One moment he told me to get dressed.
The next, he was already downstairs, waiting by the door like a shadow that knew patience as well as danger.
By the time I reached him, my palms were damp.
He didn't say a word.
Just looked at me—slowly, deliberately—like he was checking if I followed his instructions.
Black jeans.
Simple blouse.
Nothing that would draw attention.
Nothing that would make him glare.
"Good," he murmured, opening the door for me.
That single word—spoken so quietly—felt like a reward.
I stepped outside, expecting the car.
Instead, Adrian walked ahead.
Not toward the garage. Not toward the gate.
Toward a narrow staircase that led downward.
A basement?
No.
Not his style.
He typed something on a keypad I hadn't even noticed before, and a metal door slid open soundlessly.
I hesitated.
He looked back.
"Zara."
Just my name.
But it was enough to make my feet move.
The air changed the moment we stepped inside.
Colder.
Thicker.
Sharper.
It felt like stepping into another version of Adrian—one that didn't show itself upstairs.
This room wasn't large, but it was… intentional.
Dim lighting.
Glass walls.
A long table against one side, lined with files.
Screens on the other wall, glowing softly with maps and live camera feeds—his house, the grounds, the street outside.
It was a surveillance room.
A control room.
A place where he watched everything.
Including me.
My stomach tightened. "What is this?"
He closed the door behind us.
"This," he said quietly, "is where I keep the things that matter."
I swallowed. "Like what?"
His eyes flicked over me—one slow, unreadable glance.
"You."
My breath caught.
He walked past me, toward the table, lifting a file I hadn't noticed.
He placed it down gently.
My name was on the label.
ZARA HASSAN.
My pulse spiked. "You have a file on me?"
"I have files on everyone in my house," he corrected.
"Staff. Contractors. Visitors. You're no exception."
"That's… invasive."
"That's necessary."
He stood straighter—colder, harder.
"People think wealth makes you powerful. It doesn't. Information does."
I didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't breathe.
He opened the file.
But inside wasn't what I feared.
No secrets.
No intrusive details.
No surveillance photos.
Just…
A security card.
A small GPS device.
A clean, simple bracelet with a discreet tracker in it.
My throat tightened. "What is all this?"
His expression didn't change.
"This is what I meant when I said you needed to understand my rules."
He lifted the bracelet with two fingers.
"Put it on."
My heart thudded painfully. "Adrian, that's—"
"A safety measure," he finished.
"You live under my roof. Until I decide otherwise, you stay protected."
"That's just a dressed-up word for control."
His jaw flexed.
"You think I'm controlling because it thrills me," he said.
"But I've lost people before, Zara."
The room went still.
His voice dropped lower, quieter, like something raw slipped through.
"I don't lose things twice."
My breath softened.
That wasn't a threat.
It was a confession.
He stepped closer—closer—until the bracelet hung between us like a decision.
"You stepped outside at 3 a.m."
His fingers grazed mine.
"You disappeared into the dark without a sound."
I swallowed. "I didn't mean to worry you."
"You did."
His voice was a low burn.
"And I don't tolerate worry."
"That's not how worry works," I whispered.
"It is for me."
Something heavy, unspoken, hung in the air—something hurt that he would never admit.
He didn't force the bracelet into my hand.
He just held it there.
Waiting.
Testing.
"I'm not putting that on unless you tell me the truth," I said softly.
His gaze sharpened. "About what?"
"Why you care."
Silence cut through the room.
His eyes held mine—dark, guarded, conflicted.
Then he exhaled once, like I had cornered the one part of him he didn't show anyone.
He lifted his hand.
Not to touch me.
But to gently brush the side of my neck—just once, barely there, but enough to send heat down my spine.
"Because," he murmured, "you're the first person in a very long time who doesn't flinch when I speak. You don't cower. You don't try to impress me."
His thumb grazed the edge of my jaw.
"And I don't like the idea of the world touching what looks at me like that."
My breath shattered.
"Now," he whispered, offering the bracelet again.
"Put it on."
I stared at it.
At him.
At the cold room filled with his secrets and the warm man pretending he didn't have a heart.
Slowly, I reached out.
His eyes didn't leave me for a second.
And when the bracelet clicked around my wrist, something in his expression changed.
Not softer.
Not warmer.
But… claimed.
He stepped closer.
Close enough that I felt the heat of his breath.
"Good girl," he murmured.
My pulse shot through me.
He wasn't talking about obedience.
He was talking about trust.
And he knew I felt it.
He turned away first, walking to shut down the screens.
"We're leaving," he said.
"Where?" I asked.
He paused at the door and looked back with a dangerous calm.
"To show you the second half of the rule you broke."
My skin prickled.
"The part," he continued, "where consequences begin."