POV Floris
“Why that question?” Sia’s voice was sharp as broken glass.
“Because I saw the tape.”
She went dead still. Like, statue-level motionless. “How?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It fucking matters—”
“I hacked his system, found his archive, and watched his little trophy collection.” I leaned forward. “The question is why you didn’t warn me that you used to be exactly where I am now.”
“Warn you?” Her laugh was bitter as black coffee. “I’ve been trying to warn you since day one. You just weren’t listening.”
“I’m listening now.”
She stared at me for a long moment, then checked her watch. “We have twenty minutes before the next meeting. Fine. You want the truth? Here’s the fucking truth.”
She pulled out her phone, set it face-down between us like a barrier.
“I was twenty. Fresh out of university with a degree in business administration and student debt that would make your brother’s medical bills look like pocket change.”
“How much?”
“Eighty thousand euros. My father was… he had issues with anger management and alcohol. My mother got caught smuggling drugs across the Belgian border when I was nineteen. Twenty-year sentence.”
She traced patterns on the table with her finger. “I was alone, broke, and running out of options fast.”
“What kind of options?”
“The kind desperate girls consider when rent’s due and dignity’s negotiable.” She met my eyes. “I had two choices: the red light district or answer Eric’s job posting for an executive assistant position.”
My stomach dropped. “Shit, Sia.”
“The salary he offered was obscene. Like, suspiciously generous for basic administrative work. But I figured rich guys pay stupid money for stupid things, right? How hard could it be to manage schedules and answer phones?”
“Except it wasn’t just administrative work.”
“First week was normal. Filing, scheduling, coffee runs. I thought I’d hit the jackpot.” Her voice went flat. “Then he invited me to dinner. ‘Business discussion,’ he said. ‘Dress appropriately.’”
“Let me guess. The dress was provided.”
“Black. Expensive. And came with accessories I didn’t understand at the time.” She touched her throat unconsciously. “A collar. ‘Part of the company dress code,’ he said.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“He was methodical about it. Started with small requests—stay late, work weekends, wear specific outfits. Each demand was reasonable in isolation. But together?” She shook her head. “He was building a cage, one bar at a time.”
“How long before you realized?”
“Too long. By the time I understood what was happening, I was already in too deep. He’d paid off my student loans, set up a trust fund, made me financially dependent on him.”
Her hands were trembling slightly. “And the worst part? I was grateful. This man was destroying my sense of self, and I thanked him for it.”
I felt sick. “What did he do to you?”
“Everything. Nothing. That’s his specialty—psychological torture that leaves no visible marks. He’d build me up until I felt powerful, important, then tear me down until I couldn’t function without his approval.” She paused. “The room in the tape? That was my breaking point. I’d been fighting him for months, trying to maintain some piece of myself. That night, I finally stopped fighting.”
“What changed?”
“I realized I was in love with him. Or what I thought was love—probably just Stockholm syndrome with better marketing.” Her smile was sharp as a blade. “The moment I admitted it, out loud, on camera, he lost interest. Game over. I've served my purpose.”
“But you stayed.”
“Where was I supposed to go? He owned me—financially, professionally, psychologically. But he offered me a deal: stay on as his director of operations, help him with future acquisitions, and he’d set me up for life. Financial security in exchange for becoming his accomplice.”
“You became his recruiter.”
“I became his hunter. I find the vulnerable ones, the desperate ones, the ones who remind him of something he wants to break.” She looked directly at me. “Like you.”
The words hit like a physical blow. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because telling you would’ve been signing your brother’s death warrant. Eric doesn’t tolerate disloyalty from his employees.” She stood up, smoothing her skirt. “If I had known what accepting that job would cost me, I would’ve chosen the red light district. At least sex work is honest about what it is.”
Before I could respond, Eric appeared beside our table like a well-dressed nightmare.
“Floris.” His voice was casual, but there was steel underneath. “Sunday dinner. Be ready by six.”
“What dinner?” I blinked up at him.
“Family dinner. Dress appropriately.” His eyes flicked to Sia, and something cold passed between them. “Sia will help you select something suitable.”
He walked away without another word, leaving us sitting there in the wreckage of our conversation.
I didn’t miss the way Sia’s face crumpled for just a second—like watching someone get slapped in public.