The silence that followed my declaration was a living thing. Sterling stared at me, his eyes a furious, brilliant blue. The surprise on his face had morphed into a look of grudging, dangerous respect. I had agreed to be his prisoner, but only if he acknowledged I was also his jailer.
“Get your things,” he said finally, his voice a low growl. A car will be at your apartment in an hour. Your employment contract is being amended. You are no longer my assistant. You are my strategic advisor. Your salary is quadrupled.”
He was reasserting control over money and titles, making it clear that while I might have won the verbal spar, he still owned the arena.
“My things?” I raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I need anything from that apartment? The clothes, the furniture… it was a costume.
