Chapter Ten - Emery
I find him in his office late on Friday night, almost a week after our wedding. The office is a fortress of glass and steel, the city spread out behind him like a kingdom only he is allowed to rule.
He sits at his desk, sleeves rolled, gaze intent on the screen in front of him. He doesn’t look up when I enter, but I know he’s aware—I can always feel when his attention turns to me, even if his face stays unreadable.
I cross my arms, bracing myself. “Why can’t I get into the guest wing anymore?” My voice is calm, but the edge beneath it is impossible to miss. “Since when do I need a guard to leave the penthouse?”
Damien closes his laptop slowly, fingers lacing together on the polished wood. “I made some changes to the security protocols.”
“You made changes,” I echo, each word sharper than the last. “Without telling me. Again.”
He finally looks at me, blue eyes cool, assessing. “It was necessary.”
“Says you.” I force myself to hold his gaze. “You don’t get to decide what’s necessary for me. You don’t get to shrink my world one hallway at a time and pretend you’re doing me a favor.”
His face is perfectly controlled, but I can see the faintest flicker of impatience at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re still safe,” he says. The words land with the finality of a locked door.
“That’s not the point,” I snap, my arms tightening around myself. “You’re making it smaller and smaller. I’m not even allowed to handle my own emails without someone watching over my shoulder now.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Your work is sensitive. We can’t afford mistakes.”
“We?” The laugh that escapes me is short and humorless. “There is no ‘we,’ Damien. There’s you, and there’s me, and then there are the rules you change whenever you feel like it.”
He sits back, studying me with that terrifying patience that makes me want to throw something just to see him react. “Your access is restricted for your own protection. I’m not interested in debating it.”
“I’m not interested in being protected at the expense of every shred of freedom I have left.” My voice is quieter now, but no less fierce. “Safety without choice isn’t safety. It’s a prison. You didn’t even ask me.”
For a second, silence stretches between us. The light from the windows pools on the floor, bright and cold. I force myself to breathe, refusing to let him see how much this gets to me.
He breaks the stillness first, his tone calm but edged. “I make these decisions because I have to. I can’t let anything happen to you.”
“Can’t, or won’t?” I push, frustration rising. “You’re so focused on control that you don’t care who gets crushed underneath it, not even me.”
His jaw tics, but he doesn’t raise his voice. “You’re here because I want you here, Emery. That hasn’t changed.”
“No,” I say, voice steady, “I’m here because you decided it was convenient. Because you could. I don’t get a say in any of it. Not really.”
He leans forward, elbows on the desk, eyes locked on mine. “Do you want to leave? Is that it?”
The question, so blunt, makes me stumble. “I want to choose what matters to me. I want to decide what risks I’m willing to take. You act like you’re protecting me, but you’re just keeping me under your thumb.”
He studies me for a long moment, silent and unmoving. I see something shift in his eyes—a flare of challenge, of something he won’t name. “You know the world isn’t safe, Emery. Not for you, not now. You saw too much, you know too much.”
“You think you can keep me safe by locking every door, watching every move?” I shake my head. “You’re just making me disappear, Damien. Bit by bit. I can’t breathe in here anymore.”
The air between us feels sharp, all edges and unsaid things.
We circle each other with words, careful not to yell, careful not to show how deeply we’re affected.
I see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tighten on the desk.
He sees the stubborn set of my jaw, the tears burning at the backs of my eyes that I refuse to let fall.
“You don’t trust me,” I say finally, soft but certain.
He doesn’t blink. “I don’t trust anyone.”
The admission lands between us, both shield and confession. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The city blurs behind him, bright and unreachable.
“I can’t live like this,” I say, quieter than before. “Not forever.”
He stands, slow and deliberate, crossing the space between us.
For a heartbeat, I think he might touch me—might try to make this better with hands instead of words.
But he just stands there, close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to remind me that every inch of this place, every rule, is his.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he says, voice softer but no less iron. “That’s all you need to know.”
I look up at him, searching his face for the man who let me be, just for a night. For the man who stepped back instead of taking what he could. I see only steel now, and it scares me more than anything else.
“You don’t get to decide what I need,” I say. My voice is thin but unbroken.
He steps back, something unreadable flickering through his eyes. “Maybe not. But I will anyway.”
I watch him turn away, heart pounding, and realize this is our battleground now—a game of move and countermove, neither of us willing to give an inch, both of us desperate not to lose ourselves in the process. I won’t let him shrink me to fit his cage.
I don’t know if I have the strength to break out, either.
