Chapter 2 The First Command

Lena stood on the raised platform in the center of the room, stripped down to bare skin, every nerve ending alive. The heat from the floor seeped into her soles, but she felt anything but warm. Her body was still. Her mind? Chaos.

Damien Blackwood circled her like an artist assessing his sculpture. Yet he hadn't touched her. Not once. Not physically.

But his presence wrapped around her like a second skin.

He was deliberate in everything about him, from his slow pace to the faint crease in his brow, screamed control. Lena wanted to move, to break the silence, to remind herself that this was just a job.

But she stayed frozen. Not out of fear but something else.

Anticipation.

"Hold your hands in front of you. Palms facing me," he said.

She obeyed.

He stood before her now, mere inches away, eyes drinking her in not lewdly, but intensely, like she was a puzzle he was assembling in his mind. Her breath stilled in her throat.

"You're not used to being looked at like this," he said quietly.

She swallowed. "Not like I'm something to be... owned."

"I don't believe in ownership," he replied. "Only surrender."

She lifted her chin. "That's the same thing with better branding."

A flicker of amusement crossed his expression. "You're braver than I thought."

"No," she whispered. "Just desperate."

Their eyes locked, and for a moment, neither moved.

Then he turned away.

Without another word, Damien walked to a cabinet and retrieved a camera sleek, matte black, expensive. He adjusted the lens like it was second nature.

"I don't paint," he said, as if reading her mind. "I capture."

"I'm not a photographer," she said.

"No," he agreed, raising the camera to eye level. "You're a story. One I intend to unravel."

The shutter clicked.

Again.

And again.

She expected him to give directions, to mold her like clay. But he didn't. He simply let her be still, bare, watched.

"Why me?" she asked after a stretch of silence.

Click.

"You were chosen."

"By who?"

"Me."

Click.

"That's not an answer," she said, her voice laced with quiet defiance.

This time, he lowered the camera. "Your eyes. You have hunger behind them. Not the kind that wants wealth. The kind that wants to be seen. Most people don't even know what they need. But you? You walked in knowing exactly what this meant."

Her throat tightened.

She didn't like how close his words came to the truth.

"Was I wrong?" he asked.

She didn't answer.

He approached her again, slow and deliberate, and Lena's pulse quickened. She expected him to touch her. Instead, he reached for a small black velvet box on a nearby pedestal and opened it.

Inside was a collar.

Simple. Elegant. Soft leather with a silver ring in the center.

Her stomach flipped.

"I'm not wearing that," she said instantly.

"You don't have to," he replied. "Not unless you agree with what it means."

"And what's that?"

"That while you're here, in this space, I own the moment. Not you. Just this. The art. The silence. The submission."

She was shaking now, from cold or nerves or adrenaline she wasn't sure.

"I'm not submissive," she whispered.

He stepped closer. "Everyone is something... for the right person."

His words hit something deep inside her. She didn't speak. Couldn't.

"Three days," he reminded her softly. "At any time, you can walk away. But if you stay, you follow my rules."

Lena looked down at the collar.

Then at Damien.

Then back.

"What happens if I say yes?" she asked.

He lifted the collar from the box. "Then the first night begins."

The lights in the studio dimmed by the time she spoke.

"Yes," she whispered.

He didn't smirk. He didn't gloat.

He simply fastened it around her neck with slow, reverent hands. She expected it to feel like chains. But it didn't.

It felt... grounding.

Her breath came faster. Her skin prickled.

"Lie down," he commanded.

She obeyed, lowering herself onto the leather mat he'd placed on the platform earlier. Her body trembled slightly, though whether from nerves or something more shameful, she couldn't say.

Damien knelt beside her. Close, but not touching.

He raised the camera again.

"This isn't just about images," he said. "It's about what's hidden beneath the surface."

"And what do you think I'm hiding?" she murmured.

He didn't answer right away.

Click.

"That you want to be broken open," he finally said. "And put it back together."

Her heart thundered.

"You don't know me," she whispered.

"Not yet," he said. "But I will."

He took more photos of her bare shoulders, the curve of her hip, her eyes looking straight into the lens, refusing to look away.

"You're not like other men," she said.

"No," he replied simply. "I'm not."

There was silence. A heavy one.

Then Damien rose, setting the camera aside.

"Stand," he said.

Lena stood. The collar felt heavier now.

Damien walked toward the doors. "That's all for tonight."

"That's it?" she asked.

He paused, glancing back at her. "You expected more?"

She didn't answer. Part of her had.

But she couldn't admit that.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, and then vanished into the hallway like a shadow.

Lena returned to the guest suite they'd prepared for her. It was larger than her entire apartment, filled with soft linens, dim lights, and quiet music humming from speakers. A tray of warm tea sat waiting.

She sipped the tea, sitting on the edge of the bed, replaying the session over and over in her mind. Damien hadn't laid a finger on her, and yet... it felt like he had touched every part of her.

She felt exposed. But not violated. Seen. But not understood.

And worse she didn't hate it.

She looked at herself in the mirror, at the thin collar still around her neck. Her fingers hovered over the clasp but didn't remove it.

A knock startled her.

She turned toward the door. "Yes?"

No answer.

She stood and crossed the room. Slowly opened the door.

The hallway was empty except for a silver envelope lying on the floor.

She picked it up. Unsealed it.

Inside was a note.

Tomorrow, I will show you what it means to truly surrender. Don't run.

D.

And beneath that, in his handwriting, one line:

I know what you're hiding, Lena. And so does he.

Her fingers went numb.

He?

Who the hell was he?

Her pulse roared in her ears as she stepped back into the room and locked the door, her thoughts spiraling.

How did Damien know something she'd buried years ago?

And who else knew?