POV Floris
I probably should’ve read that contract. Like, actually read it instead of just scanning for my brother’s name and medical coverage.
But honestly? What difference would it have made? I would’ve signed it anyway. Everything for Jake, right?
Even if it meant selling my soul to Corporate Satan himself.
I’d just finished debugging Eric’s latest “urgent” security protocol—which turned out to be him testing whether I’d notice he was running surveillance on his own Board of Directors—when Sia appeared like a bad omen in designer heels.
“You’re needed upstairs,” she said, not bothering with pleasantries.
“Which floor?”
“Nine.”
The elevator kept climbing. And climbing. And fucking climbing. I didn’t even know this building had that many floors. The numbers on the screen glowed like a countdown to my own execution.
When it finally stopped, I couldn’t breathe.
The doors opened without a sound, and two guards stepped forward. Actual guards. Like I was some kind of high-security prisoner instead of an overqualified IT girl with a bad attitude and worse life choices.
Floor nine looked like someone had taken a normal office building and fed it Xanax. Everything was white—walls, floors, ceiling—so pristine it hurt to look at.
No bustling employees, no conference rooms, no signs of human life whatsoever.
“This way,” Guard Number One said, like we were going for a pleasant stroll through hell.
My heels clicked against marble so perfect it probably cost more than my college tuition. The corridor stretched ahead like a luxury prison—wide, sterile, elegant in the most terrifying way possible.
No windows. No exit signs. Just unmarked black doors and surveillance cameras tucked into every corner like electronic vultures.
“Where exactly are we going?” I asked, because apparently I’m incapable of keeping my mouth shut even when it would save me.
“I don’t know,” Guard Number Two replied.
“Of course.”
But we’d already stopped in front of a door that looked exactly like every other door in this psychological torture chamber. I stepped inside and immediately wanted to throw up.
“Welcome,” a voice purred from hidden speakers. Female, synthetic, cheerful as a funeral director. “Property of Eric Brighton.”
“Excuse me, what?”
***
The room was too quiet. That oppressive kind of silence that makes you feel like you’ve already done something wrong. I paced once, twice, then froze when I heard it—the soft click of the door unlocking. No intercom. No warning. Just that sound, like oxygen being stolen from the room.
Eric walked in like he owned the air I was breathing.
Barefoot. No jacket. Just black slacks that clung to his hips and a linen shirt, unbuttoned halfway down his chest.
He looked casual. But nothing about him ever was. There was something in the looseness of his posture that made it worse—like a lion stretching before the kill.
I stood up straighter, bracing.
He didn’t speak right away. Didn’t need to. His presence had already spoken. He held up a tablet and looked at me, expression unreadable.
“You failed.”
The words hit harder than I expected. My heart stuttered. “What?”
He tapped the screen once. “Internal server trap. Low-level encryption. It pinged just before 3 a.m. You didn’t flag it.”
I stepped forward, heat crawling up my neck. “I didn’t know it was—”
“No,” he said, cutting me off, voice low, sharp. “You didn’t see it. That’s the real failure.”
I swallowed hard. “Then let me fix it. I’ll—”
“You won’t.” He lowered the tablet. “Because this isn’t about the system. This is about consequence.”
He stepped closer. My breath caught.
“Strip.”
My pulse thrashed. “I… what?”
“Hands behind your back,” he said, calm as ever. “Now.”
I didn’t move fast enough. His gaze darkened. That subtle flicker in his jaw told me hesitation wasn’t tolerated.
So I obeyed.
Slowly, deliberately, I reached behind myself, fingers trembling as I shrugged off the blouse. The fabric whispered to the floor. My skirt followed, pooling around my ankles.
Then the sheer lingerie he’d made me wear, his unspoken dress code designed to humiliate. I peeled it down, inch by inch, until I was bare beneath the lights—stripped of everything but dread and heat.
Eric circled me once, twice, like I was something expensive he hadn’t decided whether to break or display.
Then came the gag—black silk, soft but invasive. He tied it with care. Too much care. The kind that says this wasn’t punishment. This was ritual.
He walked me to the center of the room, pressing two fingers to my shoulders until I sank to my knees.
“Kneel.”
The floor was cold. I folded my hands behind my back, thighs trembling. The one-way mirror across the room reflected only me. Or so I thought.
“You’ll stay like this for twelve minutes,” he said, stepping back. “No sound. No movement. No release.”
I barely had time to process the rules before he raised a remote in his hand.
A low hum buzzed between my legs. I jerked, a muffled sound escaping behind the gag.
He tilted his head. “That’s one minute added.”
The vibration deepened—gentle at first, teasing, rhythmic. Then faster. Then slow again. My thighs flexed against the instinct to close.
Another moan slipped through. Uncontrolled. Desperate.
“Two.”
I dug my nails into my palms. Bit down on the gag. The heat was unbearable, curling low and tight, turning my insides molten.
He just stood there. Watching. Not touching. Not helping.
Just watching like this was a performance I’d volunteered for.
My skin was slick with sweat. My back arched. Every breath came in ragged bursts through my nose. I rocked slightly, desperate to chase the edge I wasn’t allowed to reach.
Another sound escaped. Barely a breath. Another minute.
The tension snapped like wire inside my chest. I wanted to scream. To beg. To plead. But I wasn’t allowed to speak. Wasn’t allowed to move. Wasn’t allowed to feel—except for the fire he set inside me.
He stepped forward at last, kneeling beside me. One hand pressed to the small of my back. The other traced up my throat. His touch wasn’t gentle. But it wasn’t cruel either.
“You’re not punished for making noise, Floris,” he whispered into my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “You’re punished for pretending you’re not enjoying this.”
The shame of it sliced clean through my chest.
And then I came.
No crescendo. No grace. Just an unraveling—raw, shaking, collapsing in his arms with the last thread of dignity torn from me.
The device shut off. Silence returned.
I was wrecked.
He held me. Not tenderly. Not cruelly. Just… fully. Like he’d expected this. Prepared for it. Like this was part of the design.
My limbs went limp against his chest. The gag is still in place. My body is slick and trembling. He reached for a blanket—soft, thick—and draped it around me, pulling it tight as though to conceal what he’d done.
His fingers combed through my damp hair. Each stroke was a lullaby I didn’t trust.
Then he murmured it. Quiet. Almost regretful.
“I’ll break every rule I’ve built if you keep looking at me like that.”
My heart stuttered again.
I looked up at him, eyes swimming. His gaze met mine—and softened. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough to make me think something real lived behind his cold exterior.
But the moment broke. He stood, pulling away, distance locking back into his spine.
“Don’t mistake comfort for affection,” he said, voice flat again. “You’re here to serve.”
And then he left me on the floor.
Ruined.