The black choker was still around her throat when Aria opened her eyes. For a split second, she forgot where she was. The mattress was too soft. The sheets too smooth. The silence too heavy. Then it all came back like a slow, suffocating wave. The contract. Damien Black. The collar. His voice in the dark: "Good girl. I'm watching." She sat up, her hands gripping the silk sheets as if they could anchor her. There was no clock in the room. No phone. No window she could open. It wasn't a bedroom it was a cage disguised as royalty.
A soft chime broke the silence. She looked to her left. A sleek tablet sat on the nightstand, glowing.
6:30 AM — Wake
7:00 AM — Breakfast
8:00 AM — Orientation
Below that, in smaller text:
"Wear the black dress on the vanity. Do not remove the collar."
Her throat tightened. This wasn't a contract. It was a system. A machine she had stepped into. And she wasn't the operator. She was the product.
The black dress was exactly her size. Modest, buttoned, expensive. Its fabric whispered over her skin like silk and steel. Her old clothes were gone not a trace left. A knock on the door. She flinched. A woman entered tall, with a stern face and stiff posture. Not a maid. Not quite a butler. Something else. Without a word, she brushed Aria's hair and slipped low-heeled shoes on her feet.
"Am I allowed to speak?" Aria asked softly. The woman didn't answer. But when Aria tried to speak again, the woman turned and said, coldly, "Only if spoken to." Then she opened the door and gestured. Aria stepped out.
The mansion during daylight was even more intimidating. Every surface sparkled. Everything smelled like cedar, lavender, and money. Cameras watched silently from the corners. The silence was deeper now like even the walls were obeying orders. She was escorted down a grand staircase. They passed a library, a gym, a conservatory with glass ceilings. But most doors were shut. Locked. When she slowed near a red door with a golden handle, the woman at her side spoke flatly. "You are not permitted beyond that hallway." "What's in there?" The woman looked her straight in the eye. "Pain." Aria said nothing after that.
When they reached the east wing, the hallway widened into a minimalist dining room. A long black table stretched across the center, set for two though Damien wasn't there yet. She was guided to her seat at the far end. Two silver utensils. A crystal glass of water. No phone. No window. She sat, unsure what to do. Her fingers fidgeted in her lap. The collar itched at her skin not because of the material, but because of what it meant.
Then she heard it. Footsteps. Slow. Calm. Precise. He entered. Damien Black. Black suit. Black shirt. No tie. Cold gray eyes that didn't blink. He didn't look at her. Didn't acknowledge her presence at first. Just sat across the table, unfolded a linen napkin, and began to eat. Only then did she move. Her fork trembled slightly in her hand.
"Do you always control breakfast this way?" she asked, careful not to sound sarcastic. He looked up, finally. His gaze was arctic. "Are you complaining?" She swallowed. "No." "Good," he said. "Because you haven't earned the right to complain yet."
They ate in silence. She tried not to taste the food because it was good. Sinfully good. Like everything else in this house, it was designed to weaken her resolve. Damien didn't speak again until he set his napkin down. "Follow me." No please. No instruction. Just a command. She followed.
They passed long, empty corridors until they arrived at a glass-walled office. Inside was a black marble desk, a leather chair, and a folder waiting on top. He gestured for her to sit. She obeyed. Then he sat opposite her and opened the folder. Inside: a thicker, more complete version of the contract she had signed. "Your version," he said, "was simplified. This is the full agreement." Her eyes widened. "You mean I didn't see everything?" "No," he replied. "Because you weren't ready to." He slid the folder across the desk. She opened it.
Pages and pages of clauses, sub-clauses, legal terminology, and handwritten amendments. Rule after rule.
No unauthorized communication. No leaving the grounds without written approval. No touching without permission. Not even yourself. Failure to comply will result in punishment to be determined at my discretion.
Aria's voice broke slightly. "What kind of punishment?" Damien leaned forward. His voice was low and deadly calm.
"The kind that teaches obedience."
She shivered.
He made her read the first ten rules aloud. She stumbled over a few, especially the one that said:
"Emotional boundaries are to be dissolved. The submissive will be mentally and physically available as per the dominant's schedule."
"What does that even mean?" she asked, heart pounding. "It means," he said, "you belong to me." Her fingers curled around the edge of the paper. "Even my thoughts?" He didn't blink. "Eventually."
He stood, suddenly, and walked behind her. She tensed, expecting his touch. But he didn't lay a hand on her. Instead, he whispered near her ear: "You're not here to fall in love. You're here to obey." Her breath hitched. She turned her face slightly toward his but he had already moved away. Always in control. Always out of reach.
By noon, she was escorted to lunch. The table was shorter this time. Closer. But the tension was no less thick. Damien poured her water himself. Watched her lift the glass. Watched her drink. His eyes never strayed. Not once. "I'm not a doll," she said quietly. "No," he agreed. "You're a girl who sold her soul. I'm just collecting what's mine." Something broke inside her, but she didn't let him see it. Instead, she forced herself to meet his gaze. "Why me?" she asked. He smiled. Not kindly. "Because you'll break beautifully. And I'll be the one to put you back together."
The words echoed in her skull long after lunch ended. She was escorted back to her room. The collar still wrapped around her throat. Her thoughts twisted like thorns. When she stepped into her room, something had changed. A small, matte black envelope sat on the pillow. No seal. No stamp. Just her name scrawled in silver ink. She picked it up slowly and unfolded the note inside. One sentence.
"Do not touch yourself. I own your pleasure now." —D.
Her legs nearly gave out beneath her. She collapsed onto the bed, the paper crumpling in her hand. This wasn't just about rules. This was about ownership. Control. Obsession. And it had only just begun.