She was exactly where I wanted her—on the floor, trembling, marble biting into her knees like penance.
But it wasn’t pain she flinched from—it was the moment itself.
That flicker in her gaze when she realized she couldn’t talk her way out of this. Not this time. Her body was caught between instincts: protect or submit.
Her arms were stiff at her sides, fingers curled into useless fists, like she didn’t know whether to fight or beg.
That hesitation—that crack between resistance and surrender—that’s where truth hides. I stood over her, silent, still.
Sometimes stillness is more violent than force. She looked up. Didn’t look away. That was new. That was rare.
Sia never looked this long. None of them ever did.
But Floris met my stare like she was daring me to flinch first.
“Just because my brother has medical debt,” she rasped, her voice fracturing like glass under a boot, “and I’m stuck paying it off—doesn’t mean you get to pull this twisted power-trip bullshit with me.”
I laughed. Couldn’t help it.
Not because it was actually funny, but because she still believed this was about contracts. About finances. About choice.
That laugh wasn’t mockery. It was mourning—for how naïve she still was. I crouched in front of her, slow and deliberate, letting the shift in proximity do the damage.
No sudden moves. I didn’t need to touch her to dominate her. But I did.
My fingers found her chin, gentle but immovable, claiming her like a territory I’d long since marked.
She flinched. Small. Beautiful. The kind of flinch that spoke of someone who’d been taught to brace. That taught me more than she ever could with words.
“You don’t have a choice.”
Of course she did. People always do. I just made sure that every road circled back to me.
My thumb traced her bottom lip—not pressure, just presence. Her breath hitched. It was unintentional. Involuntary. Intoxicating.
A sound too soft for defiance, too broken for indifference. “There it is.”
I stood and turned away, not because I needed distance, but because ritual matters. I poured the cognac with the grace of someone who’d done this before. I had. Many times. But this time it wasn't about pattern.
It was about escalation. About rewiring her instincts. “Drink.”
She didn’t obey. Of course she didn’t. There was still pride left in her—enough to think she could make the rules.
Her “no” came sharp, teeth bared behind it, and I savored the flash of rebellion just long enough to crush it. “Do you want me to do it the hard way?”
Soft. Casual. The calm before devastation.
Her gaze cut to the surveillance wall. She was beginning to see it. The web. The reach. The truth of what being seen really meant.
Her lips parted and that was all I needed. I pressed the glass to them and tipped so she drank. Shaking, but she drank.
“Good girl.” I whispered it beside her ear—not as praise, but as branding.
Then I left her on the floor, knowing she’d collapse as soon as the door closed. I didn’t need the cameras to confirm it.
I knew the way pride bends when no one’s watching. I knew what guilt does to a body.
While she slept, I prepared the Skyline Suite. Personally. No assistants.
I gave exact directives: hair washed, skin clean, no residue of makeup or perfume. Silk sleepwear. No invasive handling. I refused to let anyone else touch her.
I dressed her myself. Button by button. Seam by seam. I did it for power, not for comfort. She never stirred, I made sure of it.
When she woke, I was already watching from the upper floor’s surveillance suite.
She stumbled to the mirror, saw what had been done to her—what I’d done to her—and panic bloomed across her face like a bruise. That expression was art.
Disorientation. Violation. Confusion. It would make her pliable. Weaker. Ready.
Danika arrived precisely on time, uniform in hand. Floor Seven was prepped. The elevator took her without asking. It was designed that way. Submission coded into function.
Then Sia entered.
Sia. My blade in a world of blunt instruments.
I’d trained her to be precise. Emotionless. Utterly loyal.
She didn’t breathe without my permission. She was perfect because I’d made her that way. She lived for instruction even if Floris couldn’t understand the power in that.
Not yet.
“Training for what?” Floris asked, and Sia delivered the line exactly as I’d written it.
From behind the one-way glass, I leaned forward. Barefoot. Shirtless. The woman on the bed behind me—a prior volunteer—had long since passed out.
I hadn’t touched her just for contrast. Floris wouldn’t know that. She didn’t need to. Her jealousy would build the story for me.
“Touch yourself,” I said over the speaker.