“I don’t like to repeat myself.”
The words slipped through the speaker, low and unhurried. I didn’t need to raise my voice.
I watched her stumble on the monitor, hands twitching. Her thighs pressed together like she could hide the reaction.
Like she could pretend she wasn’t dripping.
Sia stood beside her in perfect silence, hands folded behind her back like a funeral director at a wake. Floris turned to her, voice breaking with panic and defiance.
“Are you really just gonna stand there? Like this is normal?”
Sia didn’t flinch. “This is Brighton Systems, Miss Middleton. You agreed to our structure. That includes reinforcement.”
Perfect delivery. Flat. Dead-eyed. That’s why I kept her.
I adjusted the feed.
On the other side of the glass, a carefully staged scene played out.
A woman moaning into silk sheets, her wrists bound, my voice—recorded from an earlier session—crooning orders that made even the security techs shift in their chairs. Wet skin, soft gasps, the crackle of dominance.
Floris bit her lip. Hard. Blood, I was sure of it.
She hesitated. Then her hands reached down, fumbling for the bodysuit’s clasp.
I watched her find it. I watched her open it.
Good.
Sia moved like choreography. The chair dragged exactly where I told her to place it—centered before the glass, turned toward the surveillance camera. Every angle calculated. Every instruction was rehearsed.
“Sit,” she said. Floris obeyed. Stiffly. Her knees knocked together. “Wider.”
Not a suggestion. Her thighs parted just enough.
She looked at her reflection while I watched her watch herself. That red-faced, glassy-eyed girl with a body begging to be used. She moved her hand between her thighs.
I didn’t need to tell her how.
She started slowly. Gentle. Then the rhythm built, pressure increased as her breath skipped. And I felt her through the screen—rage, lust, surrender, disgust.
Then I saw it in real time: the moment she stopped hating it.
Her back arched, mouth fell open. Orgasm crashed through her like a freight train in silk. She moaned loud enough to shatter the air.
I let the silence hold, just long enough to make her wonder if I’d say anything.
Then I gave her what she needed. “Good girl.”
The next morning I reviewed footage of her from the previous night while sipping espresso. Every shift confirmed what I already knew—Floris Middleton was hooked.
Shame alone couldn’t produce that kind of climax.
The dressing room camera flickered on at 06:59. She wore slacks and a blouse, neat ponytail. Pretending yesterday didn’t happen.
Sia stood outside her suite, holding the black satin bag.
“Mr. Brighton has issued a dress code correction,” she said, handing it over like it contained a court summons.
I watched Floris pale. “What kind of correction?”
“The transparent kind.”
Her mouth moved. Cursing. Denial. Bargaining. The usual.
Sia checked her watch. “Two minutes.” She screamed something about legality and I rolled my eyes. “One minute, twenty seconds.”
Then she ran. Bathroom feed caught her stripping. Rage in every motion. But she still put the damn thing on. She always would.
She caught her reflection and froze. I saw it. That second of silence. That moment where she didn’t recognize herself.
Then she walked out anyway. Obedience through black lace.
She entered my office like she’d been dropped into the wrong timeline. Heels clicking, lingerie barely visible under a sheer overlay.
I didn’t look up, didn’t need to. I already knew she’d followed orders to the letter.
“There are 348 active breach alerts on my system,” I said. “Pick one to investigate. You have five minutes.”
She blinked. Processing. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Cybersecurity. Your actual skill set. The reason I hired you beyond the obvious entertainment value.” I looked up then, eyes dragging from heel to hemline. “Choose wisely.”
Her indignation exploded and I let her spiral.
“Four minutes, thirty seconds.” She claimed she couldn’t sit. “Then stand. Four minutes, fifteen seconds.”
Her hands hit the keys like gunfire. “This is impossible,” she muttered.
“Three minutes.” She snapped at me again. “Thinking is optional. Instinct isn’t. What doesn’t belong?”
I moved behind her, close enough that she forgot how to breathe.
She found the Marrakesh ping. Isolated the flaw. Explained every detail. Smart girl. Even under pressure. Especially under pressure.
I dragged a finger down her spine—bare between the threads of gold.
“Good,” I murmured.
She kept going. Money trail. Proxy chain. Behavioral mismatch. Her logic was clean. Clinical.
She was brilliant. She was mine. “Eliminate it,” I said.
She executed the countermeasure quickly. Almost too quickly. Then turned. “But you already knew it was fake, didn’t you?”
“Of course.”
“So this was a test.”
“Everything is a test, Floris. The question is whether you pass or fail.”
She stared like she wanted to hit me. Or cry. Or fall to her knees and beg. “What’s my actual job here?” she asked.
I just smiled at first.
“Your job is whatever I decide it is. Today, you’re a cybersecurity analyst in questionable attire. Tomorrow?” I shrugged. “We’ll see what interests me.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You won’t.” I turned away.
Let her sit in the silence. Let her remember who controlled the machines keeping her brother alive.
“Sia will give you today’s actual assignment,” I said, not even looking up. “Something more suited to your… unique qualifications.”
“Which are?”
“Access to places most people can’t go. Information most people can’t get.” I met her eyes then. Let her see the blade beneath the velvet. “After all, who’s going to suspect the executive assistant in the cocktail dress of corporate espionage?”