I stare at the list.
Everything I wrote is true. Objectively, factually accurate.
She's a mess. A beautiful, brilliant, infuriating fucking mess.
And I'm sitting in a parking lot across from a gym making notes about her flaws like some kind of deranged consultant trying to talk himself out of a merger.
The problem is… I don't want to admit this but I have to. The problem is… I don't see a way forward without her.
My list grows, but this ones goes under the heading, Things I Can't Control Anymore.
Can't focus worth shit.I used to deliver surgical presentations at board meetings. Now I'm checking my phone every thirty seconds like some lovesick teenager waiting for a text that never comes.
Sleep's fucked.I used to run on five hours, sharp as a blade. Now I'm lucky if I get three, and those are full of her face, her voice, her new platinum fucking hair.
Surveillance has become my second job.I've got tactical teams deployed like she's a head of state. Three different shifts. Round-the-clock coverage. This is not normal behavior, even for me.
Haven't balanced the scales in months.Volk broke me.No, Caleb. Scarletta watching you kill him and then rejecting you, broke you.
How did this happen?
How?
How did I get here?
I scoff out loud, that's how ridiculous this question is.
Scarletta put me here.
I lean back in the driver's seat, letting my head hit the headrest.
Okay. Fine. Let's do this properly.
Let's make a real fucking list.
Why Scarletta Mae Desmond has hijacked my brain…
She has matching damage.
Every woman I've ever been with fell into one of two categories. The ones who got scared when they saw what I actually wanted, or the ones who tried to fix me like I was some kind of charity project.
My one real ex girlfriend saw my monster and looked at me like I was diseased. Like I needed therapy, and Jesus, and probably a lobotomy.
The submissives at the clubs played their roles. But underneath, I could see the judgment. The calculation.How much extra am I getting paid for this freaky shit?
Scarletta wrote Call of the fucking Labyrinth.
She didn't just tolerate darkness—she cultivated it. Nurtured it. Spent months inside Lyra's head while she got hunted and violated by actual monsters with fur-covered cocks.
That's not someone performing kink. That's someone who lives in the same shadows I do.
I stare at the blank space under my pathetic list.
She craves what I need to give.
My fingers hover over the keys.
This isn't... fuck. This isn't her tolerating my shit. Isn't her playing along because that's what good subs do. Isn't performance art for my benefit.
