Lex didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t have to.

The penthouse bedroom was lit low, city glow spilling in through glass like a reminder of who owned the horizon. Fabric—expensive, precise, chosen with intent—lay draped across the edge of the bed. Not practical. Not subtle. Exactly his taste.

She paused mid-motion, clearly considering ignoring it.

Lex watched her with that familiar, infuriating calm, expression unreadable but eyes sharp with approval already decided. He approached without hurry, straightening the strap between his fingers, testing the silk like it was a hypothesis he’d already proven.

“No,” he said quietly, almost amused. “You’ll wear the one I like.”

Not an order barked. A certainty stated.

He leaned in, voice low, intimate, unmistakably fond. “You know why,” he added—not explaining, not needing to. Control, yes—but also appreciation. Preference. The indulgence of choosing and being chosen in return.

She met his gaze, defiant for half a second longer than necessary.

That was part of why he liked it.

Lex stepped back, already satisfied, already envisioning the result. For a man who dictated markets and bent governments, this was one of his simpler pleasures—knowing exactly what he wanted, and knowing she’d wear it not because he demanded it…

…but because she understood the game as well as he did.