Chapter 25
25
Amelia
There are three kinds of Saturdays.
The first is the mom-frazzled one. Birthday parties, music lessons, school projects, back-to-back logistics with barely enough time to reheat coffee, let alone drink it. You’re basically a PA for a very small, very demanding boss with glitter glue in her hair.
The second is slower, but not easier. Laundry, grocery runs, life admin, maybe some quiet reading time if the universe is feeling generous. You spend it trying to catch up on everything you didn’t do during the week while pretending that counts as rest.
And then there’s the rare third kind.
The unicorn kind.
Where your daughter’s at her dad’s, you’re wearing a red silk dress, and a billionaire with control issues is sending a car to pick you up at nine.
Which, for the record, is practically midnight in mom time. But it’s the first Saturday in weeks that neither of us has our girls, and Gage made it very clear we were going to make the most of it. His words, not mine. Mine were something more like “where are we going?” and “can I wear flats?” To which he replied, “You’ll want heels. And the whole night.”
So, naturally, I’m now standing in my elevator with red silk clinging to my body, my hair falling in soft waves, heels too high, and absolutely no idea where I’m going.
He’s been evasive. All smooth control and just enough silence to make me nervous.
So I’ve decided to punish him the only way I know how.
With this dress.
A slip dress.
Red. Dangerous. Slit to the heavens.
It clings like it’s trying to become one with my body and is made of the kind of fabric that assumes you haven’t eaten carbs since the invention of Instagram. The neckline dips low, the back dips lower. It’s the kind of dress you wear when you’ve lost your mind just enough to think you can handle what comes next.
The elevator opens to the lobby and my doorman does a double take when I walk through. Which, fair, because I never dress like this. His expression is a little “do I need to alert security or just offer a high five?”
Gage’s car is waiting at the curb. His Mercedes-Maybach. Sleek, black, purring like money. It’s not flashy, but it is deliberate. Impossible to ignore. Just like the man who sent it.
Sean, his driver, is standing there in a suit, calm as ever, opening the rear door with a polite nod. He’s driven me before. Usually on one of the occasions Gage and I manage time alone. And at other times, when my schedule gets hectic, Gage quietly assigns him to me. Like I’m too important to be flagging down taxis or walking anywhere. It’s thoughtful. Helpful, even. It’s also peak over-functioning billionaire behavior. I say no. He acts like I’m cute for thinking I have a choice.
I live my life with the mantra “I’ve got this.”
He lives his with “I’ve got you.”
And somewhere in the middle, we brush up against the same need—me, trying to prove I’m fine. Him, proving I don’t have to be.
I slip into the car and settle into one of the back seats, if you can even call them seats. They’re more like leather thrones. Two of them, divided by a center console housing more chrome and tech than I know what to do with.
The interior is dim, quiet, and smells like Gage. That spicy cologne of his that drives me wild. I sit back, cross my legs, and spot the bottle of champagne chilling in its own compartment. A Gage luxury.
I pour a glass and let the bubbles work their magic. I’m not nervous. I’m just existing in that weird limbo where I don’t know where we’re going, haven’t had a second to overthink it—and oops, I’ve accidentally poured myself a second glass.
Twenty minutes later, we slow in front of a building in SoHo.
No signage.
No line.
No crowd.
No hint of what lies behind the door.
Sean gets out, circles the car. Opens my door and says, “Ms. Sinclair.”
My heels hit the pavement, and my hand goes to my stomach. I smooth my dress. And then I see him.
Gage.
He’s dressed in a black suit I’ve not seen before. New. Definitely. And that black shirt he’s paired it with? Lethal. Because hot damn, my man does not like doing up all his buttons or wearing ties, and he knows this is my brand of kryptonite.
He looks like money, danger, and quiet obsession wrapped in control.
And he’s not smiling.
He’s just looking at me like I’m the only thing in his world that matters.
“You look beautiful,” he says, his voice all possessive in that unholy, good-luck-walking-after-this kind of way.
Oh boy.
Holy walking sin.
My core has hijacked the situation like she’s living her best life. I, meanwhile, am not coping with this suit, this man, or that scent of his that may be the actual death of me.
“Jesus.” I throw out. “You’re not even touching me and I’m dissolving into particles.”
He doesn’t laugh. He just watches me. Amused, yes, but it’s the kind of look that promises sinful things later. “Careful, Princess. I haven’t even started yet.”
He barely gives me time to recover from that promise before his arm slides around me, his hand settling at the small of my back as he steers me toward the building.
I stop him. I’m not ready. Not yet. I need a second to gather myself.
