Chapter 4: The Morning After

Elara woke to emptiness.

The bed was a vast expanse of charcoal silk sheets that still held the faint scent of Damien's cologne—something dark and expensive that made her think of boardrooms and power plays. She stretched languidly, her body deliciously sore in places that reminded her of the night before. The floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a city bathed in golden morning light, and for a moment, she simply lay there absorbing the surreal luxury of it all.

But Damien was gone.

She sat up, pushing her tangled hair back from her face as she scanned the minimalist bedroom. No note on the nightstand, no indication of where he might have gone or when he'd left. The silence in the penthouse was absolute, broken only by the whisper of climate-controlled air and the distant hum of traffic far below.

A flutter of something—disappointment? unease?—stirred in her chest. After the intensity of their connection, the raw passion that had consumed them both, she'd expected... what? Morning coffee together? Gentle kisses and whispered endearments?

Get a grip, she told herself firmly. This was exactly what you wanted—no strings, no complications, just pure intensity.

So why did the empty bed feel like a rejection?

She padded naked across the polished concrete floor to the ensuite bathroom, another study in stark luxury with its marble surfaces and rainfall shower. Under the scalding spray, she tried to wash away the lingering confusion. One night of incredible sex didn't entitle her to anything—certainly not to expectations of romance from a man who clearly lived by his own rules.

When she emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel that probably cost more than her monthly rent, she found something that made her stop short.

Laid out on the bed with precise care was a dress. Not her rumpled black number from last night—that had disappeared entirely—but something new. The garment was elegant in its simplicity: a sleeveless sheath in deep navy that would hit just above her knees, with clean lines that whispered expensive designer rather than screaming it.

Beside it lay matching heels in soft leather, and a small clutch that looked like it had never seen the inside of a discount store. But it was the note tucked beneath the dress that made her breath catch.

Wear this. My driver is waiting. —D

No explanation. No please or thank you. Just a command, delivered with the kind of casual authority that suggested he was accustomed to immediate obedience.

Elara stared at the note for a long moment, something prickly and rebellious stirring in her chest. Who was he to dictate what she wore? To assume she would simply follow his instructions like some kind of doll?

But even as her mind protested, her hands were already reaching for the dress. The fabric was like liquid silk between her fingers, and when she held it up to herself in the mirror, she had to admit it was gorgeous. More than gorgeous—it was perfect, as if it had been made specifically for her body.

How does he even know my size?

The thought was unsettling, implying a level of observation and planning that went beyond their spontaneous encounter. Had he been watching her longer than she'd realized? Studying her?

The dress fit like it had been tailored for her, skimming her curves without clinging, professional enough for daytime but with subtle details that hinted at sensuality. The shoes were equally perfect, and she found herself wondering exactly how much this outfit had cost. More than she made in a month, certainly. Possibly more than she made in several months.

Her reflection looked back at her from the mirror—polished, expensive, like someone who belonged in penthouses and private restaurants. It was her face, her body, but somehow it felt like looking at a stranger.

The elevator ride to the lobby gave her time to think, to question what she was doing. She should demand to be taken home, should insist on wearing her own clothes and maintaining her own independence. Instead, she found herself following the note's instructions with an obedience that was both thrilling and deeply unsettling.

The driver was waiting exactly as promised—not a taxi or rideshare, but a sleek black sedan with tinted windows. The man behind the wheel was professionally invisible, greeting her with a respectful nod but no conversation. As the car glided through the city streets, Elara tried to guess their destination. Her apartment? The university? Some business meeting she was supposed to attend as Damien's... what? Date? Accessory?

None of her guesses prepared her for where they actually stopped.

The boutique was tucked into a tree-lined street in the most expensive shopping district, its understated exterior giving no hint of the luxury within. No neon signs or flashy displays—just a simple glass door with elegant lettering that she was certain cost more than most people's cars.

"This is your stop, miss," the driver said, his first words of the journey.

Elara stared at the boutique's pristine facade, confusion warring with a growing sense of unease. "Are you sure? I think there's been a mistake—"

"No mistake. Mr. Blackwood is expecting you."

Before she could protest further, the driver was out of the car, opening her door with the same professional efficiency. She found herself standing on the sidewalk, clutch in hand, as the sedan pulled away into traffic.

The boutique's door chimed softly as she entered, and immediately she was enveloped in an atmosphere of hushed luxury. The space was all cream marble and soft lighting, with carefully curated displays of garments that probably required a second mortgage to purchase. Classical music played at barely audible levels, and the air held the faint scent of expensive perfume.

