The Iceberg
Pologue
Tik... tik... tik...
The soft mechanical sound echoed through the dim chamber, sharp and rhythmic, like the ticking of a malevolent clock. I could hear the tension-coil tighten with every passing second,
Clack!
The loading mechanism clicked into place, and I shuddered, my skin crawling with anticipation.
The whip was armed. Drawn back. Waiting.
Somewhere deep within the machine's heart, random number generators churned silently, counting down.
It could be seconds... or minutes.
I had no way of knowing.
The only certainty was its mercilessness.
I couldn’t see the device behind me, but I could feel its presence — looming, intimate, precise.
This was not what I had in mind when I built it, I thought bitterly.
My muscles were tense, my thighs trembling slightly from strain and adrenaline. The restraints were unforgiving — firm leather against bare, vulnerable flesh.
I tested them again instinctively, feeling the resistance, the utter helplessness they imposed.
There was no escape.
The leather cuffs dug into my wrists and ankles, securing me in a bent-over position, ass high and exposed. The cold air caressed my bare skin, making me hyperaware of every nerve, every inch of vulnerable flesh offered up for retribution.
I whimpered softly.
When would it come?
How bad would it be?
The fear wasn't even of the pain — it was the suspense.
The exquisite, mind-fucking terror of not knowing.
WHIP!
The lash cracked across my skin — clean, sharp, absolute.
I gasped, jerking in the restraints, the sting blooming into a deep, burning ache instantly.
Through gritted teeth, I forced the words out clearly — it was crucial the system recognized me:
“Seven! Thank you, Mr. Robot! I deserve that!”
The microphone captured my voice.
Seconds later, the automated speaker answered in a cheerful synthetic tone: “Good girl, Jhon.” Oh, how it mocked me.
The phrase was hardcoded into the response system — a cruel joke I'd added myself when programming it. ‘good girl <slave_name>
I remember writing that line. At the time, I'd pictured broken and obedient slavegirls squirming under the code's authority. Now I was the one on the receiving end.
Now I was the one squirming. Bound. Exposed. Completely at the mercy of my own merciless creation. Captive of the very fantasies I had designed for others.
How the fuck did I end up like this?
I pulled against the restraints reflexively, however futile.
The bite of the leather, the slow sting of the whip settling into my skin, the knowledge that another strike could come at any moment…
It was enough to drive any man insane.
And yet, my cock twitched aching, needy.
Despite the pain — or maybe because of it — my body was betraying me.
Maybe...
Maybe I deserved this.
After all, hadn't I spent years building the fantasie?
Perfect, obedient systems. Machines that punished, teased, denied. Me at the buttons..
Now the machine had turned on its master.
Justice, perhaps.
Or maybe fate had a wicked sense of humor.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a savage, grinning voice whispered: You made this bed, Jhon. Now lie in it.
Another slow, mechanical tik... tik... tik... filled the room.
I waited, helpless, for the next merciless blow. Time lost meaning. Seconds stretched into infinity.
"That concludes the tour of the property, Jhon," the real estate agent said, her crimson smile bright, professional, practiced. "Any questions?"
I let her voice wash over me. My eyes lingered on the cool stone beneath my feet, the faint echo of her heels fading into stillness. This one was different. The others had been shells—glamorous, polished but utterly lifeless. I had wandered them like a ghost.
We had finally found each other.. It felt less like discovery, more like reunion.
Above ground, the mansion wore a Victorian mask: tall ceilings, restored crown molding, a drawing room that whispered of a forgotten era. Tasteful. Respectable. But that was just camouflage.
Iceberg homes, they called them. And this house was a perfect specimen.
A small surface footprint hiding a vast, luxurious underworld.
It still amazed me — the sheer size of the living space hidden within such a compact exterior footprint.
Central London, after all, was a battlefield of inches.
Above ground, restrictions ruled.
But Below ground, only ambition mattered.
The previous owner had been a visionary.
Basement Level One stretched wide beneath the house and garden both, crowned by a glass-bottomed infinity pool. The pool above that cast shifting, liquid light into the gym and wine cellar below. Light that moved like something breathing. It was an indulgence so rich it bordered on obscene.
There was storage, a laundry room, security systems worthy of a military complex, a cinema, game room, vaults. A world underground. Clean lines. Soundproofed walls. Controlled air. Controlled everything.
Modernity hid behind those walls: biometric locks, hidden cameras, reinforced doors that sealed the private quarters.
