The news was playing on the massive television in the living room. Stocks were plummeting for a tech company. Della paced the room, the plush carpet swallowing the sound of her footsteps.

It was evening. The city lights were on again.

Darius came out of his office. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand. He looked relaxed.

Della stopped pacing. She had a plan. It was a desperate, ugly plan, but she had to try something to make him send her away. She had to make herself a liability, something so distasteful he'd discard it. The goal wasn't to be believed; it was to be repulsive.

She stepped in front of him.

"You should let me go," she said. "My husband will be looking for me."

Darius stopped. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes narrowing. "Husband? The file says you're single."

Della's heart skipped. He had a file. Of course he did.

"We... we eloped last week," she lied, pushing forward with the gambit. "It's not in the records yet. And I'm pregnant."

She placed a hand on her flat stomach.

Darius's expression darkened. The relaxed demeanor vanished instantly. He set the glass down on a marble side table with a sharp clack.

"Pregnant?" he repeated. The word sounded like an insult. "With whose bastard?"

Della backed up until her shoulders hit the wall. "My husband's! He loves me!"

Darius crossed the distance between them in two strides. He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw, forcing her to look up at him.

"You are lying," he hissed. "You are a terrible liar."

"I'm not-"

He cut her off with his mouth.

It wasn't a kiss. It was an assault. His lips crashed against hers, hard and punishing. It was possessive, angry, demanding.

Della froze. Her mind went blank. Then, revulsion surged through her.

She pushed against his chest, but he was like a granite wall. He deepened the kiss, his tongue invading her mouth.

Panic flared. Della opened her mouth and clamped her teeth down on his lower lip. Hard.

She tasted copper.

Darius grunted and jerked back.

He touched his lip. His fingers came away red.

He looked at the blood, then at her. His eyes were wild, dilated with rage.

"You bit me," he said, his voice dangerously quiet.

He grabbed the lapels of her robe. With a violent rip, he tore the fabric open.

Della screamed, crossing her arms over her chest, sliding down the wall to crouch on the floor. "No! Please!"

Darius stood over her, his chest heaving. He looked at her cowering form, at the terror in her eyes.

Something shifted in his face. The rage broke, replaced by something that looked like self-loathing.

He stepped back. He ran a hand through his hair, turning away from her.

"Cover yourself," he spat. "You disgust me."

He grabbed his whiskey glass and hurled it into the fireplace. It shattered.

He stormed out of the apartment, the front door slamming with a force that shook the walls.

Della stayed on the floor, clutching the torn robe. She touched her lips. They were swollen.

He had stopped. He was a monster, but he wasn't a rapist.

That was a line. And lines could be manipulated.

Morning light filtered into the living room. Della woke up on the sofa. Her neck was stiff.

The apartment was silent. Darius hadn't come back.

Della looked down at her ruined robe. She couldn't wear this.

She stood up and walked to the master bedroom. She pushed the door open. The room smelled like him-sandalwood and cedar. It made her skin prickle.

She went to the closet. It was a walk-in, filled with rows of pristine suits. Navy, black, charcoal.

She grabbed a white dress shirt. She put it on. It hung to her mid-thighs, swallowing her small frame. She buttoned it up to the collar.

She looked in the mirror. She looked small. Vulnerable.

She thought about last night. Fighting him had almost gotten her assaulted. Screaming got her nowhere.

She needed to change tactics. If he wanted a pet, she would be a pet. A quiet, obedient pet who was waiting for the cage door to be left unlocked.

Henderson rolled a garment rack into the living room.

"Miss," he said, not batting an eye at her attire. "Sir ordered these for you."

Della touched the fabric of a silk dress. It was Gucci. There were rows of dresses, soft sweaters, designer jeans.

"Thank you," she whispered, lowering her head.

Henderson held out a black credit card. "For incidentals. Online only. No communication devices can be purchased."

Della took the card. "He... he bought these for me?"

"Sir expects you to be dressed for dinner."

Della nodded. "Okay."

When Henderson left, she searched the clothes. No receipts. No hidden notes. Just expensive fabric.

She chose a pale pink dress. It was modest, soft. It made her look innocent.

She went to the kitchen. She opened the fridge. It was fully stocked.

She took out vegetables. She found a cutting board. She pulled a chef's knife from the block.

It felt heavy in her hand.

She started chopping onions. The rhythmic sound of the blade hitting the wood was soothing. Chop. Chop. Chop.

The elevator chimed.

Della froze. Her grip on the knife tightened.

Footsteps approached. Heavy. tired.

She forced her hand to relax. She continued chopping. Tears from the onions blurred her vision.

"What are you doing?" Darius's voice.

Della turned. She kept the knife low, non-threatening. She forced a small, tremulous smile.

"I'm making dinner," she said.