Chapter 2 Training the Chosen

Chapter Two – Training the Chosen

There was silence, then breath.

That was how it began.

The moment Fred's screams were dragged down the mirrored hallway and the heavy doors sealed shut, the estate changed. The air became thinner. The light less forgiving. Even the walls-once pulsing with warm shadows-felt like they were waiting.

Waiting for him to submit again.

Waiting for her to begin.

Ken knelt alone in the throne room for what felt like hours.

He didn't speak.

He didn't move.

He just... waited.

Behind him, Queen Lilly remained silent. Seated high above, one leg crossed over the other, red silk spilling from her like fire down marble.

When she finally rose, her steps were slow. Precise. Echoing.

Ken kept his head bowed.

"You chose well," she said softly, circling him like a lioness. "Or perhaps, you simply broke more beautifully."

Ken swallowed. His knees ached against the cold stone. His heart was thudding beneath the thin linen of his robe. He wasn't sure if it was fear or desire anymore.

"You looked at me when you begged," she continued. "Fred bowed, but you gave me your eyes. That is the difference between worship and surrender."

She stopped behind him. Bent close.

"You wanted me to ruin you."

Ken closed his eyes.

And whispered, "Yes."

That night, Ken did not return to his bedchamber. There was no velvet silence or rose-scented bath drawn in anticipation. Instead, he was led-barefoot and collared-into a smaller room near the Queen's private wing.

It was dimly lit, with only a fur-lined mat at the foot of an oversized obsidian bed. The ceiling was mirrored. The air smelled like smoke and lavender.

He was told nothing. No instructions. No threats.

Just a gesture from one of her silent staff, pointing at the mat.

He lay down without resistance.

He expected pain.

He expected pleasure.

He expected her.

But she never came.

Not that night.

Not physically.

Only her voice, later, from behind the mirror.

"This is where you sleep now, pet.

You will not be touched until I say so.

Wanting is not the same as deserving."

Fred was gone, but his scent lingered in the halls. On certain nights, Ken swore he heard footsteps that didn't belong to the staff. He imagined Fred crying in a locked chamber somewhere, punished for daring to love too soon.

Sometimes, he felt guilty.

But guilt, like hope, was something Queen Lilly was training him to unlearn.

He remembered Fred's last words.

"I love you."

They hadn't been meant for him. But somehow, they echoed like a wound.

One morning, Ken awoke to find a letter on the floor near his mat.

Do you regret how it ended?

Would you rather I chose him?

Are you still pretending, or have you become mine?

He burned the letter in the candle beside her bed.

She said nothing.

But she watched everything.

On the seventh day of his submission, the Queen called for him.

He was dressed in white-barefoot, wrists wrapped in silk. His collar had a new tag now: a silver crown etched with the letter L.

The ballroom was empty except for a grand piano and a mirror taller than a man.

Lilly sat on the piano bench, her fingers gliding along the keys without sound.

"Do you dance, pet?" she asked.

Ken hesitated. "Not well."

"Perfect," she said. "Then dance for me."

He blinked.

"There's no music."

She didn't repeat herself.

He danced.

Clumsy at first-shoulders stiff, hips uncertain. Then slower. Smoother. He let the music of her presence guide him. The rhythm of her breath. The flick of her lashes. He moved like a man possessed, like a body unlearning pride.

She watched.

Not smiling. Not judging.

Just... measuring.

When he finally collapsed to his knees, panting, sweat clinging to his skin, she approached.

"Now look in the mirror."

He did.

His reflection stared back-collared, flushed, changed.

"Tell him," she said, "that he belongs to me."

Ken whispered to the mirror, "You belong to her."

"Louder."

He said it again.

"Again."

And again. Until his voice cracked.

Only then did she touch him-one hand on the back of his neck.

"Good boy."

On the second week, Ken was taken outside the estate for the first time.

He was blindfolded, led through what felt like a garden, and seated in a soft chair.

When the blindfold was removed, he found himself in a circular room of glass, surrounded by a small audience-rich Alphas, silent Betas, no cameras, only eyes.

Lilly stood at the center, dressed in violet leather.

"Tonight," she said, "you will serve me in full view.

Not with sex. Not with silence. But with stillness."

She turned to the crowd.

"Submission is not shame. It is devotion. And devotion is art."

She pointed to a pedestal in the center of the room.

"Kneel there. Do not move."

Ken obeyed.

For hours, he stayed still while guests walked around him, whispering. Some touched his cheek. One pressed a glass of wine to his lips. No one spoke to him directly. No one called him by name.

But they all looked.

When it was over, Queen Lilly walked to him.

Kissed his forehead.

And whispered, "Perfect display."

That night, he was brought into the ceremonial room. A velvet altar. Candles. The throne.

She stood beside a glass case holding two collars.

One was red leather.

One was gold and black.

"You were born Omega," she said. "But you have chosen to be mine."

She held the red leather collar. It was beautiful, simple, with a gold tag etched with her full insignia.

"This is the Collar of Silence. It means you are owned. Not hired. Not styled. Owned."

She stepped toward him.

Ken's heart raced.

She circled him.

Then fastened the collar at his throat.

It clicked shut.

Final. Soft. Eternal.

"You are now mine," she said. "And the world will know."

He dropped to his knees.

She placed her hand on his head.

And smiled.

Photos leaked the next week.

Ken-collared, silent, kneeling beside Queen Lilly at an exclusive rooftop event. No captions. No tags. No interviews.

Just a name:

"The Chosen."

The internet went wild.

Rumors exploded.

Was he her lover? A new actor? A performance piece?

No one knew.

He gave no answers.

He simply followed her, sat at her feet, and did as she commanded.

In every appearance, his collar gleamed.

And behind closed doors, he was trained further-body, voice, discipline.

Sometimes, she let him speak.

Sometimes, she made him beg not to.

One night, Ken dreamed of Fred.

They were in the ballroom again. The mirror cracked. The piano on fire.

Fred touched his cheek.

"You're not you anymore," he whispered.

Ken touched his collar.

"I don't want to be."

Fred leaned in, kissed him once.

"Then be hers. Completely."

Ken woke with tears in his eyes.

And a note beside his mat:

Even your dreams obey me.

Queen Lilly led him one morning to a private garden.

She wore white. Her hair in braids. No jewelry.

She sat on a bench, pulled him down beside her.

"Do you miss who you were?" she asked.

Ken thought.

"No," he said.

"Do you miss freedom?"

He looked at her.

"I don't remember what that tasted like."

She smiled.

"Then you're ready."

"For what?"

"To forget everything but me."

She made him wait in the ballroom again.

Naked.

Collared.

On his knees.

The piano played itself, soft and slow.

Then she entered.

No words.

She approached. Cupped his face.

And kissed him.

Not like a queen.

Not like an owner.

But like a God claiming a soul.

His whole body trembled.

"You're mine," she whispered. "And now... the world will see."