I follow because there's nothing else to do. The path winds through the gardens that probably look beautiful when I'm not seething with frustration. Jasmine and roses and something I can't identify but smells incredible.
The guest house appears through the trees. It's smaller than the main house but still substantial. Two stories, wide gallery with rocking chairs, the same antebellum charm as the main building.
Luc unlocks the door, holds it open. I step inside.
The interior is surprisingly modern—hardwood floors, exposed brick, furniture that manages to be both comfortable and stylish. High-end appliances gleam in the kitchen. Stairs lead to what I assume are the bedrooms.
"You're upstairs, first door on the right." Luc sets my luggage by the stairs. "Bathroom's attached. There's a workspace if you need it. My room is downstairs, at the end of the hall."
"You're staying here?" The words come out sharp. Too sharp.
"Twenty-four seven protection means exactly that." He moves to the windows, checking locks with practiced efficiency. "I'm here at all times. You're never alone, never unprotected. Get used to it. I’ll have one of my team posted here before I leave."
I watch him move through the space, checking security points, testing systems—like a predator, all coiled energy and tactical precision.
"This is insane." The objection needs to be voiced even though I know it won't change anything. "You can't seriouslyexpect me to live like this. I have a company to run. I have commitments, obligations, a life that doesn't stop just because some creep is sending me photographs."
Luc turns to face me. "That creep is escalating. Direct threats with timelines. They know your patterns, your schedule, your vulnerabilities." His expression doesn't change. "Surveillance, psychological warfare, explicit threats. I've seen this pattern before. Physical action is next. They're telling you when it's coming. The only question is whether you let me stop them or not."
The email—how does he know about the email?
He must read the question on my face. "Real-time sync. Your communications feed straight to my system." He crosses his arms. "That threat came through while you were at your office."
Tonight you sleep alone. Tomorrow you won't.
My stomach turns. "That's private."
"Nothing's private when someone's trying to kill you." His expression hardens. "And that's what this is heading toward, Simone. You need to understand that. This isn't about intimidation anymore. This is about someone who's been planning, escalating, building toward action. They're telling you exactly what they're going to do. The only question is whether you're going to let me keep you alive long enough to stop them."
The words hit like ice water. Part of me wants to argue, to maintain the fiction that this is all some misunderstanding or overreaction.
But I've seen the photographs. I've read the threats. I know how much someone would have to know, how much access they'd need, how much planning it would take to do what they've done.
"Fine." The word tastes like defeat. Not surrender. Strategy. I can play along until I regain control. "What do you want me to do?"
"First, you're going to stop fighting me on every security protocol." He doesn't move closer, but somehow his presence fills the room. "Second, you're going to follow my commands without argument. Third, you're going to learn the difference between performing submission in a club and actually surrendering control to someone who knows what they're doing."
My breath catches. "This isn't about the club?—"
"Everything about this is about the club." His gaze holds mine. " Remy has started talking to your regular play partners, and I've studied every photograph in detail. Someone's been watching you perform. They know what buttons to push, how you respond. And they're going to keep using it until I teach you the difference between performing surrender and actually surrendering."
"I know how to submit." The protest sounds weak even to my own ears.
"No." He steps closer. "You know how to chase endorphins. You know how to perform surrender while maintaining complete control. You know how to use submission as a tool to get what you want instead of actually giving anything up."
The accuracy of it steals my breath. How can he see through years of carefully constructed performance with just hours of observation?
"Tomorrow we start training." His voice drops to that register that makes my pulse spike. "Real training. Not the performance version you're used to. You're going to learn how to follow commands without testing boundaries. You're going to learn how to surrender control without negotiating terms. And you're going to learn what it feels like when someone actually dominates you instead of playing along with your scenes."
Every instinct I have screams to argue, to push back, to establish that I'm not some submissive who needs training.
Standing here in this guest house that's both prison and sanctuary, watching Luc Pascal look at me like he sees every defense I've ever built, something terrifying becomes clear.
This isn't like my club scenes. This isn't Vincent or any of the other Doms who accommodated my preferences, worked around my boundaries, let me dictate the terms.
This is someone who sees through every bit of performance and doesn't care about my comfort level or my ego.
This is real dominance from someone who knows what I've been pretending at for years.