A separate back exit led directly to the staff quarters, offering them discreet access to the property without ever disturbing the main residence. The staff living quarters were situated on the second basement floor, entirely self-contained and self-sufficient — a world apart, yet quietly vital.
At night, the security system would automatically seal off the main house—fingerprint locks securing the lifts and internal hallway doors, creating an unbreachable boundary around the owner's private domain—a safety perimeter against the outside world. A clear division between who belonged... and who did not.
Security was paramount when wealth painted a target on your back.
I admired how cleverly it was all designed.
The walls down here were thicker than I expected. Every sound felt slightly muffled, absorbed.
Even footsteps softened against the plush carpeted floors above and the cold, polished stone of the basement.
The real estate agent clicked her heels sharply against the floor, the sound cutting through my thoughts. “Oh, uh, questions,” I echoed, snapping out of my train of thought, only half-aware she had even spoken.
"The plans are on the dining table if you'd like to review them," the agent offered, still smiling, though her eyes had flicked once—longingly—toward a nearby chair.
She was elegant. Poised. Her calves ached, though she tried to hide it. I had noticed. I always noticed. The pressure of hours in heels, the soft flex of burning arches, the silent war between discomfort and performance. She had walked well. Too well. I had let her lead the way so I could admire the beautiful, smooth legs wrapped in silky sheer stockings.
I had watched her from the beginning, the long tour slowly building discomfort.
The brief flutter of lashes as she fought the growing ache.
It thrilled me. A quiet, sadistic satisfaction blooming in the space where my empathy should have resided.
A small, private game.
I smiled softly, savoring the delicious tension. Thinking “No, the plans can wait my dear. Not yet.”
“Let’s have a closer look again at the unfinished part of the basement,” I said smoothly, knowing it would keep her on her toes longer.
My swift pace to the stairs would force my plaything the difficult way.
I watched the tiniest hesitation stiffen her spine.
Her mouth twitched, forcing another bright smile into place.
Professional. Dutiful.
She pivoted toward the lift.
“I’m uncomfortable in elevators,” I lied easily, with a casual shrug.
A tiny flash of something — irritation, perhaps — crossed her eyes.
But she concealed it under a layer of trained courtesy.
She nodded, the movement so slight her tight hair bun barely shifted.
”Your fingerprint isn’t in the system yet,” she explained, her voice slightly more clipped.
“Then you’ll have to lead the way,” I said, letting a soft undercurrent of amusement color my voice.
“Of course,” she said, turning towards the stairs.
The pressure on her arches must have been exquisite by now. The delicate hosiery inside her shoes trapping sweat.
I watched her hips sway with every downward step, the tightness of the skirt restricting her thighs. Her breathing grew subtly heavier. Her hand brushed the railing once for balance—then withdrew, pride smothering instinct.
The stairwell opened into the second basement: raw concrete, harsh light, no furniture, no warmth, and a stillness that hadn’t yet been disturbed by purpose.
“ This floor houses the staff living quarters,” she said, walking through the second floor basement hall. her voice thinner now. “This room was destined to become a home cinema and entertainment area — Only the basic framing has been installed. Plenty of space for you to make whatever you fancy.” her words echoed.
Oh, I had wicked plans for these unfinished rooms, no doubt about that. If only she knew. In my mind's eye, I pictured her not as the polished agent, but as one of my captured damsels — elegant, restrained, vulnerable. She had the right look for it too: that understated beauty, the quiet pride in her posture. But no, she was likely vanilla, utterly unaware of the darker games that stirred beneath. The current keeping-her-on-her-toes game was the only one I could play.
My gaze swept the space. But my attention was far more deliciously occupied.
I caught her stealing a glance down at her shoes, a quick, almost imperceptible flicker of longing. The plain room was empty, still bare, no seats installed.
Removing her pumps was out of the question, the rough floor would destroy her delicate nylons, besides her professionalism would not allow that.
Good. I wasn't in any hurry. This was the perfect setting for negotiations in my private little game.
“I don’t like the idea of staff passing through an unfinished area,” I mused aloud,
She started to respond, but I cut across her neatly. “I won’t do eighty.”
She blinked, momentarily thrown off balance.
“Sixty-five million is my offer.” I stated.
A beat of silence.
I could almost hear the gears grinding in her head, calculating commission, owner reaction, her own exhaustion.
