I head down the corridor to change into my own gear. Leather pants, fitted and broken in. A shirt in flowing white fabric, loose enough to move in, open at the collar. New Orleans style with an edge. I forgo the vest—want her to see me, not armor.
When I return, she's already waiting outside the changing area. Black leather—a structured corset that emphasizes her curves, leather pants that hug her legs, stiletto heels that add height and presence. Her hair is loose, makeup perfect. She looks powerful. In control.
Exactly what she's trying to maintain.
"No." I keep my voice level. "Take that off."
Her eyes widen. "What?"
"You heard me. That's not what you're wearing tonight." I step closer. "Black leather corset, fine. But I want a micro-mini. Leather, not latex. Nothing underneath. And you're barefoot."
"I have heels?—"
"Barefoot. No underwear. No barriers. No armor." I hold her gaze. "You're going to feel every second of walking through that club knowing you're bare under that skirt. That's what I want."
She inhales sharply, and I watch the realization hit. The vulnerability. The exposure. Exactly what I'm demanding.
"Now, Simone."
Her lips part. Then she turns and goes back into the changing area.
Margot waits until the door closes, then turns to me. "Luc, that's?—"
"The club has rules about interfering between a Dom and their sub." I keep my voice level. "Unless she's in danger or wants to stop and I won't let her. Is either of those things happening?"
She holds my gaze for a moment, then shakes her head. "No."
"Then don't."
Margot's jaw tightens, but she steps back. She knows the rules. She wrote half of them. And Simone hasn't used her safeword.
Minutes later, Simone emerges again. This time wearing what I specified—the corset, a micro-mini that barely covers her, nothing underneath. Her hair is still loose, but the heels are gone. Feet bare on the polished floor.
The difference is stark. No armor. No protection. Just submission.
Fuck. Seeing her in what I chose, marked by my commands, barefoot and bare underneath because I wanted her vulnerable—my cock hardens immediately. She's mine. Dressed for me. Submitted to my choices even when it cost her the control she was grasping for.
"Perfect." I offer my hand, voice rougher than intended. "Ready?"
"Yes, Sir."
We move into the club proper. Low lighting, subtle music, the scent of leather and expensive cologne. Members move through the space with practiced ease. Some are dressed for scenes, others in elegant evening wear.
I feel Simone tense beside me as heads turn. People recognize her. The CEO of LaCroix Petroleum, here with Luc Pascal. New Dom, new dynamic. Questions they won't ask but will speculate about endlessly.
"Eyes on me." My voice is low, commanding. "No one else matters."
She refocuses immediately. "Yes, Sir."
We move through the main floor. I catch sight of Remy at the bar, dressed in dark slacks and a tailored shirt, looking like any other club member. He doesn't acknowledge us, but I know he's tracking every movement, every person who looks at Simone with too much interest.
A man approaches from the left wearing an expensive suit, carrying the kind of confidence that comes from money and social position. I recognize him from the files. Vincent Arceneaux. Simone's former scene partner.
"Simone." His voice is warm, professional. "Good to see you."
"Vincent." She's polite but distant.
His gaze shifts to me, assessing.
