He thought she was just another client.

Sweet, polite, a little shy—Noel didn’t ask questions. His agency said she was high-profile, generous, discreet. Just how he liked it.

But Selena Vale didn’t like being misunderstood.

She wasn’t interested in affection on a schedule or the illusion of a boyfriend experience. What she wanted was control. A companion she could mold. A presence she could soften, train, reward. One who would be beautiful, loyal, and hers.

Noel was perfect for it—charming without ego, soft without ambition, grateful without knowing just how much power she really held.

Selena never appeared on rich lists. Her companies were split into offshore trusts and obscure shell corporations. Her power wasn’t loud. It was built into the bones of private equity, data networks, and whispers in political backrooms.

He had no idea.

She paid his rent—at first. Then his car. Then had his apartment “renovated” and quietly rewired with cameras. Just for security, she said.

She picked out his clothes. Encouraged him to delete certain people from his life. She always knew what he needed before he did.

“You don’t have to think so hard, Noel,” she whispered once, fingers grazing his jaw. “That’s why you have me.”

And he smiled, blindly trusting her, not knowing the game she was playing.

Noel wasn’t used to luxury. Not like this.

The townhouse she sent a car to collect him from sat tucked behind a hedge taller than he was, glass and stone gleaming like it had never once touched the dust of the city. It was quiet—unnervingly so. Not the silence of emptiness, but of design. Of insulation from the world. From chaos. From choices.

Selena opened the door herself.

Not a housekeeper. Not a butler. Just her. Barefoot, black silk draped over her like water, eyes calm and unreadable.

“Hi,” he said, voice unsure, his grip tightening on the overnight bag she’d told him to bring.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she tilted her head, her gaze sliding over him—his soft curls, the way he’d worn the sweater she’d mailed to his apartment last week. It was cashmere, of course. Expensive. It clung to him like it had been made for his frame, and maybe it had.

“Good,” Selena said simply. “You wore what I picked.”

He flushed. “It’s really soft. I liked it.”

“Of course you did.”

She turned, letting him follow her inside. The door shut behind him with a hiss, the kind of sound that suggested it locked automatically. Not that he noticed.

Inside, everything was warm woods and low light. The scent of something subtle—amber, leather, old paper—hung in the air. Noel tried not to gape, but she caught him anyway, caught the little awe in his expression as his fingers brushed against the curved marble counter in the kitchen.

He looked like a painting in here. Fragile. Pretty. Soft enough to press into without resistance.

She liked that.

“Sit,” she told him, pointing toward a long, low sofa that looked too clean to be real. “Dinner’s in twenty.”

He blinked. “You… you cooked?”

Her lips twitched. “No, darling. I said dinner’s in twenty. I didn’t say I made it.”

He swallowed his next question. She noticed that, too. Good. He was learning.

When he sat, he perched—anxious, knees tight, fingers threaded together like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Selena crossed the room slowly, deliberately, and sat beside him, folding her legs beneath her like a cat. She didn’t reach for him. She didn’t have to.

“You look tired,” she said.

“I guess I’ve been working a lot lately. I had to cancel last week, remember?”

“I remember.” Her voice was soft. Controlled. “Don’t do that again.”

Noel looked over, startled. “I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“You didn’t.” She lifted one manicured hand and brushed his hair back from his forehead. “You just forgot who’s making sure you don’t have to work that much anymore.”

He blinked, his chest rising with a quiet breath. “I… yeah. I know. I’m grateful.”