I woke up with a monumental hangover. I wasn’t quite sure how I’d even made it to bed. Was this my bed?

I opened my eyes, groaning at the thin sliver of light that made it over the top of the curtains. It was the slightest glow but to my eyes it was like looking directly at the sun through a telescope attached to binoculars.

I tried again a few seconds later, my brain reverberating around my skull, someone in there drilling loudly for oil. This time, I took it slower, opening my eyelids millimetre by millimetre until I could handle the room.

Why had I wanted to open my eyes? I had to wait while my brain assessed the damage and then worked out the answer to my question. You wanted to know if it was your room. Oh, and the damage is minimal, you’re just being a crybaby.

Thanks brain.

It was my room. Sadly, resolving that mystery led only to more questions. How had I made it back to my room? Where had I been last night? Why was I so hungover?

The answers didn’t come. The pain was too strong. I lay back down and groaned again.

I heard the bedroom door opening but I didn’t bother to look up. When I finally sat up, several minutes later, there was a glass on my bedside table in it, my homemade hangover cure bubbling away inside. It was mostly green, some red, a little Tabasco in there somewhere.

The staff knew me well. They knew I was hungover. So that meant…?

It came back to me. I’d been at the office. I’d climbed into the back of the car. Beyond that was a blank but it was enough information for now. I had been brought home and put to bed. I was still in my suit, at least they hadn’t tried to put me in pyjamas.

I sipped at the drink. There was a hint of scent to it, of roses.

Then I had it.

Rosa. She’d left. I’d got drunk because she was gone. Then I’d gone into her room and found her phone, found out she’d been lying to me, that she’d done all this not to please me but to get a bloody magazine article out of it.

I got up and headed through to the gym, stripping out of my clothes as I went. I started running on the treadmill, getting back into the routine, ignoring the hangover.

Fuck her and the horse she rode in on. Let her write her stupid bloody article. It wasn’t like I cared what she had to say about me anyway.

As I ran, I tried to shake images from my head as they came to me, the hangover lowering my defences, making it increasingly difficult.

Her in the bikini while I took photos, the way her body had moved, the way her eyes had nervously watched me, seeking my approval.

Spanking that ass of hers, that ass I’d never see again because I’d been stupid enough to think she was special. She wasn’t special. I was special. I didn’t need her.

The collar. Leading her through the rooms on her collar. She hadn’t even seen the other rooms and now she never would, nor would anyone else. I was closing them for good, moving away.

How long would it take to sort out moving away? Focus on that.

Me inside her. The gasp of surprise when I thrust all the way into her, how she’d sounded when she came.

I hit the buttons, running faster and faster until I was sprinting in place, gasping for air. I kept going until I thought I was going to pass out. Only then did I leap off, collapsing on the floor, sweat dripping from me.

I didn’t need her. I didn’t need anyone. Getting too close to anyone was a mistake, not one I was going to make again.

I lifted weights until I had spots dancing in front of my eyes. It wasn’t enough. Images of her kept coming to me. Stop it. She betrayed you. She broke the rules of Sub Rosa. Stop caring.

When my arms could take no more, I headed into the shower, washing her off me, washing what had happened off me.

I came out back to myself. Once I was dressed, I rang Sally. “I have a phone to be collected. Send Miss Harper a message. Tell her to come to the office and get it at noon.”

“Of course, Sir,” she replied. “Anything else?”

“Work out what it would take to transfer my holdings into trust.”

She knew what I meant. What would it take for someone else to take over my role? That could mean only one thing, I was going somewhere.

She didn’t ask questions and I was glad.

I headed to work half an hour later, the hangover finally starting to fade. I felt rough but nothing like when I’d woken up.

I would give her the phone. I had no doubt she’d come to get it. I’d tell her I knew about the article. I wanted to see her face when I told her she was a liar. Then I would go to the club and say thanks but no thanks for the membership offer. Then I’d sit with my people and work out how to get myself out of the business and then I’d be gone and I’d see the back of this country for good. Maybe somewhere warm instead, somewhere where it didn’t rain all the bloody time.

