The apartment felt bigger without him in it.
Denzel had spent the entire day with me, a strange sort of calm in his touch, his voice, like last night's storm had never happened. He kissed me softly before he left, promised he'd call, and disappeared into the elevator, leaving me in the silk-wrapped silence of the space he said was mine. But even as the echo of his presence lingered, I felt the edges of something unsettled pressing in.
I wandered through the rooms, trailing my fingers over the sleek countertops, the cold marble floor, the gold accents. It was beautiful. Expensive. Perfect. And completely surreal.
I needed to tell someone. Not just anyone—someone who wouldn't ask too many questions. Someone who'd understand. I picked up my phone and called my mother.
Straight to voicemail.
I frowned and tried again, but the second attempt met the same fate. With a sigh, I gave up and turned to the next best option.
I took a few pictures—the glowing skyline outside the wall of windows, the glossy coffee table with fashion books neatly arranged, the massive mirror above the fireplace—and posted them to my Instagram story with a caption that practically screamed disbelief:
"My new apartment!! ✨"
I knew what would come next.
The messages. The DMs. The questions. They'd wonder how a girl with no job, no degree, and no last name that meant anything could possibly afford this kind of place. They'd fill in the blanks themselves, write stories I didn't give them permission to tell. But I didn't care. Let them wonder. Let them talk.
I ordered some takeout—spicy noodles, crispy spring rolls—and wandered into the bedroom, where the dress Denzel had picked out still hung from the closet door like a gift I wasn't sure I deserved. I sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling aimlessly, until my phone rang from across the room.
Zoey.
My lips curled into a grin as I answered. "Hey, Zoe."
Her voice exploded through the speaker. "Bitch, you own an apartment now?!"
I laughed. "Yes."
"You are lying. You better be lying."
"I'm not."
"We need to celebrate that, friend. But—wait. Where the hell did you get the money to buy an apartment?"
I hesitated just long enough for her to gasp.
"Oh my God. Don't tell me a man did this. Star—"
I cut in, smiling. "Let's just say I met someone. And he's… taking care of me."
"And I'm just hearing about this now?!"
"I was going to tell you, but it's still new. I didn't want to jinx anything."
"Still new and he's buying you apartments?" she practically screeched. "Girl, what are you doing to this man?"
I laughed. "Nothing crazy. I swear. He just… treats me well."
"I'm coming over. Send me the location."
"I'll text it now," I said. "And bring our favorite champagne. I'll send you some money for snacks too."
"You better. I'm bringing the gossip energy with me."
I dropped the call and transferred the money, then sat back, heart still thudding in the quiet. I called my mother again, needing to hear her voice—even if I already knew what she'd say.
She picked up this time. "Hello?"
"Hi, Mom. I tried calling earlier."
"I was busy, Star. What is it?"
"I wanted to share something… Denzel bought me an apartment. And a new phone. I've never had anything like this before, Mom. It's beautiful."
Silence.
Then: "Mmm."
I paused, waiting, but nothing else came.
"That's all you're going to say?"
"What do you want me to say? That I'm proud? That this is normal? You barely know the man and he's already tying you to him with expensive gifts. Doesn't that scare you?"
"I know you're worried, but he's a good man. He's kind to me."
"Kind doesn't equal safe," she said, voice cooling. "You don't even know his full name, do you? His family? His past? Don't you wonder why a man like that isn't married? What kind of man needs to control someone so quickly?"
I was quiet, because I couldn't argue. I didn't know those things. Not really.
"I appreciate that you want a better life, Star. I really do," she continued. "But this isn't how you find it."
"Mom…"
"I have to go. Work."
The line went dead before I could say another word.
I sat still, her words circling me like smoke. Maybe I had been foolish. Maybe I'd stepped into something I didn't understand. I didn't even know how old he was. I didn't know if Wilson was his real name or just something he wore like another tailored suit.
I tried to shake it off, but the doubts had settled.
An hour later, Zoey let herself in, buzzing with energy, a bottle of champagne in one hand and a bag of snacks in the other. She paused in the entryway, eyes wide as she took in the apartment.
"Holy shit," she whispered. "Star. This place is insane."
"It's just an apartment," I said, smiling.
"An apartment with velvet chairs, gold finishes, and a skyline view that looks like a damn movie set," she said. "This is billionaire boyfriend behavior."
I giggled. "It's nice, I know."
We poured drinks, kicked our shoes off, and curled up on the massive couch. Zoey handed me a bowl of popcorn and narrowed her eyes like she was about to interrogate a suspect.
"So… tell me everything. What's his name?"
"Denzel."
"Full name."
"Denzel Wilson."
She sat up straighter. "Wait. Wilson? Like—Wilson Corp?"
I blinked. "You know that name?"
"Girl, who doesn't? That's one of the biggest tech-and-commerce conglomerates in the country. He owns that?"
I nodded slowly. "Yeah. He does."
Zoey stared at me like I'd just told her I was marrying into royalty. "You're dating a damn CEO, and you didn't think to mention that?!"
"It never came up," I muttered, shrugging. "He's private. And I don't know… I liked that."
She tilted her head. "Star. You're literally living in a billionaire's apartment. At some point, this is going to stop feeling romantic and start feeling… transactional."
The words hit harder than I expected. Maybe because they echoed my mother's. Maybe because, deep down, I'd started wondering the same.
Zoey didn't push. She just sipped her drink and changed the subject, filling the air with chatter and laughter until the tension dissolved. She stayed late, and when she finally left, the apartment felt too quiet again. Too large.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the new phone Denzel had given me.
I opened the browser and typed:
Denzel Wilson, Wilson Corp, New York
I hit search.
What loaded wasn't just a name—it was a brand, an empire, a man with power that reached across continents. Articles. Magazine covers. Speculation. Praise. Scandals, too—allegations dismissed, headlines buried.
And suddenly, the man who touched me like I was fragile, who punished me like I was his property, felt even more dangerous than I had allowed myself to believe.
I scrolled through the images, stopping at one where he stood on a rooftop, dressed in black, eyes unreadable, the city burning behind him like something he owned.
And maybe he did.
I locked the phone and curled into bed, pulling the sheets up to my chin. I should have felt lucky. I should have felt chosen.
Instead, I felt something cold tightening around me.
Silk chains.
Beautiful.
And binding.