"This isn't forgiveness," he said quietly. "I want that to be clear. What you did to Imogen, to my sons, that debt is still outstanding. You'll carry that weight, and I won't pretend it doesn't exist."
"I know."
"But this." His hand tightened in my hair. "This is real. You wanting me. Me wanting you. We stop lying about that."
I turned my face into his thigh, breathing in the scent of him. "Yes."
"You're mine," he said, and the words settled into my bones. "Not because you owe me. Because you chose it. Because you want it. Say it."
"I'm yours," I said, throat tight. "Because I want to be. Because I've always wanted to be."
His fingers stroked through my hair, slow and steady.
We stayed like that for a long time, with no more words and no forgiveness and no absolution. Just his hand in my hair and my cheek against his thigh and the truth, finally spoken, lying bare between us.
Maxime's breathing had goneslow and even against my thigh.
I kept my hand in his hair, fingers moving through the silver strands in a rhythm I didn't consciously choose. The lamp cast a warm light across his features, softening the sharp lines of his face. He looked younger like this, unguarded, the mask he'd worn for thirty-two years finally set aside.
My leg ached from sitting too long in the chair, the damaged muscle protesting the position. I didn't move.
Because I want to. Because I crave it.
His confession echoed in my skull. Not the apology for Imogen, though that had landed like a blade between my ribs, but the other part: where he'd admitted his submission wasn't penance or debt or noble sacrifice, but need. Pure and selfish and undeniable.
That's worse, isn't it?
He'd asked me that like he expected me to agree. Like wanting something for yourself was shameful. Like thirty-two years of devotion meant nothing if it came from desire instead of duty.
I traced my thumb along the shell of his ear, watching him shiver even in his half-sleep state.
He'd hidden my sons from me. He'd threatened a mentally ill woman until she killed herself. He'd lied to my face for twenty years while I trusted him with everything I had.
And I still wanted him on his knees.
That was the part I couldn't reconcile. The rage still burned when I thought about Xavier, Xander, and Xion growing up without me, about Imogen dying alone in that bathtub, about all the years I'd lost because Maxime decided he knew best. I wasn't sure that rage would ever fully die. Some betrayals carved too deep.
But underneath the anger, something else had taken root. Something that had been there for decades, buried beneath professionalism and propriety and the careful distance I'd maintained because wanting your assistant was a cliché I refused to become.
I wanted him. I had always wanted him. And now I knew he wanted me back, not out of guilt or obligation but because kneeling for me made him feel whole.
Being used by you is the only time I feel real.
My cock stirred at the memory, and I shifted slightly to ease the pressure. Maxime made a soft sound against my thigh, his fingers curling against my calf.
I could wake him. Pull him up, take him to bed, fuck him until neither of us could think about betrayal or forgiveness or any of the complicated wreckage between us. His body would open for me eagerly, I knew that now. He'd take whatever I gave him and beg for more.
But that wasn't what either of us needed tonight.
Tonight was about something harder than sex. Tonight was about sitting with the truth and not running from it.
I looked down at him, this man who had shaped my life in ways I was only beginning to understand. He'd built my empire alongside me, yes. But he'd also controlled it in ways I'd never suspected. Every meeting he'd arranged, every crisis he'd managed, every decision he'd guided me toward. Had any of it been real? Or had I been his puppet all along, dancing on strings I couldn't see?
The thought should have enraged me. Instead, it sparked something closer to admiration.
He'd played me for twenty years. Manipulated me, lied to me, removed obstacles without my knowledge or consent. And he'd done it so seamlessly that I'd never once suspected. That kind of skill wasn't a weakness. That was a predator wearing the skin of a servant.
I wanted her gone because I was jealous. Because some part of me was glad when she died.
