He was gone.

The silence he left was heavier than his presence had been. The scent of burnt sugar and old leather had vanished, leaving only the stale smell of her own apartment.

Chloe was slumped against the wall, her legs refusing to hold her. A deep thrum vibrated under her skin, a current left over from his touch. Her body ached. A dull fire burned in muscles she didn’t know she had, each a reminder of his hands, his mouth, his weight. She had been taken apart and put back together as something else. Something owned.

Her gaze drifted across the room and landed on a small splash of black lace against the pale baseboard. Her panties. She remembered the sound of the fabric tearing.

Slowly, testing the protest of her own body, she pushed herself up. The black dress was a ruin. A thin strap was broken, and the seam along her hip was ripped open, the threads pulled apart. She felt nothing about it. It had served its purpose.

She walked to the coffee table.

The contract lay open. A single sheet of ancient, worn parchment that seemed to absorb the lamplight. On the signature line, her name was written. Chloe Thomas. The ink was a shimmering, fresh scarlet.

A sharp sting in her hand drew her attention. She lifted her fingers. A single drop of blood welled from the tip of her index finger, a tiny red mirror of the signature on the page.

She looked from her bleeding finger to the shimmering scarlet on the page. A slow smile touched her lips. Cold. Satisfied.

The loan was paid. The internship was hers. The suffocating gray of her future had been burned away, replaced by a brutal and brilliant light.

She had been surrendered. She had been used.

And she got everything she wanted.