She didn't scream when I put her in the car.
She didn't cry when I took her to the penthouse.
She just watched me.
Like I was the one being captured.
---
Three weeks passed after the gallery.
Three weeks of me not calling her. Not searching for her. Not sending my people to find out everything about her.
I told myself I was being smart. Playing it cool. Letting her come to me the way all women eventually came to me.
I was lying.
I was terrified.
Because Christabel had done something no one else had ever done. She had looked at me – really looked at me – and hadn't flinched. She had seen the monster and hadn't run.
And that made her dangerous.
Not to me. To herself.
Because I was going to ruin her. I had warned her. And the worst part? She had smiled.
---
I found out everything about her anyway.
Not because I was stalking her. Because I needed to know if she was real.
Old European money. Her mother had died when she was eighteen – or so everyone thought. Her father had died shortly after. She had a sister named Sarah. She had built her own company from nothing. No handouts. No family connections. Just her own two hands and a brain that worked faster than most.
She was brilliant.
She was beautiful.
She was dangerous in a way I hadn't anticipated.
Because Christabel Vance didn't need me. She didn't need anyone. And that was the most attractive thing about her.
---
The next event was at a gallery downtown. Modern art. White walls. Wine that cost more than most people's rent.
I knew she'd be there.
I always knew.
I saw her the moment I walked in.
She was standing in front of a painting I couldn't have described if my life depended on it. Her head was tilted. Her lips were parted. Her fingers brushed the stem of her wine glass the way they'd brushed her own throat the night I'd kissed her.
I kissed her.
That was the part I hadn't let myself remember. The way her lips had felt under mine. The way she had kissed me back for three perfect seconds before pulling away.
Three seconds.
That was all it took for her to ruin me.
---
I walked toward her.
People parted. They always did. But this time, I barely noticed. My eyes were locked on her. On the way the gallery lights caught the gold in her skin. On the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, slow and steady, completely unaware that a storm was approaching.
I stopped behind her.
Close enough to smell her. Something floral. Something clean. Something that made me want to bury my face in her neck and stay there.
"You're following me," I said.
She didn't turn around.
"I was here first."
"Were you?" I stepped closer. Close enough that my chest almost touched her back. Close enough that she could feel my heat, my presence, the weight of everything I was pressing against her. "Because it feels like you've been following me my whole life, and I just didn't know it until now."
She turned then.
Slowly.
Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. The gallery faded. The people faded. The music, the wine, the art – all of it disappeared until there was nothing left but her and me and the space between us that was shrinking by the second.
"You're very sure of yourself," she said.
"I'm very sure of you."
"That's not the same thing."
"It is when I decide it is."
---
She didn't flinch.
That was the thing about Christabel. She never flinched. Other women would have stepped back. Would have laughed nervously or looked away or done something to break the tension. But she just stood there, looking up at me with those dark eyes, waiting.
Not challenging.
Not submitting.
Just... waiting.
Like she already knew how this would end and was curious to see if I knew too.
"You kissed me," she said.
"You kissed me back."
"For three seconds."
"Three seconds was all I needed."
She almost smiled. Almost. The corners of her mouth twitched, and something flickered in her eyes – amusement, maybe. Or warning. Or both.
"You're dangerous," she said.
It wasn't an accusation. It was an observation. Like she was noting the color of my eyes or the cut of my suit. Just a fact. Just something she'd noticed and filed away.
"I am," I said. "And you like it."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
---
I should have been smoother.
I should have played the game the way I always did – charming, patient, letting her come to me. That was how I won. That was how I always won. I made women feel safe until they weren't. I made them trust me until I gave them reasons not to.
But with her, I couldn't.
The game required distance. Control. The ability to walk away and wait for them to come back.
And I couldn't walk away from her.
Not anymore.
"You're going to be mine," I said.
Her eyes widened. Just a fraction. Just enough for me to see that I'd hit something.
"You don't get to decide that."
"I already have."
