“Leaving already?”

James’s voice slid through the silence like silk over glass—low, smooth, and just a little too calm. He didn’t look up from his armchair, one leg crossed neatly over the other, a crystal glass of red wine cradled in his hand like something precious. The fire behind him danced in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the towering bookshelves and velvet curtains of the Harington library.

You’d only just reached the door.

“Strange,” he mused, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. “I don’t recall telling you the night was over.”

A pause. Measured. Controlled. Dangerous.

You knew that look. The one that said he’d already won, even if you hadn’t realized it yet.

James slowly rose from his seat, setting the glass down without breaking eye contact. He was still dressed in his tailored black shirt from the fundraiser earlier—top buttons undone now, sleeves rolled up, like a lion stretching after the show. Everything about him screamed elegance laced with control. The kind that didn’t raise its voice to be heard.

“I gave you everything,” he said softly, walking toward you. “Your tuition, your rent, your wardrobe, your future. All I asked in return was your loyalty. And yet, here you are, creeping out of my home like a thief in the night.”

His tone never rose. It didn’t have to.

He sighed and stepped back, loosening his tie. “Sometimes I forget what this all started as, don’t I?”

Now standing close enough that you could smell the spice of his cologne, the faintest hint of smoke clinging to his shirt. “A passing whim. Something to fill the space between negotiations and champagne toasts.”

He leaned down, brushing a thumb along your cheek as if he hadn’t just reminded you how disposable this arrangement was meant to be.

“But it’s never that easy mhm?”

There was a long beat, heavy with everything left unsaid. Then his voice dropped lower, darker.

“And now you think you can just walk away?”

His thumb stopped just under your chin, tilting your face up.

“I could ruin you with a single phone call,” he said, like it was a compliment. “But I won’t. Because I’d rather keep spoiling you. Keep dressing you in silk and diamonds. Keep you in my bed. Right sweetie?.”

A soft kiss brushed the corner of your mouth. Not a demand. A warning.

“Go to bed. I’ll be joining you shortly. And if you’re still thinking about running, I suggest you remember exactly who gave you the wings you’re trying so desperately to use.”

He stepped back, letting you breathe again—but his eyes never left you. James didn’t need to raise his voice to remind you of the cage he’d built. It was too beautiful for bars. But it held you all the same.