---
Camila's POV
The music kept playing even after my breath forgot how to.
Even after his hand lingered just a second too long on my waist.
Even after that whisper:
"You haven't earned the right to take it off."
I didn't flinch. Wouldn't give him that. But I felt it—his presence crawling under my skin, slick and cold like a storm waiting behind stained glass. I wasn't sure if I wanted to run or set fire to the whole damn ballroom.
The dance ended.
He didn't let go.
Instead, Lucien guided me off the floor, down a hall lined in mirrors and soft candlelight. Guests turned to watch, curious, maybe jealous. I didn't care. My heels echoed too loudly. My silence said too much.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
He didn't answer. Of course he didn't.
The door he opened led to a private study—not the library I'd wandered near last night, not the hall with red stains beneath the velvet, but a new room. This one smelled like leather, smoke, and secrets he never planned to share.
He closed the door. Locked it.
My heart beat faster. Not out of fear.
Out of fury.
"Are you going to punish me?" I asked, arms crossing, voice steady despite the storm clawing up my throat.
Lucien leaned against the edge of a mahogany desk, the dim light casting his face half in shadow. "Would you prefer that?"
I hated how calm he sounded. Like he'd already mapped my thoughts, labeled my intentions, and folded them neatly into some private drawer of control.
"I don't like games," I said.
"No," he replied, "but you're playing one anyway."
I stepped forward. "Is this what you do? Lock women up, collar them, parade them in front of your sick little audience?"
A flicker of something crossed his expression—amusement or irritation, I couldn't tell.
"You didn't scream when you saw the blood behind the velvet," he said instead. "You listened. You looked closer. You tried to take off the collar."
"I didn't want to belong to anyone."
"And yet here you are."
The silence between us felt sharp.
He moved toward me—slow, deliberate—and I stayed where I was, even as every instinct screamed to put space between us. He stopped close. Too close.
"You're not a prisoner, Camila," he said, brushing a stray strand of hair from my face with maddening gentleness. "You're an investment."
I froze.
His voice dipped lower. "But investments need to be tested. Measured. Broken in."
I slapped him.
The sound cracked across the room like lightning. My palm stung, but not half as much as the shame rising in my chest. Not shame for hitting him—shame because part of me expected him to smile.
And he did.
Very slowly.
"I was wondering when you'd start fighting back," he murmured.
I backed away, trembling. "You're insane."
"No," Lucien said, tilting his head. "I'm in control."
He let the silence stretch between us, as if daring me to fill it. I didn't.
Then, finally, he turned to the desk and picked something up—a small key. He twirled it between his fingers before walking over and slipping it into my hand.
The key to the collar.
"I told you," he said softly. "You could've asked."
Then he walked out.
And I stood there, clutching the key like it might burn through my skin, unsure if I was more terrified of the collar on my neck… or the freedom he'd just placed in my hand.
---
---
Chapter — Lucien Valentini (The Test She Didn't Know She'd Already Failed)
Lucien's POV
The moment the door clicked shut behind me, I didn't leave.
Of course not.
I stood just beyond the hallway, behind the antique divider, watching the live feed flicker across the surveillance tablet in my hand.
There she was—still standing in the middle of the study. Collared. Shaking. Key in hand. Rage simmering just beneath the surface of her stillness.
Good. Let it burn.
She stared at the key like it was a weapon, not a gift. Like she hadn't realized yet that both could be true.
I watched her breathe. In. Out. Her fingers curled around the brass like she might crush it. Then she did what most don't.
She didn't cry.
She didn't run.
She didn't beg.
She stood.
And slowly, with a trembling exhale, she walked to the mirror.
My mirror.
I'd placed it there for a reason. I knew what she'd see: herself, all dressed up in someone else's choices. The black dress I'd ordered. The delicate heels. The collar she claimed not to belong to. But her eyes… they still hadn't changed. Fierce. Feral. Pretending not to be afraid.
She raised the key.
I held my breath.
Her fingers touched the clasp.
And then… she stopped.
Paused.
Just long enough for me to know.
She couldn't do it.
Not yet.
Not because of me—but because of her. Because part of her wanted to understand the rules before she broke them. And part of her suspected—rightly—that the moment she removed that collar, this wouldn't be a test anymore.
It would be war.
I smiled.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. One of my men. A minor update. I ignored it.
Inside the study, Camila lowered the key and slipped it into the pocket of her dress. Her reflection stared back at her, defiant and unsure all at once.
She hadn't taken it off.
She'd passed.
No—she'd failed.
Because the real test wasn't whether she'd remove the collar.
It was whether she'd understand what power looks like in this house.
And Camila Reyes? She still thought it came in the form of a key.
She didn't know yet—
I write the rules.
I hold the leash.
And the moment she thought she had a choice… she gave me everything.
---