He returns to his desk, the conversation closed but far from finished. I stand there, breath shallow, knowing I’ve scored a point but also lost something I can’t name.
The sun shifts, shadows stretching over marble and glass, and I remind myself: I am not just a problem to be managed.
I want to end the conversation, but the energy in the room won’t let me. I turn away from his desk, jaw tight, determined not to let him see how much he’s gotten under my skin. I move quickly, needing space, needing the illusion of freedom even if it’s only down a hallway I still have access to.
The penthouse is a cage in more ways than one—wide open and yet full of choke points, corners where our worlds collide.
As I move toward the kitchen, Damien follows, his footsteps measured, deliberate. He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his focus, the tension radiating off him like heat.
In the narrow stretch between the kitchen counter and the glass wall, we meet—too close, nowhere to go but past each other.
I try to slip by, but my shoulder brushes his chest, solid and unyielding.
The contact jolts through me, a flash of awareness that makes my cheeks burn.
I try to push past, but he shifts, blocking my exit without effort.
“Move,” I say, trying for steady, but it comes out breathless.
He doesn’t move. Instead, his hand shoots out, catching my wrist just as I start to step away. His grip is firm but not painful, his fingers warm against my skin. The touch is possessive, lingering. My pulse hammers in my throat. I yank my arm, but he doesn’t release me right away.
“Let go, Damien,” I snap, heat in my voice that isn’t just anger.
He holds my gaze for a moment, searching, then finally lets go—slowly, almost reluctantly. My skin tingles where his fingers were. I hate how much I notice it, how much I wish he hadn’t stopped.
As I rub my wrist, I spit out, “You do this on purpose, don’t you? You like getting a reaction out of me. You like pushing until I snap.”
He studies me, eyes cool, mouth unreadable. “You never back down,” he says quietly. “Not with me.”
His voice is soft but weighted, the kind of honesty that lands like a stone. It’s not a denial—it’s almost a compliment. The silence stretches, filled with unspoken challenges.
I try to move again, but he steps closer, reaching past me for something on the counter—a glass, a napkin, I can’t even tell.
Suddenly I’m trapped, his body boxing me in, my back pressed to the cool edge of the countertop.
He’s so close I can feel his breath on my cheek, the line of his body solid against mine.
For a heartbeat, we don’t argue. We just exist in the space between action and intent.
The air grows thick, charged. My anger flares and then fizzles into something stranger, sharper. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. Neither of us says a word.
He doesn’t touch me, but the nearness is overwhelming. My heart slams in my chest, my hands trembling at my sides. I want to shove him away, to break the tension, but I also want… God, I want him to stay there, just for a moment longer.
The silence is so heavy it’s almost unbearable. He leans in, and for a second I think he’ll kiss me.
Then, with deliberate control, he steps back, creating a gulf between us. The loss of heat is immediate and stinging.
He clears his throat, setting whatever he grabbed on the counter. His face is composed, but there’s something stormy in his eyes. I cling to the countertop, breath coming shallow and fast, feeling the aftershock of almost—almost—letting go.
He turns and leaves the kitchen without another word, his footsteps slow, measured. I sag against the counter, willing my hands to steady, my mind to clear.
The echo of him, the ghost of his nearness, lingers in my body.
I stare at my reflection in the darkened window. I don’t see anger anymore. I see confusion, want, and a desperate need to make sense of the way he’s gotten inside my head.
Our fights used to be about boundaries, about autonomy, about refusing to be broken. Now they’re something else. Every clash is a circuit completed, an electric spark I both dread and crave.
I realize, to my horror, that I’m starting to look forward to his arguments, his provocations—because they mean he sees me, feels me, wants a reaction from me.
It’s no longer just about control. It’s about intimacy, about the way he gets under my skin and pulls feelings out of me I can’t suppress. Each confrontation leaves me shaken, breathless, aware of every inch of space between us—or the lack of it.
I close my eyes, fighting the heat in my cheeks, the shiver in my spine. I tell myself it’s just stress, just proximity. I tell myself I hate him for it.
The truth is sharper, more dangerous: I’m starting to crave the way he pushes me, the way he corners me, the way his gaze strips me bare.
That loss of control frightens me more than anything else he’s done. Because if I can’t hold on to myself, if I start to want the power he wields over me, what’s left of the person I used to be?
What happens when I stop fighting entirely?
For a long moment, I stand there, letting the fear and the hunger battle it out in my chest. Then, with shaking hands, I pour myself a glass of water and force myself to breathe, to remember who I am.
All I can feel is the ghost of his hand on my wrist, and the memory of a silence so charged it might as well have been a kiss.