“I’m sure the owner will consider it,” she said briskly, professionalism snapping back into place.
“We can recommend an architect to help you finish this project — and assist in finding local staff.”
Staff. Ah, if she only knew what kind of staff I truly desired.
She could not imagine the plans fermenting inside my mind:
Cherry and Sofie would be moving in, thrilled at the thought of serving me full-time now.
But not ready for the true extent of their submission. They believed they were coming to live as maids, bound in service — but they had no idea just how far my fantasies extended... or the meticulous preparations I had made.
Freedom was an illusion. Most people craved chains — they just didn't have the courage to admit it. Here, within these walls, I would give them what they secretly longed for: structure, obedience, meaning.
The sale of my automation software patents had left me with obscene wealth and something far more valuable: absolute time and freedom. Freedom to create, to control. Time to design an environment tailored precisely to my desires.
This house was more than a home — it would be a fortress, a playground, and a prison for my beautiful subjects. It had been waiting — patient and unfinished — until I arrived.
I would modify the fingerprint security systems to ensure the damsels had no access to the outside world. I would set invisible boundaries through the house, defining when and where they could move. Triple perimeters.
And the true jewel in my crown? A smart shock collar I had engineered myself in spare moments — subtle, precise, and utterly effective. The slightest infraction, the faintest hint of disobedience, would be corrected instantly.
My girls were familiar with my inventions — but they had never experienced their full, relentless application.
I smiled to myself, imagining their future here — obedient, collared, beautifully broken to my will. This house was perfect. Better than perfect. It was destiny.
“I'll call in to have your offer considered once we’re upstairs," Lara said, her voice breaking into my reverie. "There's no reception down here."
“Thank you, miss...?” I prompted, playing polite.
“You can call me Lara,” she replied.
Lara, A beautiful name for a woman so beautifully bound by invisible strings. Bound by civility, by expectation.
Chapter 2 The Devil Wears Stock Options
Almost home.
The ache in my calves was brutal, but I hadn’t dared to kick off the heels yet — not with the walk still ahead from the parking lot to my apartment. God, how my legs hurt.
It looked professional, though. For that calibre of client, you had to look the part: elegant, poised, a little bit untouchable.
And yet he had been there in sneakers — the rich always got away with dressing down.
I slammed the door behind me and let my back slide down to the floor, finally letting the tension out.
"How was it?" yelled my roommate from the kitchen.
"Long and hard," I sighed, popping off the pumps with a grunt of relief. Sweet blood rushed back to my toes in a fiery wave of tingling pain.
"The billionaire was what?" she teased, peering around the corner with a smirk. "Told ya not to wear those damn five-inch vices."
I laughed grimly.
"The house tour was a bloody marathon," I complained. "Rich, sadistic, 50 Shades-type walked me all over the place. I swear he kept staring at my heels. I'm convinced he dragged it out just to watch me suffer."
I flexed my toes, groaning. "Haggled over the price too — like a million more or less matters to someone like him."
I massaged the soreness from my calves, wincing.
"Was he handsome?" she asked, waggling her eyebrows.
"Mari! I'm not interested in being one of his concubines," I shot back, rubbing my sore arches. "I'm looking for something sensible. Serious."
Even as I said it, the memory of his slow smile flickered at the back of my mind — the way he watched me walk. A sharp, assessing gaze.
Sadistic bastard had enjoyed every second. Me in the godforsaken five-inch heels — but he had strolled around like some casual king surveying his new domain.
I returned to rubbing my poor, abused feet, sighing again with a mix of relief and irritation.My hands slid over the sheer nylon, the silky fabric whispering under my fingertips.
As the throbbing in my legs faded, something else started brewing underneath. A sharper kind of heat.
I curled my toes again, wincing, furious — not just at him, but at myself.
For how easily I’d given him what he wanted. I had been paraded like a show pony.
I yanked the pins from my bun, and my hair tumbled free. It should’ve felt like relief. But I still felt him. Like his eyes were stuck to my skin, etched into my posture.
I picked up one of the heels. My fingers curled around the leather that had carved itself into my skin. The arch was still warm from my skin, damp where the sweat had gathered.
The bastard. He hadn’t even touched me, but he’d played me. And the worst part? I’d let him.
Normally, in my personal life, I was the one in control.
But today?
Today I’d let a stranger lead me around like a perfectly dressed marionette. Because of professionalism. Because of commission and contracts and reputation.
