave," he whispered.
Her heart stopped.
She turned her head sharply, looking up at him. "What?"
Ethan straightened, his expression unreadable. "You heard me. The door is right there. You want to leave? Go ahead."
Her eyes darted to the entrance of the penthouse. The door stood tall, unmoving.
This was it.
Her chance.
Every muscle in her body screamed at her to get up, to run.
But she didn't.
She couldn't.
Her hands curled into fists on her lap. Why? Why wasn't she moving?
Ethan watched her with an amused expression. "What's wrong, Isabella?" His voice was low, taunting. "I thought you wanted to leave."
She swallowed hard. "I…"
She didn't have an answer.
Because the truth—the ugly, terrifying truth—was that she wasn't sure anymore.
And Ethan knew it.
He stepped closer, his fingers tracing along her jaw. "Say it."
She shook her head, tears burning in her eyes. "You don't win."
Ethan smiled. "Oh, sweetheart. I already have."
—
That night, Isabella lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
She hadn't run.
She had chosen to stay.
And that realization shattered something inside her.
Because she couldn't lie to herself anymore.
She didn't hate Ethan.
She hated the way he made her feel.
She hated that a part of her wanted this—wanted him.
And worst of all…
She wasn't sure she wanted to fight it anymore.