I glance up at the building. It blends in the way only the expensive ones do. Restored red brick. Tall iron-framed windows. Discreet uplighting that washes the facade in soft gold.
Somewhere inside, the bass hums low. Not loud. Just enough to feel it in my chest. Like the building has a pulse.
There are two doors.
The first is sleek steel, framed in black, with a small brass plaque etched with a symbol I don’t recognize. A couple walks out as I’m looking at it, flushed and laughing, on their way to the black SUV idling nearby.
The second door is different.
Matte-black steel, flush with the wall.
No plaque. No handle. No visible lock.
This has to be one of Gage’s clubs.
I’ve barely processed that thought when he leads me to the second door.
As we approach, a narrow strip of amber light flares to life around the frame. Gage presses his hand to the center, and a digital scanner blooms beneath his fingers.
No clicks. No beeps.
The door unlocks like it knows him.
And then I see it.
Just above the scanner.
A single letter, engraved into the steel in elegant script.
A.
The door opens without a sound.
A hush. A breath. An invitation.
I look at Gage. “What is this place?”
He meets my gaze, and his eyes , they don’t answer the question, they promise the unraveling. “Yours.”
My chest pulls tight, and suddenly, I’m feeling everything all at once. The mystery. The anticipation. The weight of that single letter on the door. And the way he says “yours” like he’s placing a precious gift in my hands.
And then he steps inside, holding the door open for me, inviting me into this part of his life.
We walk down a hallway cloaked in shadow and intention. Black walls, lit by a candle-warm glow, and a hush so complete it feels like the air itself is holding its breath. And the scent? It’s mine . My favorite perfume, diffused so delicately it doesn’t announce itself, just exists here. Like it’s always lived here.
An elevator is at the end of the hallway. The doors are sleek brushed steel. No buttons. Just a small screen that lights up for Gage. It recognizes him. And then we’re stepping inside.
The lights are low and warm. The walls, mirrored. And holy shit. The music playing is a piano piece I composed a few weeks ago. Quiet, aching, never meant for anything but my own therapy.
Gage doesn’t say a word. But he’s watching me. And for once, I don’t have any rambled words for him. Not when my brain is working faster than it ever has to take all of this in.
We reach our destination, and his hand comes to my back again. Gentle but guiding, and we walk out of the elevator into a room.
I feel it before I’ve even taken my first step.
The change in temperature.
The sensory explosion of color, scent, touch, sound.
The depth of the gift.
I walk further in. The air is warm, like this room expects you to take your clothes off and stay awhile. My perfume is here too. Familiar and personal. It weaves around me, tells my deeper parts that this is my space. Because, of course, what my perfume clings to is mine.
The music in this room isn’t something I composed. But it feels like it could be. Low, intimate, layered in strings and seduction and heat.
And then there’s the red.
Not lipstick red. Not lingerie red. This is deeper. Darker. Richer. A crimson you don’t wear; you sink into. It’s in the velvet of the blanket on the chaise. In the low-lit corners. In the faintest tint of light cast across the mirrors’ edges. It doesn’t scream. It hums.
The amber lighting continues into this room. A soft spotlight highlights the chaise. Candles flicker. Shadows dance. My skin glows under it like it’s been waiting for this specific hue all its life.
Amber says you’re safe here .
Red says you won’t leave the same .
And together, they say this room was built to worship.
I trail my hand along surfaces as I walk through the room, fingertips skimming over velvet, silk, cool leather, steel. Over the hanging velvet robe that has my initials embroidered in silver on the pocket. Over furniture that looks functional. Very much not the kind you’d find in a living room.
There’s a bench that’s low and padded, with shaped curves and straps that make my brain spin. A tall chair that’s less about sitting and more about watching—luxurious, oversized, the kind of throne a man like Gage would sit in while turning me inside out with just his eyes.
Mirrors are everywhere. A tall one behind the throne, which means if I’m watching him touch himself, I can see both him and me watching. A low angled mirror near the chaise for a voyeuristic perspective from below. Panels of mirrored shelving reflecting the sensual toys. Horizontal mirrors positioned near furniture for viewing pleasure. And a mirror stretched across the ceiling above the chaise—the room centerpiece—its edges kissed with that same deep crimson light.
But tucked between the kink and the luxury, the Gage of it all?
There’s me.