I lingered too long beneath the shower, letting the scalding water drum against my skin as if it could wash away more than sweat. That low, humming tension in my core that wouldn’t dissolve.
Later, wrapped in a robe, a heavy glass of wine cradled in one hand and my laptop balanced across my thighs, I told myself it was nothing. Just another eccentric billionaire.
Still, curiosity itched like a sunburn. Who exactly was this Jhon?
I typed his name into the search bar. His tech company popped up immediately, followed by a string of articles: accolades, acquisition figures, keynote speeches, his tech company, the patents he'd sold.
Photos of him at charity galas, shaking hands with royalty, looking charming in the disinterested way only the truly rich could master.
Clean. Controlled. Unreachable.
But I kept digging. Past the gloss.
Down into the strange corners of the internet — fringe blogs, comment threads on old forums, half-deleted Reddit posts. The anonymous gossip, that’s where the real stories lived.
Who said it again? “I love rumors! Facts can be so misleading, where rumors, true or false, are often revealing.”
"Wild parties."
"Exclusive gatherings, very private, very unusual entertainment."
"Guests were required to sign NDAs.Phones confiscated.”"
No photos. No confirmations. Just whispers in the dark
I stared at the screen, wine forgotten, a slow thrum building at the base of my spine. Not fear. Not quite desire. Recognition.
Before I could chase that thought down any darker path, my phone buzzed sharply on the floor beside me. It was the agency.
The owner's side had accepted the offer.
Pologue
Tik... tik... tik...
The soft mechanical sound echoed through the dim chamber, sharp and rhythmic, like the ticking of a malevolent clock. I could hear the tension-coil tighten with every passing second,
Clack!
The loading mechanism clicked into place, and I shuddered, my skin crawling with anticipation.
The whip was armed. Drawn back. Waiting.
Somewhere deep within the machine's heart, random number generators churned silently, counting down.
It could be seconds... or minutes.
I had no way of knowing.
The only certainty was its mercilessness.
I couldn’t see the device behind me, but I could feel its presence — looming, intimate, precise.
This was not what I had in mind when I built it, I thought bitterly.
My muscles were tense, my thighs trembling slightly from strain and adrenaline. The restraints were unforgiving — firm leather against bare, vulnerable flesh.
I tested them again instinctively, feeling the resistance, the utter helplessness they imposed.
There was no escape.
The leather cuffs dug into my wrists and ankles, securing me in a bent-over position, ass high and exposed. The cold air caressed my bare skin, making me hyperaware of every nerve, every inch of vulnerable flesh offered up for retribution.
I whimpered softly.
When would it come?
How bad would it be?
The fear wasn't even of the pain — it was the suspense.
The exquisite, mind-fucking terror of not knowing.
WHIP!
The lash cracked across my skin — clean, sharp, absolute.
I gasped, jerking in the restraints, the sting blooming into a deep, burning ache instantly.
Through gritted teeth, I forced the words out clearly — it was crucial the system recognized me:
“Seven! Thank you, Mr. Robot! I deserve that!”
The microphone captured my voice.
Seconds later, the automated speaker answered in a cheerful synthetic tone: “Good girl, Jhon.” Oh, how it mocked me.
The phrase was hardcoded into the response system — a cruel joke I'd added myself when programming it. ‘good girl <slave_name>
I remember writing that line. At the time, I'd pictured broken and obedient slavegirls squirming under the code's authority. Now I was the one on the receiving end.
Now I was the one squirming. Bound. Exposed. Completely at the mercy of my own merciless creation. Captive of the very fantasies I had designed for others.
How the fuck did I end up like this?
I pulled against the restraints reflexively, however futile.
The bite of the leather, the slow sting of the whip settling into my skin, the knowledge that another strike could come at any moment…
It was enough to drive any man insane.
And yet, my cock twitched aching, needy.
Despite the pain — or maybe because of it — my body was betraying me.
Maybe...
Maybe I deserved this.
After all, hadn't I spent years building the fantasie?
Perfect, obedient systems. Machines that punished, teased, denied. Me at the buttons..
Now the machine had turned on its master.
Justice, perhaps.
Or maybe fate had a wicked sense of humor.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a savage, grinning voice whispered: You made this bed, Jhon. Now lie in it.
Another slow, mechanical tik... tik... tik... filled the room.
I waited, helpless, for the next merciless blow. Time lost meaning. Seconds stretched into infinity.
