"He doesn't need to be here to control me."
The key scraped against the lock three times before it finally turned. By the time I pushed the door open, my hands were shaking from exhaustion. Nine p.m. The city outside was already sleeping, but my body still hummed with the leftover tension of the day — of him.
Kieran D'Angelo.
All because I arrived a minute late. Just one minute.
He hadn't shouted. He didn't need to. He'd only looked up from his desk with that cold, surgical stare that made my throat dry and my stomach twist. "If you have time to waste, Miss Duval," he'd said, "you have time to work overtime."
So I did. For four hours straight.
By the time I left the D'Angelo Tower, my shoes had bitten into my skin, my hands trembled from typing, and my pride felt like it had been stripped away piece by piece — all because he decided to remind me where I stood.
The scent of our tiny apartment wrapped around me as I stepped inside — detergent, stale air, and faint baby powder. It wasn't much, but it was home. Jason was asleep on the couch, one leg hanging off the side, his chest rising and falling softly under the flicker of the TV light. In the next room, my son was curled up beneath a faded blanket, breathing peacefully.
"I'm sorry, baby," I whispered to the closed door, my voice barely audible. "Mommy's late again."
The ceiling dripped — drip, drip, drip — into the metal bucket sitting in the middle of the living room. It had been leaking since last month. I should've fixed it, but rent came first. Everything always came before me.
I kicked off my shoes, stretching my sore toes, and went to pour a glass of water. That's when I saw them.
Two sleek, black sedans parked just down the street.
Tinted windows. Expensive. Silent.
They looked like predators in a cage of concrete. No one in this neighborhood could afford that kind of car.
My stomach tightened, a strange wave of unease crawling up my spine. I told myself I was imagining things. Maybe someone got lost. Maybe someone's visiting.
I took a long sip of water and tried to breathe. My body still felt wired from being in that office, from being under his eyes. That man carried silence like a weapon, and even outside his building, I could still feel him — hovering in my thoughts.
A sudden, heavy knock rattled the door.
I froze mid-step, my pulse jumping. The sound echoed through the small apartment, deep and deliberate.
The landlord, I thought immediately. It had to be him. He always came with that same rhythm — three knocks that made my chest tighten with dread. Rent was due in two days.
I sighed, wiped my palms against my skirt, and went to open it. "Please, Mr. Briggs, just give me—"
But when the door swung open, no one stood there.
Only the night.
And three massive black boxes sitting on my worn-out doormat.
They were sleek and heavy, stacked perfectly on top of each other. Each had a white tag with my name printed in bold, emotionless letters: AURIELLE DUVAL.
No return address.
No courier.
No explanation.
My gaze flicked back toward the window. The cars were still there. Parked. Watching.
My heartbeat quickened as I dragged the boxes inside, shutting and locking the door immediately. Jason mumbled something in his sleep, but didn't wake.
The first box was large, almost as tall as my torso. I tore off the tape and flipped the lid.
Inside — neatly folded silk blouses, tailored blazers, pencil skirts, and elegant heels. Each piece was luxurious, smelling faintly of jasmine and something expensive. My exact size. Perfect fit. Too perfect.
The second box was smaller. The label only said: THE CHILD.
My stomach dropped. My fingers hesitated before I opened it.
Inside were clothes — warm sweaters, soft shirts, tiny shoes — all for a boy about four years old. My son's size.
My breath hitched. I looked around the apartment like someone was watching me. My throat went dry. How… how could anyone know his measurements?
The third box was slimmer, elegant. Inside lay a structured handbag, a pair of glossy black pumps, and a glass bottle of perfume. The scent was rich — alluring, commanding, familiar. The kind of scent you'd smell in a CEO's office.
A white envelope sat on top.
I already knew who it was from before I opened it.
The gold D'Angelo Enterprises logo glinted in the dim light. The card inside had no handwriting — only neat, machine-typed words:
Your wardrobe does not meet company standards. The child's presentation reflects on you. Consider this remedial.
I didn't need his signature to recognize his voice in those words. It was as cold as marble, as sharp as his stare.
The room suddenly felt smaller. The silence heavier.
He hadn't just given me gifts.
He'd drawn a boundary — one I didn't remember agreeing to cross.
My breath came shallow, my fingers tightening around the card. Gratitude warred with fear, pride with dependence. He was rewriting my life without asking. And part of me hated that I wasn't sure if I wanted him to stop.
I looked down at the tiny jacket folded in the box. My chest ached. It was warm, perfect, safe. Everything I wanted for my son — except it came from him.
My mind whispered what my lips refused to say: He's watching me.
The walls of the apartment seemed to pulse with the quiet hum of control — his control.
I didn't need him here to feel him. His power seeped through the seams of those boxes, wrapping itself around my life one thread at a time.
And for the first time since meeting him, I realized something terrifying.
I wasn't sure if this was protection.
Or possession.
My fingers brushed the D'Angelo logo one last time, the gold lettering catching the dim light.
My throat tightened as I whispered into the empty apartment, voice trembling, low, almost defiant:
"What do you want from me, Mr. D'Angelo?"