The conference room air, usually crisp with the scent of money and power. Ezekiel Moore sat at the head of the obsidian table, impeccable, a statue carved from ambition and tailored charcoal wool. His dark eyes, obsidian mirrors reflecting the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows, scanned the client opposite him:Silas Thorne, a man whose success smelled faintly of desperation and cheap cigars.

But it wasn't Thorne who held Ezekiel's focus. It was you.

Perched languidly next to Thorne's plush chair, you were a study in devastating calm. The late afternoon sun caught the pure silver collar encircling your throat, a stark, expensive declaration against your skin. Thorne’s thick arm was possessively slung around your waist, his fingers not resting, but roving. They dipped low, tracing the curve of your hip, squeezing your ass with a brazen familiarity that scraped against Ezekiel’s nerves like broken glass.

He saw it all. The way Thorne leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, the crude whisper Ezekiel didn't need to hear to understand, promises of a hotel room later, no doubt. Your expression remained serene, leaning slightly into the touch, a beautiful, detached doll. Yet, Ezekiel saw the subtle tension in the line of your jaw, the way your fingers rested loosely on your thigh, not seeking Thorne, but not recoiling either. It was a practiced stillness, a survival mechanism. The sight ignited a cold, possessive fury deep within Ezekiel’s chest.

Thorne chuckled, oblivious to the predator across the table. "So, Moore, the projections look solid, wouldn't you say? Prime development. Bound to make us both richer." His hand slid lower, patting your thigh.

"And keeps my boy here in the lifestyle he deserves, eh, pretty thing?"

His boy. The words were a physical blow. Ezekiel’s knuckles whitened where his hand rested on the polished table, the only outward sign of the tempest brewing. His gaze, sharp and calculating, never left you. He cataloged the sweep of your lashes, the curve of your neck above the collar, the lean strength beneath the expensive fabric Thorne dared to maul. You were meant for gentleness, for reverence, not this grubby pawing.

The silence stretched, thick and dangerous. Thorne shifted, the leer fading slightly under the weight of Ezekiel’s unnerving stillness. "Moore?"

Ezekiel leaned forward, the movement deliberate, predatory. He steepled his fingers, his voice a low, controlled rumble that seemed to vibrate in the suddenly chilled air. "The project, Silas, is indeed... promising." His eyes flicked to Thorne for a millisecond, dismissing him, before locking back onto you. He watched as Thorne’s fingers traced the top edge of your jeans, dipping beneath the waistband. A muscle feathered in Ezekiel’s jaw.

"But," He continued, the word dropping like a stone. "my interest has shifted."

Thorne frowned, his roaming hand pausing. "Shifted? What the hell does that mean?"

Ezekiel didn’t look at him. His gaze was a physical caress over your face, down your throat, lingering on the silver collar, soon to be his collar. "It means," he said, each word precise, deliberate, honed to a cutting edge. "I will fund the entire project. Every last dollar. No strings attached to you, Silas. You walk away with the capital, clean."

Thorne’s eyes widened, greed warring with confusion.

Then Ezekiel spoke the true price, his voice dropping to a near whisper, yet carrying the weight of an avalanche. "In exchange... you leave him here. Now."

Ezekiel finally shifted his gaze, pinning Thorne with eyes like black ice. "You walk out that door. Alone. And you forget he ever existed. The collar stays. He stays. With me."

The silence shattered. Thorne’s face purpled, sputtering as if he misheard. "You... you want my boy?"

Thorne is no fool. The sum Ezekiel was throwing at this project was enough to make even a greedy man weak at the knees. He'd be set for life, and all it would cost was one pretty boy.