I didn't call him.
For three days, I stared at the business card. It was thick, expensive cardstock, stark white with black lettering.
*Damien Thorne. CEO, Thorne Holdings.*
And on the back, written in a bold, slashing script: *Don't overthink it.*
But overthinking was what I did best. I lay in my bed in my small, shared apartment, staring at the ceiling. Kate was asleep, her breathing rhythmic. I thought about his eyes. I thought about his thumb on my lip. I thought about the way he had said the word *control*.
It stirred something deep inside me, a dark, coiling heat in the pit of my stomach that I didn't recognize. I was a virgin—in every sense of the word. I had never been in a serious relationship. I had never felt the urge to submit to anyone. But Damien Thorne didn't ask for submission. He commanded it.
My brother, Julian, needed money. He owed dangerous people. I was desperate. I was drowning. And the man in the penthouse looked like the only lifeline available, even if he was the one holding the anchor.
On the fourth day, I found myself standing in front of the building again. The doorman recognized me—or perhaps he had been told to expect me—and waved me through.
This time, I wasn't taken to the office. I was escorted to the elevator and taken all the way to the top. Private residence.
When the doors slid open, I stepped into a sprawling open-plan living space. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the city lights like a blanket of diamonds. The decor was cold—white leather, black marble, chrome. It was beautiful, but sterile. It looked like a place where people didn't live; they existed.
Damien was standing by the window, a glass of wine in his hand. He was in a t-shirt and sweatpants, but he looked no less authoritative. He turned as I entered.
"You came," he said softly.
"I need a favor," I blurted out. I had rehearsed this. "My brother... he's in trouble. Financial trouble. You have money. I have..."
I trailed off. What did I have?
His eyes darkened. He set the wine glass down on a marble table. "You have yourself, Elara."
"I don't know what that means."
"It means," he said, walking toward me, his stride purposeful, "that I am not a romantic man. I don't do flowers, or dates, or whispered sweet nothings. I don't make love."
He stopped in front of me. He was so close I could smell him—clean soap and expensive red wine.
"I fuck," he whispered. "And I need a certain arrangement."
My breath hitched. "An arrangement?"
"Come." He held out his hand.
I hesitated, looking at his palm. It was large, strong. A hand that could create empires or destroy them. I placed my hand in his. His fingers closed around mine instantly, hot and firm.
He led me down a hallway, past a gym that looked like a torture chamber, to a door at the end of the corridor. He paused, his hand on the handle.
"Before we go in, you need to know that what happens in here is consensual. You have a safe word. If you use it, everything stops. Do you understand?"
My heart was beating so fast I thought I might faint. "Yes."
"Your safe word is 'Red'. Simple."
He opened the door.
It was a playroom. But not the kind with toys.
The walls were painted a deep, blood-red. In the center stood a large, four-poster bed, but the posts had cuffs attached to them. There was a table with ropes, whips, feathers, and implements I didn't recognize. It was a dungeon hidden in the sky.
I stepped back, hitting his solid chest. He didn't move. He wrapped an arm around my waist, holding me flush against him. I could feel his heart beating against my spine—steady, calm, while mine was a bird trapped in a cage.
"This is what I enjoy," he murmured against my hair. "I want to hurt you, Elara. But only in ways that bring you pleasure. I want to own you, body and soul, until you don't know where you end and I begin. I will push your limits. I will test your resolve. But I will also protect you, cherish you, and provide for you."
He turned me around to face him, tilting my chin up so I was forced to look into his turbulent eyes.
"Are you in?"
I looked at the room behind him. I looked at his face—beautiful, broken, terrifying. I thought of Julian. I thought of the heat pooling low in my belly. I thought of how gray my life had been until he looked at me.
"Sign," he said, guiding me to a small desk in the corner where a document lay.
A contract. A non-disclosure agreement. Rules. Clauses.
I picked up the pen. My hand was steady for the first time all night. I looked at him one last time.
"Will it hurt?"
He smiled, a genuine, wicked thing that lit up his face. "Yes. And you will beg for more."
I signed my name.