Chapter 9
(Aria POV)
I tossed the slim black box onto my bed like it might explode.
A phone. A whole damn phone.
Who even does that? Not Ryan, that’s for sure. He’d send a winky-face emoji and think it was suave. But Marcus Hale? He handed me a device like a key to a locked room and said, This is mine. Ours. No one else’s.
The thought made my stomach twist. Half fury, half thrill.
I paced the length of my room, barefoot, hair falling in messy waves from the shower I’d taken to wash off Ryan’s cologne. My tote still smelled like woodsmoke from the restaurant, like when someone laughs too close to your ear. I hated it.
And yet here I was, staring at a brand-new phone like it was a dare.
I peeled the box open. Sleek. Dark. A number already programmed into contacts. Just one. M.
Of course.
I sat on the bed, biting my lip, turning the phone over in my hands. The rules were clear. No games. No bait. Only me.
The defiant part of me wanted to throw it back in his face tomorrow. To prove I couldn’t be controlled, couldn’t be boxed in.
But another part, the one still shivering from his voice, from the heat in his eyes when he said my rules, wanted to play.
I propped the phone on my pillow. Wet hair. Oversized T-shirt. The water from my hair dripped down my shirt and left nothing to the imagination. Bare legs curled beneath me. Nothing glamorous. Nothing staged. Just me, raw and clean.
I snapped a picture. Looked at it. Deleted it.
Tried again. This time I tugged the collar off one shoulder, tilt of light catching skin. A little defiant. A little soft. My thumb hovered over send.
Then his words echoed in my head: Prove you understand who’s in control.
My pulse stuttered. I hit send. The photo disappeared into the quiet black hole of his inbox.
No instant reply. No acknowledgment.
I set the phone down, heart hammering, a thousand questions clawing at me. Did he see it? Did he like it? Did I just hand him more power than I could ever take back?
I curled under the sheets, restless, skin humming like static.
For the first time in days, I wasn’t thinking about anything but Marcus. And the fact that, one photo in, he already owned me.
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(Aria POV)
By noon, I was ready to throw his stupid phone in the trash.
No response. Not a single word. Not even a damn period. He’d seen the photo, I knew he had. It felt like a live wire humming between us. And yet? Nothing.
And worse, he was avoiding me.
Every time I turned, he was suddenly across the pad, directing Jesse on hoses or checking temperatures with the interns. When I walked toward the barrel room, he walked out. When I lingered in the office, he passed straight through like I was invisible.
The only acknowledgment all day was the throb of heat low in my stomach every time I knew he was deliberately not looking at me.
By break, I was furious.
I sat in the shade with my phone, scrolling mindlessly just to keep from marching up to him and shaking answers out of his broad shoulders. That’s when a headline caught my eye; a local feature called, The Hale Legacy: Three Generations of Winemaking.
There was Marcus, unsmiling as always, framed by vines. And beside him—a girl. About my age. Long hair. Jeans. The same girl I’d seen in his office.
Emma Hale. His daughter.
My jaw dropped, cheeks heating with equal parts relief and shame. His daughter. Not a secret girlfriend. Not proof that he was into every young thing who crossed his path.
I exhaled hard, shoulders sagging. God, I was an idiot.
But if she was his daughter, then what the hell was his excuse for freezing me out? For his silence or this distance?
The question burned all afternoon. By the time the crew was hosing down the pad at dusk, I was determined to corner him.
I got my chance when he was stacking clipboards in the office, the last rays of sun burning gold through the window. I slipped in before he could pass by me, heart hammering.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” I accused, blocking the door.
His eyes flicked up, unreadable. “I’ve been working.”
“Bullshit.” My voice cracked, too loud. “You saw my photo, Marcus. You saw it. And then nothing? Not one word? Do you have any idea how…”
He moved before I could finish. One stride, one hand braced against the doorframe beside me, his body close enough that I sucked in my breath.
“Another one tonight,” he murmured, voice low enough it felt like a secret pressed straight to my skin.
My heart lurched. “Another…?”
“Less,” he said simply. The word brushed my ear like smoke.
And then he was gone, pushing past, leaving me against the door with my pulse rattling out of control.
Less. Less what? Less clothes? Less light? Less posing?
The word spun in my head, hot and merciless, all the way home.
I stared at the black phone on my pillow that night, my body lit up like the stars outside.
Less.
God help me, I wanted to find out what he meant.
The black phone sat on my nightstand like a loaded gun. Silent. Waiting.
Another one tonight. Less.
I’d replayed that word in my head all evening. Less what? Less fabric? Less pretense? Less me pretending I wasn’t already his?
By midnight, I was pacing the length of my room, tugging at shirts, trying angles in the mirror like some amateur model. None of it looked right. None of it felt like less.
I dropped onto the bed, groaning into the sheets. “What do you want from me, Marcus?”
The silence, of course, didn’t answer.
Finally, I pulled the curtains wide. Moonlight poured in, silver across the floor. The vines outside were shadows against the hills, the world hushed except for the cricket song through the open window.
I knew what less meant.
My pulse hammered as I pulled my shirt over my head and took off my panties, baring myself to the cold night air. Naked. Skin prickled, nerves alight.
I grabbed the nearest thing from my desk, a half-finished glass of wine I wasn’t even supposed to be drinking. Fitting. I positioned the camera across the room with a timer.
I stood by the window, back to the camera, moonlight washing me pale and bright. I turned at the waist facing the camera, I lifted the glass, tilted it against my chest, covering just enough. Hair falling down my back, every inch of me alive with terror and thrill.
Snap.
The image glowed on the screen. Just me, moonlight, wine, and skin. Less.
My hand shook as I hit send.
The minutes after felt endless. I paced. Sat. Stood again. Checked the screen like a lunatic. Nothing. Then…buzz.
One word.
YES.
My knees nearly gave out. Heat surged low and sharp, my body aching with the force of it. No explanation. No follow-up. Just that single word, raw approval, heavy as a hand against my skin.
I curled into bed, phone clutched against my chest, heart hammering like I’d run a marathon.
Less.
And now, one word later, I knew: he wanted more.