Page 57 of Reign

I like when a man tells me what to do in a voice that makes disobedience feel impossible.

Holy shit.

I bury my face in the pillow again and let out a muffled noise of pure self-loathing.

When I lift my head, the cursor is still blinking.

Patient.

Judgmental.

Finally, I type:

New to this. Interested in structure and control. I want to learn from someone who knows what they’re doing. Discretion matters. So does choice.

I read it back and want to die.

It sounds like I’m purchasing a hitman or applying to a very secretive knitting circle.

Still, I don’t delete it.

It’s vague enough to be safe, but honest enough to make my stomach twist.

Ugh.

It sounds almost polite.

It sounds like me trying to be reasonable about the fact that I want someone to open a door I have spent my entire life pretending I wasn’t looking at.

A final section asks if I’m interested in a tour, membership, or private consultation.

The words make my skin warm.

I tap private consultation.

Then I stare at the submit button and hit submit.

My heart is beating too fast for something this stupid.

This tiny rectangle on a screen shouldn’t feel like a cliff edge, but it does. Because it isn’t really about the form. It’s about what it means if I send it.

That I’m done pretending I don’t want to know.

That I’m not done with him, even if he’s done with me.

That some part of me is willing to walk toward the locked door and knock.

The screen reloads.

Thank you. A member of our team will contact you within 2–3 business days.

I go completely still.

Then I whisper, “Oh my God.”

Because now it exists outside my head.

A real inquiry sent to real people who might reach back.