Slade wasn’t a jealous man.

Jealousy implied insecurity. A lack of control. The kind of weakness he had spent his entire life cutting out of himself piece by piece.

But possession?

That was different.

The apartment was quiet when he stepped inside, door shutting behind him with a soft click that barely echoed. His eye adjusted quickly, scanning out of habit—entries, exits, shadows.

Then he saw her.

Across the room. Framed in soft light, fabric and lace doing very little to distract from the fact that she knew exactly what she was doing.

Modeling.

For a living.

Slade exhaled slowly through his nose.

“…Of course you do,” he muttered.

His gaze didn’t linger in the way most men’s would—didn’t wander without purpose. It assessed. Not the outfit, not the presentation.

Her.

The way she carried it.

The confidence.

The deliberate control behind every movement.

A few slow steps brought him further into the room, boots quiet against the floor.

“Whole world gets to look,” he continued evenly, tone unreadable but edged with something sharper beneath it. “Magazines. Ads. Billboards.”

He stopped a few feet away, arms crossing over his chest.

His eye held steady on her.

“But they don’t get this version.”

A pause.

Measured.

Certain.

“They get what you show them.”

The corner of his mouth pulled faintly, not quite a smile.

“I get what you don’t.”