17
── ? ──
EVANDER
She's been living in the penthouse for two weeks.
Officially. Permanently. I had Marcus move her things from the scholarship housing—the few belongings she owned fit into two duffel bags—and set up the guest bedroom adjacent to my office.
Private bathroom. Walk-in closet that's mostly empty except for her worn jeans and oversized sweaters. Everything she needs.
Everything except freedom.
She arrives at my office every morning at 5:55 AM. Exactly on time. Not a minute early, not a second late. Brings me coffee—black, no sugar, no cream, temperature perfect. Sets it on my desk without a word. Sits down at her desk and begins whatever task I assigned the night before.
She works efficiently. Flawlessly. Every file alphabetized. Every document organized. Every email drafted with professional precision.
She eats when I tell her to eat. The meals I have catered appear at designated times—breakfast at 7 AM, lunch at noon, dinner at 7 PM. She sits at the small dining table, picks at whatever's in front of her, consumes exactly enough to survive, and then returns to work.
She sleeps when I tell her to sleep. Retires to her bedroom at 10 PM. Emerges at 5:45 AM. I know because I've checked the security feeds. She lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, not sleeping but not moving either. Just… existing.
She does everything I tell her to do.
And it's driving me fucking insane.
Because the Aurora Lane sitting at that desk right now—working quietly, head down, shoulders slightly hunched—isn't the girl I trapped.
Isn't the fighter who told me to walk around her in the courtyard.
Who stabbed my notebook with a metal pen.
Who kissed me with furious desperation in that locker room.
This Aurora is a ghost. A hollow shell performing the motions of compliance while the actual person has retreated somewhere I can't reach.
I wanted submission. I got obedience.
I wanted control. I got automation.
I wanted her. I got… this.
She hasn't spoken a full sentence to me in two weeks. Every response is clipped. Minimal. "Yes, Evander." "Of course." "Right away." "I understand."
No arguments. No insults. No fire.
Just compliance wrapped in absolute, suffocating silence.
I'm sitting at my desk, pretending to review quarterly reports while actually watching her from the corner of my eye. She's typing something on her laptop—notes for Political Theory, probably. Her movements are mechanical. Precise. Empty.
"Take a break," I say.
She stops typing immediately. Saves her document. Closes the laptop. Folds her hands in her lap. Waits.
Doesn't ask what I want. Doesn't question the order. Just… stops. Because I told her to.
"Are you hungry?" I ask.
"No, Evander."
"When's the last time you ate?"
She glances at the clock. "Lunch. Six hours ago."
"You barely touched your lunch."
"I ate enough."
"That's not what I asked." My voice hardens. "I asked when you last ate. Actually ate. Not picked at food and pushed it around your plate."
"Yesterday's dinner." Her tone doesn't change. Flat. Emotionless. "I had the pasta. It was very good. Thank you for ordering it."
The polite gratitude makes my jaw clench. Because it's fake. Performed. She doesn't care about the pasta or my consideration or anything except getting through this conversation so she can return to work.
"You're losing weight," I observe.
"I'm eating sufficiently to maintain health."
"That's not the same as eating enough."
"I'll eat more at dinner if you'd like."
If I'd like. Like her basic survival is something she's offering me as a courtesy.
I stand up abruptly. My chair rolls backward, hits the wall. "Come here."
She stands. Walks over. Stops exactly three feet away—the distance she's calculated as close enough to be obedient but far enough to avoid casual touch.
"Closer," I say.
She takes two steps. Now she's within arm's reach.
I grab her wrist. Pull her hand toward me. Her skin is cold. Her pulse is steady. No spike. No reaction. Just… nothing.
"When's the last time you felt anything?" I ask quietly.
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Anger. Fear. Sadness. Anything." My grip tightens slightly. Still not hurting. Just trying to provoke a response. "When's the last time you felt something instead of just going through the motions?"
"I feel things," she says. Her voice is perfectly modulated. Professional. "I feel gratitude for the opportunity to attend Ardencrest. I feel relief that Liam is safe. I feel—"
"Stop." I release her wrist. "Stop performing. Stop giving me the answers you think I want to hear."
"I'm not performing." She meets my eyes. And that's the worst part—she does look at me when asked. Maintains eye contact. Responds to every command. "I'm simply answering your questions honestly."
"Honestly." I laugh. Harsh. Bitter. "You haven't been honest with me since you signed those papers."
"The papers required honesty. I signed them honestly."
