POV Floris
“I don’t like to repeat myself.”
The words came low, from the speaker in the ceiling, but they carried enough weight to buckle my knees.
I turned toward Sia. She was still standing there. Perfect posture. Arms behind her back. Watching like this was a weather report and not a violation.
“Are you really just gonna stand there?” My voice was cracking. “Like this is normal?”
Her gaze didn’t shift. “This is Brighton Systems, Miss Middleton. You agreed to our structure. That includes reinforcement.”
The screen flickered with static. I heard the wet slap of skin, the low growl of Eric’s voice on the other side of that one-way glass, and my stomach flipped.
My hands shook as I reached between my thighs.
The bodysuit had an invisible seam, and I found the clasp with trembling fingers. It clicked open with a soft pop, and the cool air rushed in, licking over flushed skin already too aware, too sensitive.
“I…” I didn’t even know what I was going to say. I wasn’t in control of my voice anymore. My throat felt raw.
Sia moved calmly. She dragged a chair forward—steel-framed, leather seat. She positioned it exactly in front of the one-way glass. Then turned it to face the surveillance camera mounted above the doorway.
“Sit,” she said. My legs barely moved, but I made it. I sat. My knees knocked together, my hands hesitating. “Wider.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. I swallowed hard and parted my thighs, feeling the cold air kiss every secret part of me.
I watched the reflection of myself in the glass—my flushed face, the tight suit peeled open just enough, the way my fingers moved down shakily.
My breath stuttered as I touched myself—first gently, then harder. The shame burned hotter than the arousal, but it didn’t stop me. Nothing did. Not the camera, not Sia, not the fact that I was being trained like a thing.
I hated it. My body loved it.
I watched the shadows on the other side of the glass shift. I saw him take the woman. Hard, no mercy. I heard her voice, high-pitched and wrecked.
I imagined Eric’s mouth. His fingers. His control.
My back arched. My breath caught. The orgasm shattered through me like lightning across a field of glass. My thighs shook. My stomach clenched. My moan punched the silence and hung there like sin.
And all I could hear—echoing low, satisfied, smug—was his voice through the speaker:
“Good girl.”
***
The next morning, I tried to convince myself I was fine.
Spoiler alert: I wasn’t. Not even close. But fake-it-till-you-make-it has been my life motto since middle school, so corporate slacks and a crisp white blouse it was.
I looked like an intern who’d gotten lost on her way to orientation.
The elevator to the executive floor was already waiting when Sia materialized like some kind of corporate ghost.
“Mr. Brighton has issued a dress code correction,” she announced, holding out a black satin bag like it contained state secrets.
I took it, already knowing I was fucked. “What kind of correction?”
“The transparent kind.”
I opened the bag. My soul left my body.
Sheer black lingerie with gold embroidery that looked more like art than actual clothing. No bra. No actual panties—just some lacy suggestion of coverage. And heels that were basically stilts with an attitude problem.
There was a note: Protocol: Transparency.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“Two minutes,” Sia said, checking her watch like we were discussing quarterly reports instead of my complete humiliation.
“I’m not changing into— this is literally just underwear!”
“One minute, forty seconds.”
“This is sexual harassment! This is illegal! This is—”
“One minute, twenty seconds.”
I grabbed the bag and basically sprinted to the nearest bathroom. My hands shook as I peeled off my professional armor and pulled on what could generously be called “clothing” if you squinted really hard and had cataracts.
The bodysuit was a joke. It hugged everything, covered nothing, and made me look like I was auditioning for a very specific type of job interview. The heels added four inches and approximately zero dignity.
I caught my reflection and wanted to die. “This is insane. This is actually insane.”
But Jake’s face flashed in my mind—those machines, those nurses—and I walked out anyway.
Eric didn’t look up when I entered his office. Didn’t smirk, didn’t comment, didn’t even acknowledge that I was dressed like I’d lost a very expensive bet. Just gestured toward his desk like we were conducting normal business.
“There are 348 active breach alerts on my system,” he said, voice all business. “Pick one to investigate. You have five minutes.”
I blinked. Hard. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Cybersecurity. Your actual skill set. The reason I hired you is beyond the obvious entertainment value.” He finally looked at me, eyes scanning from heels to barely-there neckline with clinical detachment. “Choose wisely.”
“Are you serious right now? You dress me up like—like this—and then want me to do actual work?”
“Four minutes, thirty seconds.”
“I can’t even sit down in this outfit!”
“Then stand. Four minutes, fifteen seconds.”
I wanted to scream. Instead, I clicked over to his workstation in heels that were clearly designed by someone who hated women. The screen was a nightmare of red alerts, system warnings, and what looked like digital chaos.
“This is impossible,” I muttered, scanning the alerts. “Half of these could be false positives, and the other half—”
“Three minutes.”
“Would you stop with the countdown? I’m trying to think!”
“Thinking is optional. Instinct isn’t. What doesn’t belong?”
I forced myself to focus, ignoring the way the sheer fabric felt against my skin, ignoring how exposed I was, ignoring everything except the patterns on the screen. Most of the alerts were standard—failed login attempts, suspicious IP addresses, the usual corporate paranoia.
But one stood out. A login ping from Marrakesh that felt… wrong. The timing was too perfect, the access pattern too clean. Real hackers were messier.
“This one,” I said, pointing to the alert. “It’s too neat. Real breach attempts have digital fingerprints, behavioral patterns. This looks like someone trying too hard to look suspicious.”
Eric moved behind me—close enough that I could feel his body heat through the practically nonexistent fabric I was wearing.
“Explain.”
“The timestamp intervals are exactly sixty seconds apart. No variation. Humans don’t work that way—we’re inconsistent, we take breaks, we make mistakes. This is automated, but it’s trying to look manual.”
His finger traced down my spine, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“Good,” he murmured. “What else?”
My brain was short-circuiting from the combination of professional analysis and whatever the hell this situation was. “The… the IP address bounces through seven proxies, but they’re all premium VPN services. Expensive ones. Most real hackers use free or sketchy proxies.”
“And?”
“And whoever set this up has money. Corporate money. This isn’t some kid in his mom’s basement—this is industrial espionage disguised as a random attack.”
He stepped back. “Eliminate it.”
I pulled up the security protocols and started typing, muscle memory taking over. Block the IP range, flag the proxy services, implement a honeypot to track any follow-up attempts. My fingers flew across the keyboard despite the ridiculous outfit.
“Done,” I said, turning around. “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.”
I stared at him, this man who’d dressed me like a high-end escort and then asked me to do legitimate cybersecurity work like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“What’s my actual job here?” I asked. “Because I’m getting some seriously mixed signals.”
His smile was sharp as a blade. “Your job is whatever I decide it is. Today, you’re a cybersecurity analyst in questionable attire. Tomorrow?” He shrugged. “We’ll see what interests me.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You won’t.” He was already turning back to his own screen, dismissing me like I was just another task he’d completed. “Your brother’s treatment continues as long as you’re useful. The moment you stop being useful…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
I stood there in ridiculous heels and transparent fabric, feeling more exposed than I’d ever felt in my life, and realized this was just the beginning.
“Sia will give you today’s actual assignment,” Eric said without 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.” His eyes flicked up to meet mine. “After all, who’s going to suspect the executive assistant in the cocktail dress of corporate espionage?”