Chapter 47 – The Breaking Point

The air in the bedroom was too still.

Too charged with something thick, suffocating, and dangerous.

Leonidas had barely spoken since dinner.

Not when they walked up the grand staircase.

Not when they entered their bedroom.

Not even when he locked the door behind them.

Anastasia stood near the vanity, her heart beating too fast, too loud as she watched him.

He stood by the window, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping the glass of whiskey he hadn't touched.

The tension in his body wasn't just anger.

It was something darker. Something possessive.

Something that told her he was fighting a battle within himself.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, controlled—but barely.

"Tell me, Anastasia…" He turned, his piercing gaze locking onto hers. "How long were you planning to keep testing me?"

She inhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around the edge of the vanity.

"I wasn't—"

He set his glass down too slowly, too carefully.

"Don't lie to me." His voice was soft, but the danger underneath it made her stomach tighten.

Anastasia exhaled, lifting her chin. "You don't trust me."

Leonidas moved then.

Not rushed. Not reckless.

But with deliberate intent.

Each step toward her was slow, too controlled, like he was restraining himself from something far worse.

She didn't back away.

Even when he was so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body.

Even when his hand lifted, brushing her hair back with a tenderness that was almost deceiving.

"You think this is about trust?" he murmured, his breath brushing against her temple.

She shivered—but she wouldn't let him see it.

"Isn't it?" she whispered.

A humorless smirk flickered across his lips.

"No," he said, his fingers trailing down her jaw, resting just beneath her chin.

"This is about the fact that I can feel you slipping away from me."

Her chest tightened.

She parted her lips to speak, but he didn't let her.

His hand slid down, gripping the back of her neck, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to keep her exactly where he wanted her.

And then—he whispered something that shattered her.

"I don't know how to love you without keeping you."

She had expected anger. Possessiveness. Control.

But not this.

Not raw, desperate honesty.

Her breath hitched.

Leonidas' grip loosened, but he didn't pull away.

His lips brushed against her forehead, then lower, against her cheekbone.

Not demanding.

Not claiming.

Just there.

As if he was memorizing her.

As if he was afraid she would disappear if he let go.

Her fingers curled into his shirt, gripping him like he was the one slipping away.

Because, God help her, she understood him.

She understood that feeling—the quiet, unbearable fear of not being enough.

Of wanting to be loved, but not knowing if love was enough to keep someone.

She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes against the weight of it.

"You can't keep me, Leonidas," she whispered.

His entire body tensed.

His grip tightened.

And then, his voice—low, breaking—

"Then tell me how to love you."

She froze.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Because it was the first time he had ever asked.

The first time he wasn't demanding her submission.

The first time he wasn't trying to control her.

He was pleading.

And it made her weak.

Leonidas had never begged for anything in his life.

He had always taken.

Always commanded, demanded, owned.

But Anastasia…

She wasn't something he could own.

And that terrified him.

He knew how to win wars, destroy rivals, command empires.

But he didn't know how to hold onto her without crushing her.

Without making her feel like she was trapped instead of chosen.

His fingers brushed against her wrist, trailing down to where her pulse beat too fast.

She was shaking.

But she wasn't afraid.

She was fighting.

For herself. For them.

For something neither of them knew how to fix.

She swallowed hard. "I need to be able to breathe, Leonidas."

His chest tightened.

She lifted her hands, pressing them against his jaw, forcing him to look at her.

"I love you," she whispered. "But I can't live in your shadow."

Leonidas exhaled harshly, his forehead dropping to hers.

And in that moment—he knew.

Knew that if he wasn't careful, if he kept chaining her to him out of fear, she would choose to walk away.

Not because she didn't love him.

But because she loved herself, too.

And he had to learn how to love her without consuming her.

His hands dropped to his sides.

His jaw clenched.

And then—he stepped back.

For the first time ever.

He didn't say anything.

Didn't fight.

Didn't try to pull her back.

And that was how she knew she had won.

Not in the way that mattered in power or control.

But in the way that mattered in love.

Leonidas Costa had spent his entire life taking, demanding, claiming.

And tonight?

Tonight, he let her go.

Not because he wanted to.

Not because he could.

But because he finally understood that she had to choose him freely.

Anastasia exhaled slowly, stepping away.

She turned, walking toward the door.

Her fingers hesitated on the handle.

Then—she glanced back at him.

He was still standing there, his hands clenched, his entire body rigid with the effort of letting her leave.

And just before she walked out, she whispered—

"I'm still yours, Leonidas. Just not on your terms."

Then—she was gone.

And for the first time in his life—Leonidas Costa had no idea what to do next.