OWNED

“So when do I get to go home? When do I get off work?” Ava tossed the question out there, but it just hit the wall—flattened, ignored. Figures; she already knew not to push.

The doors thudded shut and—bam—the tension just snapped, like a rubber band too tight for its own good.

Leon’s hand was on her thigh again, this time with zero patience for games.

“You didn’t moan,” he said, voice like a blade in the dark. “Didn’t flinch. Followed every order.”

His gaze locked on hers, pupils blown wide. “So why are your legs shaking now?”

She tried to answer, but her mouth was all frozen. The air felt thick, pressing in, like the car was shrinking around them.

“Seatbelt off.”

Her hands moved before her brain caught up.

He leaned in, close enough that his words tickled her skin. “You sat through an entire power lunch with my fingers between your legs. You know how many women I’ve met who could pull that off?”

She shook her head. “No.”

He smirked. “Exactly one.”

Then his hand slid higher, finding the spot he’d left aching all through lunch.

Ava gasped, clutching the leather seat, her back arching as he touched her—no hesitation, just ruthless accuracy.

“You followed my rules,” he murmured at her throat. “So here’s your reward.”

His fingers circled her, slow and unrelenting, until her thighs were shaking and her head tipped back. He caught her moan with his mouth, swallowing the sound like he owned it.

Maybe he did.

She unraveled in his hand, mouth open, breath coming in shattered bursts, pleasure rolling over her again and again.

He didn’t stop until she was gasping, nails digging into his shoulder, body limp and boneless.

Then he leaned back, licking her taste from his fingers, watching her try to gather herself up off the floor of her own mind.

“Reward’s over,” he said, voice turning ice-cold. “Now we do punishment.”

Her heart stuttered.

“I didn’t disobey—”

“No,” he said, slicing her words in half. “But you questioned me.”

She blinked, stunned.

“You asked when you’d get to go home.”

Ava licked her lips. “I just thought—”

“You don’t think.” His voice cut right through her. “You obey. And for the record? You don’t have a home anymore.”

She stared, her world tilting a little.

Leon leaned in, mouth brushing her ear—a dark promise. “You live with me. You sleep where I say. You exist where I want you.”

Silence crashed down, thick and final.

Then, suddenly, his tone flipped—light, almost teasing. “You’ll like the penthouse. The view’s ridiculous.”

Ava’s heart thudded, but it wasn’t just the afterglow making her pulse race this time.

Something else coiled in her chest—something shadowy.

Was it the way he said it? Or the look in his eyes as they swept into the private garage under Blackwell Tower?

For the first time since she’d signed that contract, she wondered if she’d missed something in the fine print.

Because if Leon Blackwell could be this powerful out there, and this merciless in here—what else was lurking under the surface?

And why did her obedience suddenly feel like it's way more than just pleasure to this man?

Then to her? Maybe a trap. Or a sex cult.

Hell, maybe it was both.

Okay, sex cult sounds funny and out of line but a trap… why would someone like Leon Blackwell target someone like Ava? Maybe it's not that deep, he probably just have a kink.

(Ava's POV)

I dropped into that leather chair—yeah, the kind that probably costs more than my rent. I was trembling, but not just because I was scared. It was heavier than that. His eyes, his presence, that weird psychic pressure of being watched even when he couldn’t be bothered to look at me. You ever feel like silence could strangle you? That’s what Leon Blackwell did best.

He barely said a word for hours. Just kept working, cold and surgical. Calls, memos, meetings—none of them for me, but I could hear his voice slicing through the air, all crisp and in charge.

He didn’t tell me to move. Didn’t offer a magazine or a glass of water. Just left me to marinate in the tension, like I was supposed to remember who owned the room. Who owned me, honestly.

Twice, someone floated in with snacks—fruit, cheese, espresso in cups that looked more like art than dishes. I barely touched any of it. Was I allowed? Was it some kind of test? I had no clue.

By the time the sun dipped, my stomach was a tangled knot of hunger and nerves.

He finally stood, and—pathetic, I know—I got up too, like I was tied to him with invisible string.

He looked me over. “Come.”

No “please,” no “would you mind.” Just come. Like I was a piece of luggage.

And I did.

The car ride to the penthouse was basically a meditation in awkwardness. Just the hum of the engine and, weirdly, his hand finding mine, fingers lacing together. Like it was the most normal thing ever. This, after he’d indirectly threatened to wipe my life off the map that morning. Wild.

Dinner was a quiet, candlelit affair—truffle pasta, wine, all the things you’d expect in a magazine spread, none of which I could taste. He didn’t touch me again. Didn’t have to. His silence was a pressure all on its own.

After the plates disappeared, he stood and crooked a finger. “Up.”

So I followed, because of course I did.

The bathroom he led me to was some kind of luxury temple. Marble everywhere, soft lighting, a tub big enough for a small party, rose petals drifting on the surface. The scent—God, I’d bottle it and drown in it if I could.

He bathed me. Washed me like I was his possession, something precious and breakable.

Wrapped me in towels, walked me down the hall—still naked—into a room that definitely wasn’t his. Apparently, it was mine now.

Or, at least, that’s what he said.

“You’ll sleep here. You’ll be kept here. You’ll wait here when I don’t summon you.”

Kept. The word hit icy, right in my chest.

He swung open the closet—black and red everywhere. Dresses, robes, heels, lingerie that could double as art or armor. He picked out a dress for me—sleek, black, long sleeves. Covered, modest, like I was going to a funeral.

Then came the red lipstick. The ponytail. Those heels with blood-red soles.

I looked in the mirror and… honestly, I didn’t know who was staring back. Someone claimed, that’s for sure.

And maybe I was.

We drove again.

This was a different part of the city—neon lights, glass towers, the kind of place where money hums in the air and shadows have teeth.

He didn’t say where we were going until we pulled up to this underground entrance, security everywhere.

SINARA. That’s what the silver sign said.

“You own this?” I blurted, because sometimes my filter just quits.

He grinned. “I own a lot of things.”

The VIP lounge was high above the madness—glass walls, velvet booth, the whole club below us throbbing with bodies and bass. I stuck near him, his arm casual but heavy across my shoulders.

“You’re about to witness something,” he said, voice low and sharp. “It might unsettle you.”

My heart was pounding, trying to leap out of my chest.

“Why are you showing me this?” I asked.

He sipped his drink, eyes on the dancefloor. “Because your reaction determines everything tonight.”

My mouth went dry.

Then the door swung open.

Two men came in. One was clearly security. The other? Too calm to be safe. Suit, smug grin, eyes locked straight on Leon.

No one spoke.

But the whole air shifted.

And right then, I knew—whatever I thought I’d agreed to with Leon? That was just the prologue. The real story was just about to start.