"I need to prepare."
"You're prepared." He pours coffee and brings a cup to where I'm sitting on the couch. "What you need is rest."
I take it. It's exactly how I like it—he's been paying attention to details like that. "How am I supposed to sleep when tomorrow my uncle is going to try to destroy everything I've built?"
"By trusting that you've already won." He sits beside me, close enough that I feel the heat from his body. "The evidence is solid. Henry's working the board. Armand's desperate. He's already lost."
"Desperate men are dangerous."
"Yes. Which is why you're still under protection." He covers my hand on the coffee cup. "You're not alone in this."
I want to believe the board will see past Armand's influence, his carefully cultivated relationships, his performance of being the steady hand LaCroix Petroleum needs. But I've been in enough boardrooms to know that perception often matters more than evidence.
"What if they choose him?"
"Then you fight." There's no hesitation, no platitudes about how it won't happen—just certainty. "But that's tomorrow's problem. Tonight, you need to be present."
"I am present."
"No." The coffee cup leaves my hands, both set on the side table. "You're running scenarios. Planning contingencies. Trying to control variables you can't control." His hand cups my chin, tilts my face toward his. "That stops now."
The command in his voice cuts through the spiral. I feel my shoulders drop slightly, tension I didn't know I was carrying releasing at the edges.
"I don't know how to stop thinking about it."
"I know." He releases my chin, stands. Offers his hand. "Which is why I'm going to help you."
I look at his hand, knowing exactly what he's offering. Not distraction. Not escape. Structure. Dominance. Something to surrender into when my own mind won't let me rest.
I take his hand.
He pulls me to my feet, guides me toward the bedroom. Tonight it feels different. Not just protection detail. Not just necessity—like we've crossed some invisible line.
Inside, he closes the door and locks it.
"Ground rules," he says. "You submit completely. No thinking about tomorrow. No planning. No control. Just follow my commands and let everything else go. Safe word is red. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Good girl." He moves behind me, hands on my shoulders. "You've been holding on too tight for too long. Real strength is knowing when to let go."
His hands slide down my arms, then back up, working knots from muscles I've been clenching. I want to argue that I haven't been performing, that I am strong. But he's right. I've been holding myself together through sheer force of will, and the cracks are starting to show.
"Tonight you surrender," he says quietly. "Because you trust me to hold you."
"I trust you." The words come easier than I expect.
"I know." His hands move to the hem of my sweater. "Arms up."
I raise my arms. He pulls the sweater over my head, then works the clasp of my bra. The garments fall away, leaving me bare from the waist up. The air conditioning kicks on, and I shiver.
"Jeans. Take them off."
I unbuckle my belt, slide the jeans down my legs, step out of them. My underwear follows. Standing naked while he's fully clothed makes me vulnerable in a way that sends heat through my belly.
"On the bed. On your back."
I move to the bed, lie down. The sheets are cool against my skin. He goes to the nightstand, opens the drawer, pulls out rope—jute, the kind that requires skill to use safely.
