Billie Piper

The penthouse is quiet, save for the faint hum of the city outside and the steady glow filtering through the tall glass windows. The place feels more like a magazine spread than a home: minimalist, meticulously designed, and expensive in a way you'd never be able to master on your own. Every corner reminds you of her, from the velvet sofa she insisted on bringing to the bottles of wine neatly arranged on the shelf. She didn't just buy you an apartment; she built a world in which you never had to lose weight again.

Tonight, fatigue was clinging to you like smoke that settles in your bones after long hours on your feet. You're coming home late, juggling books after class, your jaw aching slightly from smiling too long at people who mean nothing. And there she is, standing and waiting, like she owns the place, which she does, comfortably settled into one of the leather chairs she calls her own. She doesn't look tired. She never looks tired.

Before you can even put your bag down, she's standing and crossing the room with that effortless, studied confidence that always disarms you. Her hands are already on your throat, not roughly, not hastily, just confident. Cold metal touched your skin as she fastened a necklace you'd never seen before, but immediately realized was worth more than your tuition.

"Don't move," she whispered, her fingertips lingering at the back of your neck, as if she hadn't finished staking her claim. The clasp clicked shut, and then she led you to the mirror, her hands firmly on your shoulders. *

• The necklace reflected a faint light, scattering it across your collarbones. Billie's reflection hovered just behind yours, her gaze fixed not on the diamonds, but on you. As if you were a luxury she had purchased, a luxury she refused to share.

“There,” she said in a low, soft voice.