POV Floris
I stumbled back to my room like I’d been hit by a fucking truck. Emotionally eviscerated. Physically drained. Mentally scrambled in ways that should probably require therapy and definitely required alcohol I wasn’t allowed to have.
The worst part? Some sick, twisted corner of my brain had liked it.
The power play, the psychological chess match, the way Eric looked at me like I was the most interesting problem he’d ever tried to solve.
Which made me hate myself almost as much as I hated him.
Almost.
“Get ready,” Sia announced, materializing in my doorway like a corporate grim reaper.
“For what now? More torture? A company picnic in hell?”
“Business event. With Eric.”
I flopped onto my bed, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. “Are you coming?”
“No. Just CEOs and their executive assistants.”
Something in her tone made my skin crawl. “That sounds ominous as fuck.”
She held up a garment bag like it contained radioactive material. “Black tie. Tonight. Don’t embarrass him.”
The dress was already hanging in my closet when she left—black velvet that looked like it cost more than my brother’s monthly medication. Cut with surgical precision, slit up to there, neckline down to here. It screamed money and whispered danger.
And sitting on my vanity like a sleeping snake was a collar.
An actual collar. Leather, silver hardware, elegant enough to pass for jewelry if you squinted and had no sense of self-preservation.
“Sia!” I called, chasing her down the hallway. “What the fuck is this?”
She didn’t even turn around. “Part of the outfit.”
“It’s a goddamn collar!”
“It’s part of the event dress code.”
“What kind of business event requires—”
But she was already gone, vanishing into an elevator like smoke.
By the time I was dressed, I looked like someone else entirely. Someone expensive. Someone owned. The collar sat high and tight around my throat, a constant reminder that I wasn’t attending this party—I was being displayed at it.
The car ride to downtown Amsterdam was silent except for my internal monologue spiraling through every worst-case scenario. The driver didn’t speak. The city lights blurred past like a fever dream.
We pulled up to a building that looked like it belonged in a Bond villain’s real estate portfolio—all glass and steel and architectural intimidation. Rich people in designer clothes glided through the entrance like predators attending a very exclusive hunting party.
“Holy shit,” I whispered, stepping onto the sidewalk.
The lobby was pure marble and malicious intent. A chandelier the size of a small aircraft hung overhead, casting prismatic light across faces that probably appeared on Forbes lists and international watch lists in equal measure.
And every single woman in the room was wearing a collar.
Every. Single. One.
Different styles, different materials, but the message was crystal fucking clear: we weren’t guests. We were accessories.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I breathed.
A man in a suit that cost more than my education approached with a smile that never reached his eyes. “You must be Brighton’s new acquisition.”
“Excuse me?”
“The replacement. The others never lasted long either.” He looked me up and down like I was livestock. “Though you seem… different. More spirited.”
My blood turned to ice water. “Others?”
But he’d already moved on, leaving me standing there with the horrifying realization that I wasn’t Eric’s first executive assistant.
I wasn’t even his second or third. I mean I know that, but I didn’t know he brought them all here. Was this an annual event? I was just the latest model in a long line of women who’d worn this dress, this collar, this expression of barely controlled panic.
And the sick, twisted part? I felt jealous of them.
Jealous that they’d been here first, that they’d known Eric’s games before I did, that they’d had his attention before it turned to me.
What the actual fuck was wrong with me?
Across the room, Eric stood in conversation with a group of men who looked like they’d bought their morals in bulk and returned them for store credit.
He caught my eye and lifted one finger—barely a movement, but the entire room noticed. Conversations paused. Heads turned. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
He beckoned.
Every rational cell in my body screamed at me to turn around, walk out, call a cab, and disappear into the Amsterdam night. But my legs were already moving, carrying me across the floor like I was on autopilot.
The crowd parted like I was radioactive. I felt their stares like physical weight, their whispered assessments following me step by step.
I stopped in front of Eric, close enough to smell his cologne and see the satisfaction in his eyes.
“You look beautiful,” he said, voice low enough that only I could hear.
Before I could respond—before I could tell him to go fuck himself or thank him or ask him what the hell this twisted theater performance was supposed to accomplish—he took my hand and pressed it flat against his chest.
His heartbeat thundered beneath my palm. It didn’t match his stillness, his mask. He was calm outside, but inside—he was burning.
And then, without a word, he turned me around. I felt the heat of him behind me. The soft brush of fingers sweeping my hair over my shoulder. My breath hitched. I didn’t dare speak.
A snap of cold metal kissed my throat. The chill sank in instantly. He unclasped my current collar and wrapped a new one around my throat.
I looked down. Barely. Just enough to see the engraving. Not his name. Worse.
A QR code. Like a barcode. Like I was inventory.
A whisper against my ear sent ice down my spine. “You’re mine now, Floris. Let them all see.”
Around us, the music kept playing. The conversations resumed. But I knew—I knew—that every gaze had catalogued the moment.
Memorized it. The new girl. The new collar. The signature of ownership stamped onto her skin.
I turned slowly to face him, eyes searching his. I wanted to scream. To tear the thing off and throw it across the room. But I didn’t. Because he was still holding my hand, and under his skin, that war-drum pulse hadn’t calmed.
“You didn’t even say hello,” I whispered, voice shaking.
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not here for pleasantries, Miss Middleton.”
“What am I here for?”
His eyes dragged over my face, slow and blistering. “To remember your place. And to look like something no one else is allowed to touch.”