CHAPTER NINE
—Duncan—
I'm not the man I used to be.
I still look like him—same suit, same jaw, same hands that once signed billion-dollar deals without flinching.
But that man is gone.
He started to die the night she left me alone in my bed.
Now I'm just the echo.
And she's the only sound that fills it.
---
At first, I thought I was imagining it.
The way my hand twitched toward my phone. The way I couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. Couldn't breathe without wondering if she'd texted.
But no.
This was real.
I've built empires on logic, power, control.
None of that means shit now.
Not when Aphrodite isn't answering me.
---
It started yesterday.
She woke up in my bed, eyes still heavy, mouth swollen from the night before. She kissed me like I was hers. Soft. Sweet. Lethal.
"I'll text you," she whispered.
Then disappeared.
She didn't text.
Not in the morning.
Not by noon.
Not by nightfall.
---
I waited.
I told myself it was nothing.
That she was busy. Working. Sleeping.
But it wasn't nothing.
Because Aphrodite doesn't vanish unless she wants me to notice.
And I did.
With every hour, the silence grew teeth.
---
By noon, I canceled a meeting with my Hong Kong investors.
I couldn't focus.
I kept checking my phone. Opening her contact. Reading old messages. Listening to her old voice notes.
Once, she'd sent me a recording of herself saying only:
"Touch yourself for me. I want you panting when I walk through the door."
I replayed it five times.
Did exactly what she asked.
But this time, she wasn't coming back.
---
By late afternoon, I'd stopped pretending.
I walked out of the office mid-call.
Got into the car.
Drove to her apartment.
Her building security didn't question me. I'd made sure of that weeks ago.
I took the elevator up, heart pounding harder with each floor.
By the time I reached her door, I was already sweating.
I knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Louder.
Nothing.
I tried the handle.
Locked.
I pressed my ear against the door.
Nothing.
I knocked again, harder. Louder. Fists slamming like a man begging the gods to spare him.
Still nothing.
I said her name.
Then I whispered it.
Then I rested my forehead on the door and whispered, "Please."
No answer.
Only silence.
---
I went home hollow.
The moment I walked into my penthouse, I smelled her.
Not her perfume.
Her.
The scent left on my sheets. My pillows. My skin.
I walked straight to the bedroom.
Stripped my shirt off.
Laid down where she'd last slept.
Her earrings were still on the nightstand.
Delicate. Gold. Twisted into some impossible shape.
I picked them up.
Clutched them like lifelines.
I pulled open the drawer.
Her panties were still there. Black lace. Damp with memory.
I brought them to my nose and inhaled like a sinner.
---
I stroked myself to the thought of her.
My cock responded instantly.
I shut my eyes.
Imagined her mouth.
Her moans.
The way she straddled me and told me not to come until she gave permission.
I moaned.
I begged her in my mind.
Please.
Please.
Let me come.
But I couldn't.
Even when I jerked faster. Even when I licked her name off my lips.
Nothing.
It was like my body had forgotten how to release without her.
I slammed my fist into the headboard in frustration.
"I need you," I whispered aloud.
No one answered.
---
The hours dragged.
I sat on the couch in the dark, scrolling through her photos like a man studying scripture.
She was on the cover of a fashion magazine I hadn't even approved. Somehow, she'd become everything without my help.
She didn't need me.
She just let me think she did.
---
Around midnight, a new campaign went live.
She hadn't told me.
She didn't have to.
It was everywhere—subway stations, Times Square, screens across every building.
Aphrodite Sivan.
Dressed in nothing but black velvet gloves, one heel slipping off her foot, eyes staring into the camera like she wanted to own your soul.
The tagline?
Fall, willingly.
God help me, I already had.
---
At 3:17 a.m., my phone buzzed.
I grabbed it like a man desperate for oxygen.
Aphrodite: Do you want me?
Four words.
I called her instantly.
She answered on the first ring.
Her voice?
Low. Lazy. Dangerous.
"Say it."
"I want you."
"How bad?"
"More than I want to live."
She laughed.
And I swear, I almost came from just the sound.
"You sound pathetic," she purred.
"I am."
She paused.
Then said the words that destroyed me.
"Naked. Knees. Hands behind your back."
My throat tightened.
"And then?"
"I'll come if I feel like it."
Then she hung up.
---
And so here I am.
Kneeling on the cold floor of my penthouse.
Naked.
Hard.
Breathing like I ran here.
Hands clasped behind my back.
The city lights glow outside the windows.
But they don't matter.
Nothing does but her.
Aphrodite.
She owns me.
Not just my cock. Not just my mind.
My soul.
And I don't even want it back.
---
Minutes pass.
Or hours.
Time is a trick now.
Every breath I take without her feels like theft.
My knees hurt. My back aches.
My erection is pulsing—painful, purple, desperate.
Still, I don't move.
Because if she walks through that door and I'm not exactly how she wants me?
She'll leave again.
And I won't survive it.
---
I hear a chime.
The elevator.
My heart stutters.
Footsteps.
Heels.
Then silence.
My breath catches.
I keep my head bowed.
I hear her walk in.
The door clicks shut.
She doesn't speak.
She walks a slow circle around me, heels clicking.
Then stops in front of me.
A finger lifts my chin.
And I look up into her eyes.
She smiles.
"You listened."
I nod.
Her finger slides across my bottom lip.
"You're learning."
I can't speak.
Can't breathe.
Then she says the one thing I needed to hear.
"Good boy."
And I break.
Right there.
Tears sting my eyes.
My cock throbs.
My heart collapses.
She kneels down. Straddles me. Wraps her hand around me and squeezes.
"Say it," she whispers.
"I'm yours," I choke out.
"Louder."
"I'm yours, Aphrodite."
"Forever?"
"Forever."
She strokes me once.
And I come instantly.
Hard.
Explosive.
Destroyed.
Ruined.
And she kisses me like she just won a war.
Because she has.
And I let her.