POV Eric
I saw her watch the tape Sia gave her.
Saw the exact moment her face went white, then green, then that particular shade of terror that makes people do stupid things. Honestly? I didn’t give a shit.
Sia’s pulled this bleeding-heart routine before—thinks she’s some kind of corporate guardian angel, saving the innocent girls from the big bad wolf.
Except she works for me. Has for fifteen years.
Knows maybe thirty percent of what actually goes down in this building, and even less about what goes on in my head. That’s how I stay three steps ahead of everyone—information compartmentalization.
Nobody gets the full picture except me.
And that’s exactly why I love this twisted little chess match with Sia. She plays savior, I play god, and everyone else? They’re just pieces on the board.
I said nothing when I came to Floris that morning. Just nodded at the guards and waited while she followed.
Two days ago I had her exactly where I wanted her—broken down, compliant, that defiant fire in her eyes finally dimmed to manageable embers.
Then Sia took her to that pathetic dinner party with the other corporate survivors.
And now? Now she’s looking at me like she wants to burn this whole building down with me inside it.
Perfect.
This is the game I love. On, off, on, off. Break them down, let them recover just enough to remember what hope feels like, then break them again.
It’s psychological conditioning at its finest—and most people are too stupid to realize they’re rats in a maze designed specifically for them.
“Where exactly are we going?” she asked, voice tight with controlled anger.
“Somewhere you’ve never been.”
“That could be anywhere in this psychotic funhouse you call an office building.”
See? The fire’s back. Sia’s little intervention worked exactly as I knew it would.
Floor ten was quieter than usual. Almost reverent, like a church before the congregation arrives and ruins everything with their humanity.
I led her through a corridor she’d never seen—hidden behind seamless black panels, biometric locks, the kind of security that costs more than most people’s houses.
The door recognized my fingerprint and retina simultaneously before sliding open with a whisper.
“Holy shit,” Floris breathed, stopping dead in the doorway.
And yeah, that’s the usual reaction.
The surveillance cathedral. My masterpiece.
Glass walls stretching floor to ceiling, data streams flowing like digital blood through transparent consoles.
Dozens of screens arranged in a perfect curve, each one showing a different slice of human stupidity—airports, private jets, boardrooms, bedrooms where powerful people forgot that privacy is an illusion I sold them years ago.
“This is Brighton Systems’ central nervous system,” I said, not bothering to turn around. “Every sensitive frequency between Oslo and Seoul runs through this room.”
“Jesus Christ.” Her reflection fractured across a dozen monitors showing senators, CEOs, and at least three European royals doing things that would end their careers. “Why are you showing me this?”
I moved to the main console and pressed a key. A diplomat’s voice filled the room—cultured accent, talking about sanctions while discussing payment schedules for his gambling debts and weekend plans with his brother’s wife.
“Do you know what real power tastes like, Floris?”
She was staring at the screens like they might bite her. “I’m guessing it’s not chocolate.”
“It tastes like silence. There’s a moment, right before they break, when everything slows. You can hear their breathing shift—erratic, shallow. Their body resists even as it aches for more. Most people miss that moment. I live for it.”
Floris stood across from me like she didn’t know if she wanted to run or kneel. That tension? That conflict between will and need? That was the purity I chased.
I unlocked the steel door tucked behind the cathedral’s north wall and stepped inside, not bothering to look back. She followed, like she always did—hesitant, trembling, proud.
This room was colder. Sleek polished walls, matte steel floors, velvet curtains that whispered like secrets when the ventilation passed through.
The centerpiece wasn’t furniture. It was a statement: a restraint chair I had designed myself. High-backed, low-sitting, black padded leather with built-in cuffs.
Half-throne. Half-confession booth. And she knew it.
I locked the door behind her.
“Today,” I said calmly, “you learn protocol two.”
She didn’t ask. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there, eyes wide.
“Response to overstimulation.” I approached slowly, watching the way her pulse fluttered in her neck. “It’s not about what your body can take. It’s about what your mind can’t.”
I gestured toward the chair.
She flinched. “No,” she whispered.
I didn’t reply. I simply stood there. Still. Waiting. Letting the silence press in like a vice. Letting her own mind work against her.
And then she walked.
Each step is small. Shaky. Her arms crossed over her bare stomach, like that might shield her from what she already knew she’d agreed to.
She sat.
I moved in behind her, clicked the cuffs shut one by one. Wrist. Wrist. Ankle. Ankle. Each one a steel kiss against her skin. The leather gave just enough to cradle her body, forcing her spine upright.
Her head fell back slightly as the final strap locked into place. She was breathing too fast.
I started slow.
A tool of cool metal grazed her abdomen, humming lightly—just enough vibration to tease. Another, warmed and silicone-soft, traced the inside of her thigh.
She gasped, twitching beneath the restraints. I bent close enough to murmur against her temple. “Say it.”
She turned her head as far as she could, lips trembling. But she stayed silent. So I dialed the frequency higher. The buzz deepened, curling heat into her pelvis, slow and calculated.
Still, she didn’t speak.
I pressed the warm tool just above her inner thigh, let the heat sink in. She was slick already. Wet. She hated that she was.
Her hips bucked slightly, breath catching.
“Say it, Floris,” I murmured, brushing my fingers against the sensitive skin below her navel.
“I…” Her voice was raw. “I won’t—”
I slapped the inside of her thigh. Not hard. Not yet. Just enough for the sting to register. To shame her body into awareness.
She cried out, startled.
“That was gentle.” I tilted her chin with two fingers. “But it won’t stay gentle for too long.”
Still, she said nothing.
Another slap, firmer this time. The sound echoed off the walls. She whimpered, the sound torn from her throat like something sacred.
Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. Not from pain. I knew pain. This was confusion. This was desire she didn’t know how to name.
I leaned in, my breath a thread across her cheek. “You want to be good for me. I know you do.”
“No—” she choked out, shaking her head.
“Then say it. Tell me what I want to hear.”
Her body jerked as I increased the buzz. She was falling apart, every muscle tensed, every nerve exposed. She was going to break. I could see it.
“I surrender—” she gasped. “Just stop—”
Before the last word left her lips, I kissed her.
Deep and lingering. My mouth claimed hers with a force I knew she wouldn’t understand. She tried to twist away at first, then melted against the contact, sobbing into my mouth.
She wasn’t crying from pain. Not anymore.
When I pulled away, her eyes were glassy, ruined. I released the tools, letting them slip free from her skin. The air hit her like ice.
I sat beside her, one hand resting on her bound wrist, just enough pressure to ground her.
“I want you to use the safe word,” I said quietly. “Parsley.”
She blinked through the tears, stunned.
“You… what?”
“Because when you do…” I looked down at her, her bare chest rising and falling with broken rhythm, “…I’ll know I own your trust. Not just your body. Not just your shame. But the part of you that still thinks it can say no.”
Her lip quivered. Her gaze locked on mine. There was something like defiance in her eyes, but it was weak now—shaking on uncertain legs.
“And if I never say it?” she whispered.
I smiled. Not soft. Not sweet. Predatory. “Then I’ll keep breaking you until you do.”