Photos. Not blown up and framed like a trophy. No. He’s scattered framed photos of me on the walls, tucked between shelves and candles and mirrors like pages from a secret journal. Three in this corner. Two over there. Single photos every now and then. Photos he’s taken when I wasn’t aware or have simply forgotten. He’s caught me mid-laugh, hair wild, happiness all over my face. Shots taken from behind while I’m playing the piano. The tiny moments in life where I’m just being me, all seen through his eyes.
Then, leaning in close, I see the thin brass strip, mounted to the wall. A single bar of music etched into it. It’s mine. One of my favorite progressions, one I never finished, but he must have heard me play a dozen times.
Near that, I spot pages of my sheet music. My handwriting scribbled all over, splattered with coffee stains, corners curled. Discarded drafts. Things I threw out because they weren’t perfect. Gage saved them.
I move to the last shadowed alcove and still.
A black velvet box hangs on the wall, lit by soft light. Inside it, resting with care, is a single ivory piano key.
I turn into Gage, who is still just watching me without a word. “You did all this?”
It’s not even a question I need answered. I know he did. But I ask anyway. Because I’m standing in a room that feels like a sanctuary where nothing is random and everything means something, and I am not okay .
He nods. “You said you wanted a room.”
I stare at him.
Blink.
Forget how to breathe.
I’m over here in sensory and emotional overload, thoughts in a tangle, emotions in whatever is more than a tangle, and he’s just over there saying, “You said you wanted a room,” like he just shrugged at my request and thought to himself, okay, I’ll take a crack at it, see what I can build.
“Okay,” I blurt as I fling an arm at the room, “ this isn’t a room. This is so much more than a room, Gage. This is”—I struggle to find the words as I glance around—“chaises, and mirrors, and leather, and silk, and velvet, and candles, and mood lighting, and color, and my music that I don’t even know how you got, and my perfume.” I stop to catch my breath, finding his eyes again, and slowing all the way down at what I see there. At the look that I don’t feel ready to name yet, but, oh god , I feel it too. All of it.
“This is,” I continue, but the words get caught in my throat.
This could have just been a kink room. Just a fantasy space.
But it’s not.
It’s personal.
Every detail tells me he’s been paying attention.
He didn’t just build a space to fuck me in.
He built a space for me to find out what I want.
To explore.
To experience.
To feel safe in.
To come undone with him, not just for him.
“This is a love letter,” I whisper.
He moves into me, one hand sliding into my hair, the other skimming my jaw with a touch that says, I see you. I built this for you. I’d build more.
“This room’s yours,” he says, gravel-rough and tightly leashed. “Every chair, every inch of velvet, every goddamn camera. I’ll fuck you in it any way you want, but first, I want to watch you forget the world exists. Forget the rules you’ve been living by. And figure out what you want, when the only thing that matters is what sets you on fire.”
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t crowd me.
Doesn’t push.
This isn’t the Gage who backs me into walls or kisses like he’s starving.
This is the Gage who builds temples and waits at the altar.
And god help me, I think this version might ruin me even faster.
His thumb grazes along my jaw. “There’s an app for your phone. It controls the cameras. It’s yours. You’re the only one who sees what’s filmed in here unless you choose to share it. You decide when we hit record. You keep the key.” A beat. A breath. “You don’t have to set foot in the club unless you want to. The private entrance is yours now. I’ll add your hand to the scanner.” His eyes hold mine, fierce and steady as a vow. “I might take your body apart in this room, Amelia, but you own every second of it.”
My fingers fist into his shirt like it might tether me to reality, but nothing can ground me now. Not with this man saying things like that in a room he built to worship me in.
He’s cracked me wide open.
I am bare skin and heartbeat and surrender.
And I need his lips on mine right now more than I need oxygen.
My hand is around his neck before I’ve even taken another breath.
Our mouths collide, passion sparking so intensely my body is fire.
Gone is the Gage who was able to restrain himself. Now, he’s devouring me.
Hands gripping, tongues tangling, control unraveling with every breath.
His jacket hits the floor. Then his shirt.
Heat rolls off him like this isn’t just about sex. It’s about me. About us. About everything that hasn’t been said out loud yet.
His hands find the skin beneath the slit in my dress, possessive, and just shy of indecent. And then I’m in his arms, legs wrapping around him. I grab his mouth again like I’ll fall apart without it, my fingers gripping his face hard, claiming him as mine.
Somehow, he gets us to the chaise without breaking the kiss, without loosening his hold on me, without letting go of that raw, hungry need that’s been thrumming between us since I stepped out of his car.
He lowers me slowly to the ground, carefully, like my body’s sacred.
And then he pulls back, just a little, his breath heavy against my mouth. The look in his eyes tells me he’s holding himself in check by sheer will alone.
