The heavy, rhythmic drumming of the rain against the floor-to-ceiling glass wrapped the master bedroom in a cocoon of white noise.
Ryan dropped the phone back onto the nightstand.
The sharp, mechanical reality of the corporate world faded the second the screen went black. He looked down at the mattress.
Diana remained curled near the foot of the bed, her forehead resting against the heavy silk sheets.
The frantic, desperate energy that had driven her to swallow his release had burned out.
The destruction of her corporate pride was absolute. She had touched the absolute bottom of her own submission, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that the untouchable venture capitalist no longer existed.
The breaking was finished.
Ryan didn't need to grind her into the floor anymore.
The Warlord Protocol didn't just demand subjugation; it demanded absolute, territorial protection over the assets he claimed.
