New cage. Same bird. I'll have you soon.
I show her the phone. The color drains from her face as she processes what this means.
"They were here." Her voice shakes. "Last night. Watching me through the window."
"They were watching the property. Looking for vulnerabilities, documenting your location, confirming you're here instead of at your penthouse."
"How did they know where I was?" Fear bleeds into her voice. "How did they find me so fast?"
"They've been watching you for weeks. They found you here within hours of your arrival—that takes resources and capability." I pull her away from the window, closing the blinds with sharp, controlled movements. "They're telling you they found you. Psychological warfare. And we're not giving them the satisfaction of seeing it work."
"How can you be so calm?" She's shaking now, adrenaline and fear catching up to her. "Someone was outside this house last night watching me and you're talking about protocols like it's just another security problem."
"Because it is a security problem. And I solve security problems." I move to the panel, and start adjusting settings. "Additional cameras, infrared sensors, patrol schedule. You stay away from windows after dark. No exceptions."
"But they're escalating?—"
"They're trying to. But escalation requires access. And they don't have access anymore." I finish with the panel, turn back to her. "Without access, all they have is psychological warfare. And that only works if you let it."
"I'm bordering on panic." The admission breaks through on a shaky breath.
"I know." She's spent her whole life maintaining control, and now that control is slipping through her fingers. She needs something concrete to focus on. "Which is why we're expanding the protocols. Right now."
She blinks, caught off guard by the shift. "What?"
"High protocol. When we're in private, you follow specific rules about posture, speech, service. Nothing sexual. Nothing that crosses professional boundaries. Just the foundation of what real submission looks like when it's not a scene."
"And if I can't do it?" There's vulnerability beneath the question. Fear that she'll fail at this too.
"Then you learn. That's what training is." I let that settle. "But you're not going to fail."
She drops her arms to her sides, uncertainty replacing the defensive posture. "What do I do?"
"First rule. When I'm in the room, you ask permission before sitting." I gesture to the kitchen stool she was leaning against. "Stand unless I give you explicit permission otherwise."
She straightens immediately, moving away from the stool. That boardroom posture snapping into place automatically.
"Second rule. You address me as Sir in private. Not Luc. Not Mr. Pascal. Sir." I watch her process that, seeing the resistance war with the desire to have something concrete to focus on. "Clear?"
"Yes." The word comes out automatic, then she catches herself. "Yes, Sir."
"Good." I move to the sink, start washing vegetables. "Third rule. You speak when spoken to or when you need to communicate something important about your safety or wellbeing. Otherwise, you're silent unless I give you permission."
Her jaw tightens. That's going to be the hardest rule for her. A woman who commands boardrooms, who built her career on the ability to speak with authority and confidence. Silence will feel like surrender.
"Fourth rule. When I tell you to do something, you respond 'Yes, Sir' and you do it immediately. No hesitation, no negotiation, no debating whether it makes sense." I glance at her. Fear and fascination war in her expression. "The only exception is if I ask you to do something that violates your hard limits or feels genuinely unsafe. Then you use your safeword and we discuss it. Everything else, you follow without question."
"What's my safeword?" Her voice is quieter now, less CEO and more the woman who's trying to find solid ground in chaos.
"Red for full stop. Yellow for slow down or check in. Green means you're good and I can continue." Standard protocol, nothing she wouldn't know from the club. But saying it here, in this context, makes it different. More real. "Use them honestly. Don't perform being fine when you're not. I need your genuine responses, not what you think I want to hear."
"Yes, Sir." The words come out steadier this time.
"Good." I hand her the vegetables. "You're going to prep these while I handle the salmon. Dice the bell peppers, slice the zucchini, mince the garlic. There's a cutting board in that cabinet, knives in the drawer."
She moves to follow the command, then catches herself. "May I sit while I work, Sir?"
"No. You stand. Posture matters in protocol, Simone. Keeps you present, aware of your body, grounded in the moment instead of lost in your head."
