Inside the penthouse, the atmosphere was one of predatory stillness. Mike didn't bother with the lights; the city's neon glow filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows in strips of electric blue and poisonous violet, painting the marble floor in shadows.
He reclined on the bed, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through his private gallery with the detached interest of someone reviewing inventory.
His thumb swiped past mundane photos until it landed on the footage from the cabin. He paused, watching the screen.
The video showed Maya, not the composed, artistic woman from the rooftop, but a raw, panting creature of pure sensation. Her head was thrown back, her eyes rolled half closed, her skin flushed and slick with sweat as she surrendered to him.
He watched her unravel, savoring the memory of how easily she had broken.
"Beautiful," he murmured to the empty room, his voice devoid of affection, carrying only the cold satisfaction of ownership. "So easy to shatter."
