Chapter 3 The Unwanted Gift

Elara

The alarm on my phone screamed at 7:15 a.m., but I was already awake-had been for hours. My body felt like it had been through a war: thighs sore, inner muscles aching in the best-worst way, faint bruises blooming on my hips where his fingers had dug in. Every time I shifted on the thin mattress of my Hackney flatshare, I felt the ghost of him-thick, pierced, relentless-stretching me open, dragging that metal barbell along places I didn't even know could feel like that.

I hadn't showered yet. Part of me wanted to keep his scent on my skin a little longer, like a secret I wasn't ready to wash away. The other part hated how much I craved it.

I rolled over, grabbed my phone from the nightstand. Three notifications.

One from my mum: Call me when you're up, love. Worried about the job thing.

One from my ex-best-friend (now ex-roommate's ally): We need to talk.

And one from Unknown Number, timestamped 3:42 a.m.

My thumb hovered. Heart already racing.

I opened it.

You forgot your earring. Or was that intentional? Either way... I'll return it. Personally.

A single photo attached.

It was my silver hoop-the one I'd worn last night, the one I'd noticed missing when I got home. The photo showed it resting on what looked like black marble, next to a tumbler of amber liquid. His hand was in the frame-large, strong, veins standing out-holding the earring between thumb and forefinger like a trophy.

My stomach flipped. Heat pooled low despite myself.

How had he gotten my number?

I sat up fast, sheets tangling around my legs. The flat was quiet-my roommate (the one who'd fucked my ex) was still asleep in the next room. I didn't want to face her yet. Didn't want to face anything.

I typed back before I could stop myself.

Keep it. I don't want it back.

Sent.

Dots appeared immediately. He was awake. Or he'd been waiting.

Too late, sweetheart. It's already on its way.

I stared at the screen. Sweetheart. The word hit the same way it had last night-low, possessive, almost tender. My thighs clenched involuntarily.

I threw the phone down like it burned me. Stood. Paced the tiny bedroom. Rain tapped against the window, grey London morning light filtering through cheap curtains. I caught my reflection in the mirror on the wardrobe door: hair wild, lips still swollen, a dark hickey blooming just below my collarbone. His mark.

Fuck.

I needed coffee. Needed to think.

I pulled on leggings and an oversized hoodie, slipped into the kitchen. The flat smelled like burnt toast and last night's regret. I flicked the kettle on, tried to breathe.

My phone buzzed again.

Doorbell in 10 minutes. Don't ignore it.

I froze.

Ten minutes.

I glanced at the clock. 7:38. My heart slammed so hard I could feel it in my throat.

I shouldn't open the door. Should pretend I wasn't home. Should block the number and delete every memory of last night.

But my feet carried me to the window overlooking the street. A sleek black car idled at the curb-nothing flashy, but expensive enough to stand out in Hackney. Tinted windows. No driver visible.

The buzzer rang at exactly 7:48.

I jumped.

Three short presses. Polite. Insistent.

I pressed the intercom. "Who is it?"

A pause. Then a voice-deep, familiar, amused. "Delivery for Elara Thompson."

My mouth went dry. It was him. Or someone he'd sent.

"I didn't order anything."

"Consider it a gift."

I should have said no. Should have told him to fuck off.

Instead, I buzzed him up.

The lift was slow. My pulse thundered louder with every floor. When the door opened, he filled the hallway-tall, broad, charcoal coat over a dark shirt, hair still perfectly tousled like last night hadn't touched him.

But his eyes... they were different. Hungrier. Darker.

He held out a small black velvet box. "Your earring."

I didn't take it. "How did you find me?"

A slow smile curved his lips. "I have ways."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting right now."

He stepped closer. The hallway smelled of rain and him-sandalwood, smoke, sex. My body reacted before my brain could catch up: nipples tightening, core clenching around nothing.

He noticed. Of course he did.

His gaze dropped to my neck-to the hickey he'd left. "Looks good on you."

Heat flooded my face. "You can't just show up here."

"I can. And I did." He lifted the box again. "Take it."

I snatched it, fingers brushing his. Electric.

Inside: my earring, nestled on black satin. And beneath it, a small folded card.

I unfolded it.

Tonight. 8 p.m. Blackwood Tower. Penthouse. Wear the dress.

No signature. Just those words.

I looked up. "I'm not coming."

His smile turned wicked. "You will."

"Why would I?"

"Because your body already knows the answer." He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper that brushed my ear. "You're still wet thinking about it. I can smell it."

I stepped back, slamming into the doorframe. "Get out."

He didn't move. Just watched me with that predatory patience. "I own the agency you worked for, Elara. The one that let you go last week. Budget cuts? My call."

My blood ran cold. "You're lying."

"I don't lie." He straightened. "I also own three others in Shoreditch. I can have you rehired by Monday. Better salary. Better projects. Or I can make sure no one in this city touches your CV for a year."

