Our last fight was one of those stupid arguments between couples who’ve been together a long time. I can’t even remember the subject. He didn’t put the toilet seat down. I forgot to pick up the dry-cleaning. Felix got into the pantry again because one of us forgot to close the door before bed. I closed it—no, you didn’t.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t even matter that the last words Paul and I spoke to each other were in anger. Even when we were pissed, we shared the unbreakable safety net of our love. Our arguments, few and far between, invariably ended in laughter, gentle affection, and finally, confessions about what was really bothering us. Something from work, or a troubling phone call, or some random insecurity triggered by comparing ourselves to others.

That’s what would have happened, had that final day gone differently. I’d planned on stopping at his favorite Vietnamese restaurant on the way home and picking up dinner. We would’ve eaten together, then taken Felix for a walk. Gotten ice cream, maybe some hot tea. I would’ve pretended not to notice when he smoked a cigarette, but would’ve made a face when he tried to kiss me. We would’ve talked it out. Brushed our teeth side by side. Lit candles and made love. Fallen asleep in each other’s arms.

That’s the story I tell myself, at least. A lie, one atop many, but I don’t care. It’s a worthy fantasy. A happy dream of what might have been.

No one who hasn’t been through losing their closest loved one understands the aftermath. The fundamental shift in how you view the world. In the early days, when I only rested thanks to sleeping pills and my mother’s arms around me, I used to try to put a name or shape to the pain. But it has no name, and there are no edges to define it. It’s merely absence. In my warped, grief-stricken mind, I theorized that if the soul was infinite, and someone punched a hole in it, then the hole itself was infinite by association.

When that piece of my soul—formless, nameless—was torn out, its ichor stained what was left of me. Even the idea of sharing tender intimacy with a man makes my hackles rise. A relationship? Shared dreams and long talks and private laugher? Panic-inducing.

Cross was right—I don’t want him to be kind.

I’m not so far gone that I can’t admit I’m not a pillar of psychological health. If Cross knew the real reason I want him, he would’ve never agreed to our arrangement. Yes, I want his touch. His mouth, teeth, hands. Other parts of him, too, if I’m honest with myself. But sexual gratification and emotional catharsis aren’t my end goals.

I want punishment.

At exactly five-fifty that evening, I ring the bell beside the black door. A small crackle from an intercom precedes a curt, “It’s unlocked. Come up. Present at the top of the stairs.”

Am I doing this?

I’m doing this.

I open the door with a steady hand and slowly ascend. Each step brings me closer to him. Closer to what he can give me. Excitement trills in my blood; my heart flutters and accelerates.

If it weren’t for Nate’s coaching and help this evening—not to mention his soundtrack of obnoxiously catchy dance music—I might be more nervous. But there was something calming about the lengthy routine. Showering, shaving, slathering on almond body oil. Drying, then straightening my hair. Putting on the lingerie Nate surprised me with, brand-new with the tags still on. The flirty red dress, the sky-high heels.

Steph arrived halfway through to apply my final layer of armor—makeup that transformed me into a sexy version of myself. The process and result reminded me of tagging along with Paris to college parties and clubs, and special nights out with girlfriends.

This night is special, too.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I stop and clasp my hands before me. Head lowered, I wait. Soft music filters through the loft, along with street noise from an open window. The air is cool, scented with savory aromas from the kitchen.

Finally, soft footsteps pad across hardwood until his legs fill my line of sight. “Hello, London.”

It’s that tone. I haven’t heard it since my interview months ago, and then it wasn’t even directed at me. Smooth and rich, indefinably powerful. A voice that doesn’t demand obedience but manifests it.

My skin tightens. My knees weaken.

“Sir,” I squeak.

“Take off your shoes.”

I toe them off. One of them falls over. I stare at it, frozen with uncertainty. Do I pick it up?

Cross reads my mind. “Leave them. I’m going to walk you through how I’d like you to present yourself for our assignations. On your knees.”

I release a pent-up breath and drop to my knees.

“Sit on your heels. Hands in your lap. Yes, like that. Shoulders back. Perfect. This is how you’ll present unless I specify otherwise. Now, lift up and tuck your toes. Spread your knees. Farther… there. Hands laced behind your neck. When I ask you to display, this is how I want you.”

Obeying him is surprisingly easy. Intellectually relieving, even. Here and now, I don’t have to be in charge of my life. I could never live like this day in and day out, but for brief periods? So far, it’s fucking magical.

My breath comes raggedly, audible to my ears. The position isn’t comfortable, its intent obvious. My back is slightly arched, my breasts straining against the bodice of my dress. And if I were naked, I’d be completely exposed. The thought brings warmth to my chest and face—and a throbbing awareness between my legs. Closing my eyes, I imagine it. Having his eyes on me, watching, wanting…

Giving voice to my fantasy, he says, “You present or display for me naked, London. Do you have a problem with that?”

I shake my head.

“Good.”

The edge of satisfaction roughens his voice, and pleasure swells inside me. I remember Charlie’s advice, to think of this as an adventure, at the end of which I’d know if the lifestyle is for me. But she was wrong. I already know.

“Look at me, London.”

I lift my head, feeling drugged and loose-limbed. Standing above me, his hands tucked into his pockets, his black dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck, Dominic looks anything but aroused. Severe. Coolly judging. Not angry, but tense with purpose. It’s exactly what I wanted—exactly what I need. I don’t know what’s coming, but I hope it hurts.

A small softening of his intensity. An infinitesimal curl of his lips. Then, “Do you like chicken piccata?”

Thrown, it takes me a few seconds to reply, “Yes, sir.”

Cross nods. “Up you go, then. Take a seat at the table. White wine or water?”

He walks away, leaving me wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Halfway to the kitchen, he glances back. His lips quirk higher.

“We’re having dinner, London. Then we’re talking about the contract.” His head tilts. “I didn’t take you for the house slave type.”

“I’m not, sir,” I say quickly.

He watches me a moment more with that level stare that does spirally, tight things to my core. “Do I need to tell you again to sit at the table?”

I scramble to my feet.

“Since you didn’t answer my question, you’re having water.”