POV Floris
Watching Sia completely disintegrate in front of a room full of corporate vultures was like witnessing a psychological car crash in slow motion.
And the worst part? It was fucking educational.
“Master,” she’d whispered, and my blood turned to actual ice.
That could be me. That sobbing, desperate woman on her knees, begging for scraps of attention from a man who’d never love her back.
That could be my future in six months, a year, whenever Eric got bored of his current entertainment. The thought made me want to vomit.
“You’re nothing like her, Floris.” Eric’s voice cut through my internal spiral.
Because of course he’d been watching me process my existential crisis in real time. Surveillance king never misses a psychological tell.
“Right,” I said, not bothering to hide the skepticism. “Because I’m so different from every other woman who’s worked for you. Who you fucked.”
“You are truly different.”
“How? Because I haven’t called you Master yet? Give it time.”
He stopped walking, turned to face me in the middle of the convention center parking lot.
“Because you fought back. Because you hacked my system to prove your innocence instead of just accepting defeat. Because even now, after everything, you’re questioning me instead of thanking me.”
Fair points. Annoying, but fair.
The drive back to the building was mostly silent, both of us processing the clusterfuck that had just exploded in our lives. My phone kept buzzing with updates—Jake’s treatment had been reinstated, his security increased.
Eric had kept his word. My brother was safe.
“I’m sorry.” The words came out of nowhere as we pulled into the underground garage.
“For what?”
“For accusing you. For tying you up. For not trusting you when you said you didn’t leak the videos.” His hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. “I fucked up. Badly.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“How?”
He turned off the engine, sat there for a moment like he was gathering courage for something. Which was weird, because Eric Brighton didn’t do vulnerable.
“I’ve never said ‘I love you’ to anyone before,” he said finally. “But with you… it’s different.”
My heart did this stupid fluttering thing that I immediately wanted to punch into submission.
“Different how?”
“Different like I actually mean it. Different like it scares the shit out of me.” He looked at me then, and for once his eyes weren’t calculating. Just… human. “I know we didn’t start like a normal couple—”
“That’s the understatement of the century.”
“But I’d like to try. If you want.”
The smart thing would’ve been to say no. To take Jake’s medical bills being paid as a win and get the hell out of Amsterdam before I ended up like Sia—broken and obsessed and calling some corporate psychopath ‘master’ in public.
But here’s the thing about smart choices: sometimes they’re also the coward’s choice.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. But we’re doing this my way. No more surveillance. No more contracts. No more psychological warfare disguised as foreplay.”
He smiled—actually smiled, not that shark grin he usually wore. “Deal.”
We made it to the elevator before reality hit me like a freight train.
I’d just agreed to date Eric Brighton. The man who owned people as a hobby. The man who’d just reduced a grown woman to sobbing wreckage with two words and a touch.
What the actual fuck was wrong with me?
“Floris.”
“What?”
“You’re spiraling. I can see it.”
Of course he could. Emotional radar was probably part of his corporate training.
“I’m not spiraling. I’m processing.”
“Processing what?”
“Us.”
The elevator dinged at my floor.
“You want to know the difference between you and Sia?” Eric said as the doors opened.
“Enlighten me.”
“Sia spent fifteen years trying to become what she thought I wanted. You spend every day telling me exactly what you think of me, usually with creative profanity.”
“So?”
“So I fell in love with who you actually are, not who you pretended to be.”
The doors started to close. I stuck my hand out to stop them.
“That’s either the most romantic thing you’ve ever said or the most manipulative.”
“Can’t it be both?”
I laughed despite myself. Because that was Eric Brighton in a nutshell—genuine emotion wrapped in psychological warfare, delivered with a smile that could charm or destroy depending on his mood.
“I’m still scared I’ll end up like her,” I admitted.
“Then don’t let me turn you into her.”
“And if you try?”
“Then remember you’re the girl who elbowed me in the face and hacked my system twice.” His smile turned sharp. “I don’t think I could break you even if I wanted to.”
I smiled at him.
“Now,” he said. “I’ll go finish some business up in my office, when I come to your room later, I’d like to see you naked. Ass up, face down.”
At that my grin only became wider. “Yes, Master.”