“Fuck,” he rasps. “I’m trying to be gentle, but you make me lose my fucking mind.”
“I don’t need gentle.”
“I know you don’t. But tonight, I want to take my fucking time.”
His fight for control is everything .
It says I make it nearly impossible for him to keep his hands to himself, his mouth to himself, his body to himself.
It says I have that kind of power over him.
And while I never want power over Gage, knowing I have it, knowing he would fall to his knees for me? It’s the most devastating kind of intimacy I’ve ever felt.
He turns and walks to a smooth panel in the wall, so discreet I wouldn’t have known it was anything, and presses his thumb to it. A hidden drawer opens, revealing a slim black jewelry box he lifts with care.
By the time he comes back to me, something’s shifted in him. His eyes are locked on me, molten and focused, and the look on his face? It’s not just heat. It’s hunger wrapped in intention.
My breath catches. My pulse stumbles.
Holy hell .
I’m going to need a minute.
But Gage isn’t giving me a minute.
No, this man is on a mission to completely wreck me tonight.
He opens the box, revealing a necklace.
It’s solid. A sleek, unbroken circle of polished silver. Minimal and modern. There’s no clasp. No chain. No visible hinge. I can’t even see how someone’s supposed to open it.
Nestled in the center of the box is a small silver pendant that’s circular, diamond-set, and obscenely elegant. The channel-set stones catch the light, and the rounded bale is designed to slide perfectly onto the necklace.
It’s understated luxury. And while it’s unlike anything I’ve ever worn, I’d wear this in a heartbeat. Not because it’s stunning and different, but because my heart already wants it. How could it not, when Gage is the one who chose it?
I lift my gaze to him, overwhelmed and a little undone, and suddenly unsure how to put any of it into words. “It’s stunning.”
Gage is watching me with silent intensity. When he speaks, his voice is rough. “Do you know what it is?”
I look down at the box again, searching for what I’ve missed because holy heck that intensity vibrating from him tells me it’s something important. “A necklace?”
“No.” His voice is quiet. Weighted in the way a man’s voice is when he’s handing you his soul. “It’s an eternity collar.” He lets that hang there, thick with meaning. “It doesn’t come off unless I unlock it.”
My mouth parts, but no words come out.
Because this ?
This is not a casual offer.
This is Gage Black handing me the keys to the kingdom of his obsession and saying, here, wear it around your neck where everyone can see who you belong to.
A rational woman might blink at saying yes to this after two months. Might think this is too much, too soon. But I am not that woman. Not with him.
I feel this man in my veins.
And if I’ve learned anything since the moment he first backed me into a wall and claimed me, it’s that time knows nothing about connection.
I’ve felt the way he’s handled my body like it’s a gift, and my heart like it’s breakable.
I’ve seen the way he listens when I don’t even know I’m speaking, and the way he knows what I need before I do.
And when the world came for me, he didn’t flinch.
So, no, this might not look rational from the outside. But love rarely does.
And if this collar means what I think it means?
I want it.
God, I want it.
I lift my chin just enough.
Find his eyes.
“Put it on me.”
The moment I say it, his eyes flare.
It’s not desire.
It’s not possession.
It’s devotion.
He lifts the collar from the box slowly, like it’s precious. Sacred. Then he steps behind me, his body close. One of his hands moves my hair aside, careful not to rush. Then he fits the collar gently around my throat, cool silver meeting warm skin.
I shiver. Not from the cold. From everything this means.
“You sure?” he murmurs, and even though he’s asking, I feel every ounce of his need for me to say yes.
I touch the collar. “Yes,” I whisper.
He doesn’t speak again. Just fastens the collar with the tiny tool. And when it’s secured, he kisses the back of my neck, his lips taking their time with my skin.
I feel everything that kiss says.
You’re mine, and I’ll spend the rest of my life proving I deserve you.
He turns me to him, eyes scanning my face like he’s never going to forget this exact version of me.
Then, his gaze drops to the collar. He trails a finger over it, slow and reverent. Lingers there. “The diamonds are for special occasions unless you want to wear them every day.”
His thumb grazes the edge again, and I swear my man’s going to have trouble taking his eyes off it. “I didn’t think you’d want diamonds every day though.”
“Gage,” I breathe, stepping into him, desperate for the proximity.
His eyes meet mine. My hand finds his jaw. And then my mouth finds his, and I’m kissing him like I need it to live. Like I’m coming out of my skin just to get closer.
This man.
This beautiful, intense, passionate, loving man.
He has stolen my heart clean out of my chest, and I never want it back.