Chapter 1 – In the Market
The heavy oak door creaked open, the sound deep, like a growl of something ancient stirring from its slumber."That concludes the tour of the property, Jhon," the real estate agent said, her crimson smile bright, professional, practiced. "Any questions?"
I let her voice wash over me. My eyes lingered on the cool stone beneath my feet, the faint echo of her heels fading into stillness. This one was different. The others had been shells—glamorous, polished but utterly lifeless. I had wandered them like a ghost.
We had finally found each other.. It felt less like discovery, more like reunion.
Above ground, the mansion wore a Victorian mask: tall ceilings, restored crown molding, a drawing room that whispered of a forgotten era. Tasteful. Respectable. But that was just camouflage.
Iceberg homes, they called them. And this house was a perfect specimen.
A small surface footprint hiding a vast, luxurious underworld.
It still amazed me — the sheer size of the living space hidden within such a compact exterior footprint.
Central London, after all, was a battlefield of inches.
Above ground, restrictions ruled.
But Below ground, only ambition mattered.
The previous owner had been a visionary.
Basement Level One stretched wide beneath the house and garden both, crowned by a glass-bottomed infinity pool. The pool above that cast shifting, liquid light into the gym and wine cellar below. Light that moved like something breathing. It was an indulgence so rich it bordered on obscene.
There was storage, a laundry room, security systems worthy of a military complex, a cinema, game room, vaults. A world underground. Clean lines. Soundproofed walls. Controlled air. Controlled everything.
Modernity hid behind those walls: biometric locks, hidden cameras, reinforced doors that sealed the private quarters.
A separate back exit led directly to the staff quarters, offering them discreet access to the property without ever disturbing the main residence. The staff living quarters were situated on the second basement floor, entirely self-contained and self-sufficient — a world apart, yet quietly vital.
At night, the security system would automatically seal off the main house—fingerprint locks securing the lifts and internal hallway doors, creating an unbreachable boundary around the owner's private domain—a safety perimeter against the outside world. A clear division between who belonged... and who did not.
Security was paramount when wealth painted a target on your back.
I admired how cleverly it was all designed.
The walls down here were thicker than I expected. Every sound felt slightly muffled, absorbed.
Even footsteps softened against the plush carpeted floors above and the cold, polished stone of the basement.
The real estate agent clicked her heels sharply against the floor, the sound cutting through my thoughts. “Oh, uh, questions,” I echoed, snapping out of my train of thought, only half-aware she had even spoken.
"The plans are on the dining table if you'd like to review them," the agent offered, still smiling, though her eyes had flicked once—longingly—toward a nearby chair.
She was elegant. Poised. Her calves ached, though she tried to hide it. I had noticed. I always noticed. The pressure of hours in heels, the soft flex of burning arches, the silent war between discomfort and performance. She had walked well. Too well. I had let her lead the way so I could admire the beautiful, smooth legs wrapped in silky sheer stockings.
I had watched her from the beginning, the long tour slowly building discomfort.
The brief flutter of lashes as she fought the growing ache.
It thrilled me. A quiet, sadistic satisfaction blooming in the space where my empathy should have resided.
A small, private game.
I smiled softly, savoring the delicious tension. Thinking “No, the plans can wait my dear. Not yet.”
“Let’s have a closer look again at the unfinished part of the basement,” I said smoothly, knowing it would keep her on her toes longer.
My swift pace to the stairs would force my plaything the difficult way.
I watched the tiniest hesitation stiffen her spine.
Her mouth twitched, forcing another bright smile into place.
Professional. Dutiful.
She pivoted toward the lift.
“I’m uncomfortable in elevators,” I lied easily, with a casual shrug.
A tiny flash of something — irritation, perhaps — crossed her eyes.
But she concealed it under a layer of trained courtesy.
She nodded, the movement so slight her tight hair bun barely shifted.
”Your fingerprint isn’t in the system yet,” she explained, her voice slightly more clipped.
“Then you’ll have to lead the way,” I said, letting a soft undercurrent of amusement color my voice.
“Of course,” she said, turning towards the stairs.
The pressure on her arches must have been exquisite by now. The delicate hosiery inside her shoes trapping sweat.
I watched her hips sway with every downward step, the tightness of the skirt restricting her thighs. Her breathing grew subtly heavier. Her hand brushed the railing once for balance—then withdrew, pride smothering instinct.
