Then, with surprising gentleness, he eases me upright, so I’m sitting on the bed. A glass of water touches my lips, cool against the heat still burning through me. I drink, shaky as he loosens the ribbon, tying it back around my left wrist. He places his hand on my thigh, his thumb tracing slow circles, coaxing my breath back.
“Good girl,” he says, the words settling warm and heavy in my chest.
He stays close, one hand cupping my jaw, the other on my thigh, as if reluctant to let the moment fade. I lean into his touch a fraction, his thumb pausing, then continuing its slow arc.
“Remember,” he says, “one month. No refusals. Total submission.” He holds my gaze while he speaks. “Now, tell me my three rules.”
I swallow before finding my voice. “Privacy. Precision. Truth.”
“And nourishment,” he adds, deadpan. “You will eat properly. I’m guessing that since you were running around the city, you haven’t had a bite. Such habits will make you weak. And I don’t tolerate weakness.”
A gentle knock arrives at the door, followed by Mrs. Koval’s polite cough. “Dinner,” she says.
“Dining room,” Damien answers, still looking at me. “We’re coming.”
When he knows she has moved away from the door, he hooks one finger under the ribbon on my wrist and gives it a small tug. “Eat,” he says, “then rest.”
A beautifully set table greets us when we arrive in the dining room. Soup seasoned rich with thyme, paired with warm bread that tears open into clouds; roast chicken, golden and tender; carrots soft and sweet. He watches as I eat, not judging but with a kind of careful attention that makes me uncomfortable. After a few bites, I set my fork down.
“Am I eating too fast?” I ask before I can stop myself, shame prickling up my neck.
“Not at all,” he says. “I’m making sure you eat your fill.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, but at least the knot in my stomach loosens. I pick up the fork again, this time with a smile tugging at my mouth. The food tastes even better when I let myself enjoy it.
It stays quiet for a while, the scrape of silver against china filling the space. Damien’s gaze is steady across the table. Finally, he breaks the silence.
“So, you have a job in the city that you were sneaking off to. Tell me about it.”
I pause, fork midair. “I work at Thierry,” I tell him. “It’s a high-end boutique in SoHo. I work with the clients directly, help with fittings, orders.”
His eyes narrow. “So you lied to me.”
My throat tightens. “Not exactly. Maybe I was being a little idealistic but?—”
“Don’t spin it,” he cuts me off. “You told me you were a professional sub. That’s not what you are.” I open my mouth to defend myself, but he lifts a hand. “Stop. I don’t want the job title. I want the whole story.”
“The whole story?”
“Your whole story.”
My fork clinks against the plate. “It’s really not that important?—”
“It is,” he says.
I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “When Clara?—”
“Clara?”
“My older sister.”
He nods. “Go on.”
“When Clara was ten and I was two, our parents died in a car accident. We bounced through foster homes until I turned ten, and Clara was finally old enough to take custody of me. She worked herself to the bone to keep us together—waitressing, cleaning houses, whatever would pay the bills. She sacrificed everything to make sure I had a chance at a future.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes sharpen with attention.
“I studied hard and got a scholarship to Hudson University in fashion design. I graduated, but breaking into the industry washarder than I expected. No one wants to take a chance on a new name.” I hesitate, taking another deep breath before continuing. “Especially not one designing clothes for curvy women. The industry still prefers size twos. So I’ve been working at Thierry, selling gowns to women with more money than I can dream of while sketching at night, trying to put together a collection that actually honors and celebrates curves. Bodies that deserve to be seen.”