The time it took to drive from my house to the office wasn’t long but over the course of that journey something happened. I couldn’t even put my finger on what it was.

It started with me looking at the photo of Rosa on my phone. I hadn’t wanted to see it. I’d only gone into my online storage to delete them. There was no need for before photos if there wasn’t going to be an after, unless you counted after her.

There were the images, her in the bikini. I was about to hit delete on the first one when I paused. My eye had run down her body and settled on her thigh, catching sight of that scar again.

That made me think of the interviews and the questionnaire. The first time, she’d come to the office, looking so nervous, that notepad. How big is your cock? Written in blue ink, appalling handwriting, her realising I’d seen the question.

Then me interviewing her, finding out about that scar, the hints of her past.

I found myself thinking more and more about her. I couldn’t help it. I stared at the photo, reliving what we’d done together. How had I been angry with her? How could I blame her for running after what she’d been through in her life?

I reached the office before I knew what was happening. I had climbed in so sure of myself but I climbed out feeling very differently.

I walked in, returning greetings but not paying attention to anyone around me. I made my way over to the lift, pausing only to collect a coffee from the machine. I needed caffeine, I could feel my hangover coming back.

I winced as I took a sip. “What the hell is this?” I asked, marching over to reception. “Is this what we give our visitors?”

“It’s a Burghini Express,” was the response, as if that answered everything.

“It’s bullshit. As of now, we're re-engineering the entire line. No wonder they were going down the pan. Get rid of it. Today.”

I left the cup behind when I entered the lift, the gritty taste still in my mouth by the time I got upstairs.

There was still a smell of whisky in there and it wasn’t like I could open the windows that high up. Instead, I propped the door open with a chair, catching sight of Sally as she returned with an armful of files. “Coffee,” I shouted out to her. “Why can only you make a decent one?”

“Because you pay me a decent amount?” she replied, dumping the files on her desk. “I arranged for Miss Harper to collect her phone by the way.”

“Good,” I said, pulling out mine from my pocket. I had two hours before she arrived. That gave me time for one last roll of the dice. Either she would read my message and obey the instructions within. Or she wouldn’t.

Fate would decide what happened next.

If she obeyed, I’d be in the office waiting. If she ignored it, then so be it.

I didn’t send the message until I was sure she was on her way. I didn’t want her to have time to discuss it with anyone. I wanted her to decide quickly. That was the only way to be sure.

I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing. I had spent so long telling myself to ignore her, to shut my feelings down, but it hadn’t worked.

This gave her a choice. I knew she wanted to submit. She had proved that with everything she’d done. All doubt was gone, the confusion brought on by the drink had vanished. She wanted to submit but she was afraid at the same time. That was why she’d run.

It didn’t explain the photo or the email but that was a separate thing. If she obeyed what was in the message I’d just sent then I could punish her for that decision, persuade her that it might be in her interests to drop the story about me, especially if running it meant I’d share with the world what she’d done to get it in the first place.

“I want her,” I said out loud, hitting send.

“Sorry?” Sally called through. “Did you say something?”

That was when I realised the door was still propped open. “Nothing important,” I said, getting up and removing the chair, letting it swing shut. Never in my life had I been one to trust to fate. I hadn’t reached the top of the business world by leaving the choices to fate. I had made tough decisions but I’d always been the one to make them. This was the first time a decision was out of my hands and I could do nothing to influence it. I already knew she wasn’t after my money, I could tell that from a mile off.

But I wanted her. Despite her running, despite finding out the truth about her. I wanted her. I had tried to shut my feelings down but it hadn’t worked.

Did she know she had all the power in her hands? Just how much power she had?

Twenty minutes until she was due to arrive. She would either walk in, take the phone, then leave. Or she would obey the instructions. I could only wait.

I sat back in my chair. The doubts were gone. The fear was gone. I was calm. I could do nothing but wait and I would wait. Then I would see. Wait and see.

I picked up the newspaper and began to read but all I thought about was her. I wanted to tell her she didn’t have to be afraid but she had to make the first step. She had to admit who she really was. I already knew who I was. I was a fucked up son of a bitch but I was something else too. I was patient.