My hands shook. "That's blackmail."

"Call it incentive."

He turned to leave. Paused at the lift. Looked back.

"Eight o'clock. Don't be late."

The doors closed.

I slid down the wall, knees weak.

The velvet box burned in my hand.

I opened it again. Tucked inside the card was a second item: a thin black silk blindfold, embroidered with silver thread.

My breath hitched.

I should throw it away. Should block him. Should run.

But my fingers traced the silk. Soft. Sinful.

And deep inside, the ache between my legs pulsed in time with my heartbeat.

I closed the box.

Looked at the clock.

Seven hours until eight.

I had no idea what I was going to do.

But I knew one thing.

This wasn't over.The velvet box sat on my kitchen counter like a live grenade.

I hadn't opened it again since he left. Hadn't touched it. But I couldn't stop staring.

The flat felt smaller now-walls pressing in, air thick with the scent of rain and leftover takeaway. My roommate's door was still closed; she hadn't stirred. Good. I didn't have the energy for confrontation. Not when my body was still screaming reminders of last night: the deep ache between my legs, the faint throb where his piercing had dragged inside me, the bruises on my hips shaped like his fingerprints.

I poured coffee with shaking hands. Black. No sugar. The bitterness matched the knot in my stomach.

My phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number.

I almost didn't look.

But I did.

Change of plans, sweetheart. 7 p.m. instead of 8. Car will be outside in 45 minutes. Don't make me come up again.

Attached: a photo.

Not my earring this time.

A candid shot of me-taken last night, in his penthouse. I was asleep, face turned toward the camera, lips parted, hair spilling across the pillow. One breast was half-exposed where the sheet had slipped, nipple still reddened from his mouth. His arm was visible in the frame-possessively draped over my waist, hand splayed across my stomach like he was claiming territory even in sleep.

My coffee mug slipped. Shattered on the tile.

How long had he watched me? How many photos did he take?

My breath came in short, panicked bursts.

I typed back, fingers flying.

Delete that. Now.

His reply was instant.

Too late. It's my favorite one.

Then another message.

The car is black Mercedes. License plate ends in 777. Driver won't speak. Just get in. Or I start sending these to people who know you. Starting with your ex.

My vision tunneled.

He had my ex's contact? How?

No. He was bluffing. He had to be.

But the photo... that wasn't a bluff. That was real. Intimate. Invasive.

I paced the tiny kitchen, bare feet sticking to spilled coffee. The clock on the microwave read 6:12 p.m. Forty-eight minutes.

I could run. Pack a bag. Crash at my mum's in the suburbs. Block him. Change my number. Disappear.

But my laptop sat open on the table-LinkedIn still showing my profile, the one he'd clearly seen. My CV. My references. My entire fragile career hanging by a thread he could snap with one call.

And deeper, buried under the fear, something darker stirred.

The memory of his voice: "Don't worry, sweetheart. It will fit."

The way he'd stretched me, filled me, made me come so hard I saw stars.

The blindfold in the box-silk, soft, promising things I shouldn't want.

I opened the velvet box again.

The blindfold lay there, folded neatly. Underneath it, a small key fob-black, sleek, engraved with a single initial: D.

And a note, handwritten in sharp, slanted script:

Wear nothing under the dress. Nothing at all.

If you're not in the car by 7 sharp, the next photo goes to your mother.

My knees buckled. I gripped the counter.

He knew my mother's number? Or was he guessing? Bluffing again?

Did it matter?

I looked at the clock: 6:18.

Forty-two minutes.

My hands moved before my mind caught up. I went to my wardrobe. Pulled out the black dress-the same one from last night. Slipped it on. No bra. No panties. Just the thin fabric against my skin, nipples hardening instantly at the friction.

I stared at my reflection.

Marked. Claimed. Terrified.

And wet.

God help me, I was wet.

I slipped the blindfold into my clutch. Grabbed my keys. My phone.

The buzzer rang at 6:58.

I pressed the intercom with numb fingers.

"Miss Thompson?" The driver's voice-neutral, professional. "The car is waiting."

I didn't answer.

I just walked out the door.

Down the stairs. Through the lobby. Into the rain.

The black Mercedes idled at the curb, rear door already open.

I slid inside.

The leather was warm. The partition was up. No driver visible-just the faint scent of sandalwood and smoke.

The door closed with a soft, final click.

The car pulled away smoothly.

I stared at my reflection in the tinted window-rain-streaked, distorted, unrecognizable.

My phone buzzed one last time.

Good girl.

Attached: another photo.

This one live-taken seconds ago, from inside the car.

Me, sitting in the back seat, dress riding up my thighs, eyes wide, lips parted.

He was watching.

Right now.

Wherever he was.

My breath fogged the glass.

The car accelerated toward central London.

Toward Blackwood Tower.

Toward him.

And I knew-deep in my bones, in the traitorous pulse between my legs-that whatever happened tonight, there would be no walking away this time.