She's right. The new terms I gave her—the ones she signed without reading, without negotiating—included a clause requiring truthful responses to direct questions. It's why I can ask her anything and she has to answer.
But truth and honesty aren't the same thing. She answers every question with technically accurate information while revealing absolutely nothing.
"Sit down," I say.
She returns to her desk. Reopens her laptop. Resumes typing.
I watch her for another minute. Waiting for something. Anything. A sigh of frustration. A glance in my direction. Some small sign that she's aware of me as anything other than an obstacle to work around.
Nothing.
"It's dinner time," I announce.
She saves her work. Closes the laptop. Stands. Walks to the dining table and sits in her designated chair.
The catered meal arrives exactly on schedule—Marcus's efficiency. Tonight it's salmon, roasted vegetables, wild rice. Expensive. Nutritious. Prepared by a chef who charges more per meal than most people spend on groceries in a month.
Aurora picks up her fork. Takes a small bite of salmon. Chews. Swallows. Sets the fork down.
"Eat more," I say from my desk.
She picks up the fork again. Takes another small bite. Another. Mechanical. Joyless. Like she's completing a task on a checklist.
I can't watch this anymore.
I stand up. Cross to the dining table. Sit down across from her.
She doesn't react. Just keeps eating in those small, measured bites.
"Look at me," I say.
She does. Her eyes are brown. Warm. But there's nothing behind them right now. No emotion. No spark. Just… empty.
"Tell me what you're thinking."
"I'm thinking this salmon is cooked perfectly." Her voice is pleasant. Conversational. "The seasoning is excellent. I should probably eat more vegetables."
"Aurora—"
"Would you like me to eat faster? I can adjust my pace if you find it too slow."
"I want you to stop acting like a fucking robot!" The words come out louder than I intended. Harsher.
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't react at all. Just sets her fork down carefully and folds her hands in her lap.
"I apologize if my behavior is unsatisfactory. Please tell me what you'd like me to do differently and I'll adjust accordingly."
I grab my water glass. Slam it down on the table hard enough to shatter. Glass explodes across expensive wood. Water spreads in a pool. A shard cuts my palm—sharp, immediate pain.
Aurora's eyes track the movement. Register the blood. Then return to my face.
"Are you hurt?" she asks. Polite. Concerned. Empty. "Should I get the first-aid kit?"
"I want you to fucking react!" I'm shouting now. Standing. Leaning across the table. "I want you to get angry! Tell me to go to hell! Throw something at me! Do anything except sit there like a goddamn doll!"
"I understand you're frustrated." Her tone doesn't change. "Is there something specific I can do to alleviate that frustration?"
I stare at her. At this stranger wearing Aurora's face. Using Aurora's voice. Occupying Aurora's body.
"Where did you go?" I ask quietly.
"I'm right here."
"No, you're not." I reach across the table. Cup her face. Force her to maintain eye contact. "The Aurora I fought with, argued with, kissed—where is she?"
"You didn't want that Aurora." She doesn't pull away from my touch. Doesn't lean into it either. Just tolerates it. "You wanted compliance. Submission. Obedience. That's what you're receiving."
"I wanted you."
"You have me." She reaches up. Gently removes my hand from her face. "Completely. Mind, body, and soul. As agreed."
The reminder of her words—the ones I forced her to say while she knelt on my floor—makes something twist in my chest.
"This isn't what I wanted," I say.
"Then tell me what you want and I'll provide it."
"I want you to fight me!"
"Fighting would violate the terms of our agreement." She picks up her fork again. Resumes eating. "I'm not permitted to argue with you, disobey you, or resist your instructions. Those were the conditions you specified."
She's right. Every word of the new contract was designed to establish absolute control. To eliminate defiance. To make rebellion impossible.
I got exactly what I asked for.
And it's destroying me.
I can't be in this room anymore. Can't watch her eat mechanically. Can't listen to that pleasant, empty voice. Can't stand the absence of everything that made her Aurora.
"I'm leaving," I announce abruptly.
She nods. "What time should I expect your return?"
"I don't know. Late. I have a Laurent Global board meeting."
"I'll wait up in case you need anything when you return."
"Don't." I grab my jacket from the back of my chair. "Go to bed at your normal time. I don't need you hovering."
"Of course." She takes another bite of salmon. "Safe travels."
Safe travels. Like I'm going on vacation instead of fleeing my own penthouse because I can't handle what I've created.
I walk out. Slam the door behind me. Take the elevator down to the parking garage.