Page 10 of Mister St. James

They know my name. Not Cat, not the Scarlet Muse, not some handle or code. They know who I am. Not just the body, but the daylit identity, the one I spent a lifetime armoring against exactly this kind of breach. My legs go numb. I fight the urge to look at the window, to see if anyone’s watching. But I know, instinctively, that there are eyes on me now, if not physically, then metaphysically.

Finally, my eyes move past my name at the top to continue reading the rest of the beautifully scripted words on this life and probably career-ending invitation.

Catalina Vaquer,

Your presence is formally requested as my honored guest on Wednesday at 9:00 p.m. sharp at the Velvet Stag Lounge for an exclusive private showcase and gallery review.

Enclosed, you will find a curated package containing everything required should you choose to participate as the featured focus of the evening’s presentation.

- Weaver.

I freeze, card pinched between thumb and forefinger, while my heart races in my chest. The signature on the bottom, written in a hand I instantly recognize from margin notes and contract edits.

Weaver.

The one that has hands like an architect, a sadist’s patience, the absolute conviction of a man who knows you’ll break for him, eventually. I think about the way he watched me at the club, still as a photograph, gaze so steady it made me squirm in places I thought were untouchable. There’s no way. No way it’s him. Except, obviously, there is.

My brain does a quick regression analysis and comes back with one answer, Aiden St. James. My boss, my office infatuation, the algorithmic antichrist is The Weaver. My eyes flick, involuntary, to the glass wall dividing our offices.

Aiden is the man in the blackout mask, the one who watched every move without blinking. The Weaver. The name hangs in my brain, luminous. The thought sends a spasm through my core, half fear, half want. I almost expect the building’s security to swarm me, the lights to flicker, and a SWAT team to materialize and arrest me for crimes against professionalism.

My breath hitches. My skin prickles as I rifle through the tissue, to find two neat coils of rope, nestled in like twin hearts. Not the rough stuff you buy at hardware stores for $3.99 a bundle, but proper, silken, and red as murder. Each coil is wound with the kind of precision that says this is more than a toy, this is a tool, an extension of a will that cares about the details. I touch the rope. It’s cool at first, but the heat of my fingers sinks in fast, almost eager. I can’t help but flex my hand, feel the drag of the fibers over my palm.

Beneath the rope is a small, black, leather-bound book, the sort you’d find in an old monastery or a really pretentious coffee shop. Of course I have to open it. The pages are diagrams, knots, harnesses, patterns. Some are simple, some so intricate they border on impossible. Ankles, wrists, torsos beautifully bound, each page a new permutation, a new promise.

Some pages are marked with tiny flags of red tape, others with lines of annotation in the margins. Calculations. Corrections. Notes for me.

“Page 14: for your hips;”

“Page 42: good showpiece, needs stretch;”

“Page 91: warning, advanced.”

My breath shortens. I flip to another page, and another. A spread with five sequential frames: arms behind, elbows touching, the rope cinched so the forearms become a single line, a brutal parabola of vulnerability. There’s a tab here, and I run my thumb over it, and can feel the heat between my thighs, as if the nerves can’t tell the difference between memory and anticipation.

I close the book, hands trembling. My stomach flips, and every part of me that was afraid is now simply hungry.

I look down at the rope, the book, the invitation. The urge to stand, to walk across the hall and confront him, is so strong my legs tense under the desk. But I force myself to wait, to be deliberate, the way he is. My pulse is pure noise. My pussy is slick, the cotton of my panties already damp, and I squeeze my thighs together, hard.

I open my planner to the relevant page. Wednesday: status update meeting, client dinner, budget review. The rest is blank. I write in “9:00 - engagement” and underline it, twice and so hard my pen leaves a dent in the paper.

Carefully, I rewrap the ropes, slide the book back into place, and fold the tissue over the contents. I tuck the invitation into my purse, right next to the box, close enough to touch but hidden from view. I stare at my own reflection in the monitor, makeup still intact, hair only slightly frizzed at the temples. I look normal, but I’m not.

I am thoroughly, irrevocably altered.

The rest of the day is a slow-motion trainwreck. Every minute, I check the clock. I replay the feel of the rope, the weight of the card. I want to text someone, but there’s no one to text, this is a secret that can’t survive the air outside this office.

At 5:30 sharp, I pack up. As I shut down my computer and gather my things, I let myself look at Aiden’s office one last time. He’s still there, still working. The tie gone, shirt open just enough to make you wonder if you’re seeing something you shouldn’t. He says nothing as I approach, but the air between us snaps taut.

“Goodnight, Mr. St. James”

“Have a good night, Catalina,” he says, voice lower than usual and I can feel the heat of his gaze as I walk away.

There is no universe in which he doesn’t know what he’s done.

When I hit the elevator button, the nerves are gone. In their place, raw, hungry curiosity, the kind that will get you killed or crowned.

Wednesday can’t come fast enough.