"Miss Vance?" A woman materialized from the back of the store—tall, elegant, with the kind of ageless beauty that spoke of expensive maintenance. "I'm Helena. Mr. Blackwood is waiting for you in the private suite."

Of course he was.

Helena led her through a maze of silk and cashmere to a door marked 'Private' in the same elegant script as the store's signage. Beyond it lay a world within a world—a spacious room with plush seating, champagne chilling in a crystal bucket, and mirrors positioned to catch every angle.

And there, standing with his back to her as he examined a selection of evening gowns, was Damien.

He'd changed from the rumpled clothes of the night before into another perfectly tailored suit, this one charcoal gray that made his dark eyes look almost black. His hair was still damp from the shower, slicked back with mathematical precision, and when he turned to face her, his smile was utterly confident.

"Perfect," he said, his gaze traveling over her new outfit with obvious approval. "I knew that color would bring out your eyes."

"What is this?" Elara asked, gesturing at the opulent room around them. "What are we doing here?"

"Shopping." He said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You'll need a proper wardrobe."

"For what?"

His smile widened, and there was something predatory in it that made her pulse quicken despite her confusion. "For being mine."

The possessive word sent heat spiraling through her, but she forced herself to focus. "I have clothes. I have a perfectly good wardrobe."

"You have student clothes," he corrected, moving closer with that fluid grace that reminded her of a stalking panther. "Cute, certainly. Perfectly adequate for university. But you're going to be spending time in my world now, and that requires... upgrades."

"Your world?" The words came out sharper than she'd intended, but something about his casual assumption was setting her teeth on edge. "What makes you think I want to be part of your world?"

He stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she could smell his cologne again, could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. When he reached out to cup her cheek, his touch was gentle but somehow still commanding.

"Because you're here," he said simply. "Because you put on the dress I left for you, got in the car I sent, and walked through that door. If you truly wanted nothing to do with my world, you'd be on a bus back to your dormitory right now."

The truth of it hit her like a slap. He was right—she had followed his instructions, had allowed herself to be led here like a lamb to slaughter. But what did that make her? Compliant? Weak?

Or just smart enough to recognize an opportunity when she saw one?

"This is temporary," she said, though the words felt hollow even to her own ears. "Whatever this is between us, it's just—"

"Just what?" His thumb stroked across her lower lip, and she had to fight not to part her lips, not to draw that digit into her mouth the way she had the night before. "Just incredible chemistry? Just the best sex of your life? Just the feeling that you've finally found someone who can match your intensity?"

Each word hit its mark with devastating precision, and Elara felt her carefully constructed defenses crumbling. Because he wasn't wrong. What they'd shared had been transcendent, the kind of connection she'd spent years searching for without even realizing it.

"Helena," Damien called without taking his eyes off Elara's face. "Let's begin."

The next hour passed in a blur of silk and satin, of Helena and her assistants draping Elara in garments that cost more than her car. Evening gowns that made her look like a movie star, business attire that screamed competence and class, casual wear that somehow managed to be both comfortable and effortlessly chic.

Through it all, Damien watched with the focused attention of a director staging a play. He rejected some pieces with a subtle shake of his head, approved others with a slight nod, occasionally making suggestions that demonstrated an unsettling knowledge of women's fashion.

"The emerald brings out her eyes," he murmured as Helena held up a cocktail dress that probably cost more than Elara's semester tuition. "But make sure it's tailored properly through the waist. She has an incredible figure—the clothes should enhance it, not hide it."

It was complimentary and possessive in equal measure, and Elara found herself torn between preening under his attention and bristling at his assumptions. When had she agreed to this makeover? When had she consented to being dressed like his personal doll?

But even as she tried to summon righteous indignation, she couldn't deny how good the clothes made her feel. The expensive fabrics caressed her skin like a lover's touch, and in the mirrors surrounding them, she looked powerful, confident, like someone who belonged in boardrooms and galas.

Like someone who could stand beside a man like Damien Blackwood.

"This is too much," she said finally, as Helena's assistants began boxing up what looked like half the store's inventory. "I can't accept all this."

Damien's reflection appeared behind hers in the three-way mirror, his hands settling on her shoulders. Through the glass, they looked like they belonged together—power and beauty, predator and prey.

"You're not accepting anything," he said quietly, his voice pitched for her ears alone. "You're allowing me to dress you properly for the life you're going to be living. There's a difference."

"And what life is that, exactly?"

His smile in the mirror was sharp as a blade. "Mine."