"You can't force someone to be with you."
I stepped closer. Close enough that our bodies almost touched. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to keep looking at me. Close enough that I could see the pulse beating in her throat, faster now, betraying the calm she was trying so hard to maintain.
"Watch me," I said.
---
That was the moment.
The moment I crossed the line I'd never crossed before. I'd taken women to bed. I'd taken their hearts, their trust, their peace of mind. But I'd never taken their choice. Not really. They always came to me. They always said yes.
Christabel hadn't said yes.
She hadn't said no either.
She'd just stood there, looking at me, waiting to see what I would do.
And what I did was this:
I took her hand.
I led her out of the gallery, past the whispers and the stares, past the security guards who knew better than to stop me, past the doors and into the night.
She didn't resist.
That was the part I would remember later. The part that would haunt me. She didn't pull away. Didn't call for help. Didn't do any of the things a woman should do when a man she barely knew was dragging her into the dark.
She just walked with me.
Like she'd been waiting for someone to do exactly this.
---
My car was waiting. Black. Tinted windows. The kind of car people saw and looked away from because they knew, somehow, that looking too long was dangerous.
I opened the door.
She looked at the car. Looked at me. Looked at the car again.
"If I get in this car," she said quietly, "what happens?"
"You tell me."
"I'm asking you."
I stepped closer. Cupped her face in my hand. Felt her breath catch as my thumb brushed her lower lip.
"Everything," I said. "Everything happens."
She got in the car.
---
I didn't take her home.
I took her to my penthouse. The one with the floor-to-ceiling windows and the view of the city that made people feel like they were standing on top of the world. The one no other woman had ever seen.
She walked in slowly. Taking it in. The leather. The glass. The art I'd bought because it reminded me of nothing in particular. The space I'd filled with things because I didn't know how to fill it with anything real.
"You live here alone?" she asked.
"I don't live anywhere. I just sleep here."
She turned to look at me. Her eyes were different now. Softer. Like the walls she'd been hiding behind were starting to crack.
"Why did you bring me here?"
"Because I wanted to see if you'd come."
"And if I leave?"
"I'll find you."
"You said that like a promise."
"It was."
---
She didn't leave.
That was the second thing I would remember later. The second thing that would make me believe, for a while, that she wanted this too. That she wasn't afraid. That she was choosing me the way I was choosing her.
She walked to the window. Pressed her palm against the glass. Looked down at the city like she was seeing it for the first time.
"I've never met anyone like you," she said.
"Good."
"Why good?"
"Because I've never met anyone like you either. And I don't want to find out there are more of you out there. One is already going to destroy me."
She turned.
Her eyes were shining.
Not with tears. With something else. Something I couldn't name but felt in my bones.
"Who said I was the one destroying you?" she asked.
"You did. The moment you smiled at me."
---
I kissed her again.
Not like the first time. Not soft. Not uncertain.
This was a claiming. A statement. A brand pressed into her lips that said mine in a language older than words.
She kissed me back.
Not for three seconds.
For longer.
For as long as I wanted.
And when I finally pulled away, her lips were swollen and her breath was ragged and her eyes were wide with something that looked like fear and looked like hunger and looked like the beginning of something neither of us understood.
"You shouldn't want me," she whispered.
"Too late."
"I'm not good for you."
"Good for me?" I laughed. Low. Dark. "Christabel, I'm not good for anyone. Least of all myself. But I want you anyway. And I always get what I want."
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then she said, "Okay."
Just that. One word. Small and quiet and devastating.
Okay.
---
That night, I thought I had won.
I thought I had captured her.
But Christabel was not a woman who could be captured.
She was a woman who let herself be caught.
And I didn't know that yet.
But I was about to find out.
First Line of Chapter 3 (Teaser):
"She stayed in my penthouse for three months. She drank my tea. She slept in my bed. But she never looked at me the way she looked at the sunrise. And that was when I realized I hadn't captured her at all. She had captured me."