His Property: A Billionaire Possession Romance

Aria didn't cry.

She told herself that as she sipped her wine alone on the balcony that night.

She wasn't crying.

She was clearing her vision.

Breathing.

Letting the cold wind scrape away the heat of his hands, the ghost of his kiss, the ache of being held like she mattered—only to be discarded like she didn't.

She'd promised herself, back when this began, that she wouldn't fall for Leon Castellan.

But now she knew better.

Because falling hadn't been the problem.

Believing him had been.

By morning, she was calm.

Dangerously calm.

She walked into the living room like she owned the penthouse. Hair sleek, heels sharp, lips blood-red.

Leon was already there, reading something on his tablet. He looked up when he heard her footsteps—froze, just slightly.

She didn't wait for him to speak.

"New rules," she said.

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

She walked straight up to him, dropping a cream-colored folder on the table between them.

Inside: a rewritten version of their contract.

Modified. Marked. Brutal.

Leon glanced at the cover, then back at her. "What is this?"

"You said this arrangement was about control. Power. Protection." Her voice was smooth as silk, but there was steel underneath. "So I'm taking mine back."

He opened the folder slowly.

The first clause hit him like a punch:

Clause 3.2: The Subject is no longer obligated to perform appearances at the discretion of the Client. The Subject will attend only events agreed upon mutually.

He looked up. "You're revising the terms?"

"I'm replacing them."

Page after page, clause after clause—Aria had redrawn the power dynamic. No more ambiguous obligations. No more vague appearances or performances. No more dressing for his benefit, no more silence when he pulled away, no more pretending he didn't want her.

At the very bottom, in her neat signature:

Aria D. Rousseau

Leon stared at it for a long time.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.

"You're trying to control me now."

"No," she said. "I'm showing you what it looks like when someone refuses to be played."

Leon's jaw clenched. "This isn't a game."

"Then stop treating it like one."

The next three days were tense.

They danced around each other in the penthouse—civil, cold, simmering.

Leon didn't sign the new contract.

But he didn't reject it either.

He kept it on his desk, pages slightly worn from being read and reread.

Aria waited.

She didn't push.

But she didn't cave, either.

If he wanted her in his life, in his bed, in his world—he'd have to make that choice on her terms.

No more pretending she was just a pawn.

By the end of the week, they had an event.

A high-profile auction in the Hamptons. Old money. Brutal press. The kind of place where people smiled while silently assessing your net worth.

Leon sent her the dress.

She didn't wear it.

She chose her own.

A slinky navy silk gown with an open back and a slit that could make saints sin.

When she walked into the room beside him, all eyes turned.

Including his.

His gaze moved over her like a slow burn, possessive and stunned.

He leaned in slightly. "That's not the dress I chose."

Aria smiled. "That's the point."

He said nothing.

But his hand settled low on her waist as they entered the ballroom—and didn't move all night.

They didn't speak much during the event.

But something had shifted.

Leon stayed close. His fingers brushed hers more than once. He let her speak freely, let her take control of conversations. And when someone commented on how radiant she looked, Leon didn't correct them.

He let them assume she was his.

Because she was.

Not by ownership.

But by choice.

It was late when they returned to the penthouse.

She expected him to retreat again. To disappear into that shell of cold marble control.

But he followed her.

All the way to her bedroom door.

And when she turned to face him, he looked... different.

Not defeated.

Not domineering.

Just stripped down.

"I read your contract," he said.

She raised a brow. "And?"

"I didn't sign it."

She felt her stomach tighten.

"But not because I disagree with it."

Her breath hitched.

"I didn't sign it," he said, "because it's not your job to fix the rules I broke."

Aria stared at him. "Then what is my job?"

He stepped closer.

"To forgive me."

She blinked.

Leon took another step. "And maybe… give me a second chance to get it right."

She swallowed. "Are you saying you want to start over?"

"No," he said. "I want to move forward. With you. Without pretending anymore."

A long beat of silence.

Then she asked, softly, "Do you accept my rules?"

He nodded once.

"I accept you."

She let him in.

Not just into the room.

But into the part of her that had started to close off again.

They didn't touch that night.

Not beyond the brush of his hand on her hip when he passed her on the way to the window. Not beyond the silent way he sat beside her on the edge of the bed.

But something else happened.

Something louder than sex and stronger than control.

Trust.

Real, terrifying, beautiful trust.

And that was the most dangerous rewrite of all.