The stairwell opened into the second basement: raw concrete, harsh light, no furniture, no warmth, and a stillness that hadn’t yet been disturbed by purpose.
“ This floor houses the staff living quarters,” she said, walking through the second floor basement hall. her voice thinner now. “This room was destined to become a home cinema and entertainment area — Only the basic framing has been installed. Plenty of space for you to make whatever you fancy.” her words echoed.
Oh, I had wicked plans for these unfinished rooms, no doubt about that. If only she knew. In my mind's eye, I pictured her not as the polished agent, but as one of my captured damsels — elegant, restrained, vulnerable. She had the right look for it too: that understated beauty, the quiet pride in her posture. But no, she was likely vanilla, utterly unaware of the darker games that stirred beneath. The current keeping-her-on-her-toes game was the only one I could play.
My gaze swept the space. But my attention was far more deliciously occupied.
I caught her stealing a glance down at her shoes, a quick, almost imperceptible flicker of longing. The plain room was empty, still bare, no seats installed.
Removing her pumps was out of the question, the rough floor would destroy her delicate nylons, besides her professionalism would not allow that.
Good. I wasn't in any hurry. This was the perfect setting for negotiations in my private little game.
“I don’t like the idea of staff passing through an unfinished area,” I mused aloud,
She started to respond, but I cut across her neatly. “I won’t do eighty.”
She blinked, momentarily thrown off balance.
“Sixty-five million is my offer.” I stated.
A beat of silence.
I could almost hear the gears grinding in her head, calculating commission, owner reaction, her own exhaustion.
“I’m sure the owner will consider it,” she said briskly, professionalism snapping back into place.
“We can recommend an architect to help you finish this project — and assist in finding local staff.”
Staff. Ah, if she only knew what kind of staff I truly desired.
She could not imagine the plans fermenting inside my mind:
Cherry and Sofie would be moving in, thrilled at the thought of serving me full-time now.
But not ready for the true extent of their submission. They believed they were coming to live as maids, bound in service — but they had no idea just how far my fantasies extended... or the meticulous preparations I had made.
Freedom was an illusion. Most people craved chains — they just didn't have the courage to admit it. Here, within these walls, I would give them what they secretly longed for: structure, obedience, meaning.
The sale of my automation software patents had left me with obscene wealth and something far more valuable: absolute time and freedom. Freedom to create, to control. Time to design an environment tailored precisely to my desires.
This house was more than a home — it would be a fortress, a playground, and a prison for my beautiful subjects. It had been waiting — patient and unfinished — until I arrived.
I would modify the fingerprint security systems to ensure the damsels had no access to the outside world. I would set invisible boundaries through the house, defining when and where they could move. Triple perimeters.
And the true jewel in my crown? A smart shock collar I had engineered myself in spare moments — subtle, precise, and utterly effective. The slightest infraction, the faintest hint of disobedience, would be corrected instantly.
My girls were familiar with my inventions — but they had never experienced their full, relentless application.
I smiled to myself, imagining their future here — obedient, collared, beautifully broken to my will. This house was perfect. Better than perfect. It was destiny.
“I'll call in to have your offer considered once we’re upstairs," Lara said, her voice breaking into my reverie. "There's no reception down here."
“Thank you, miss...?” I prompted, playing polite.
“You can call me Lara,” she replied.
Lara, A beautiful name for a woman so beautifully bound by invisible strings. Bound by civility, by expectation.
Chapter 2 The Devil Wears Stock Options
Almost home.
The ache in my calves was brutal, but I hadn’t dared to kick off the heels yet — not with the walk still ahead from the parking lot to my apartment. God, how my legs hurt.
It looked professional, though. For that calibre of client, you had to look the part: elegant, poised, a little bit untouchable.
And yet he had been there in sneakers — the rich always got away with dressing down.
I slammed the door behind me and let my back slide down to the floor, finally letting the tension out.
"How was it?" yelled my roommate from the kitchen.
"Long and hard," I sighed, popping off the pumps with a grunt of relief. Sweet blood rushed back to my toes in a fiery wave of tingling pain.
"The billionaire was what?" she teased, peering around the corner with a smirk. "Told ya not to wear those damn five-inch vices."
I laughed grimly.
"The house tour was a bloody marathon," I complained. "Rich, sadistic, 50 Shades-type walked me all over the place. I swear he kept staring at my heels. I'm convinced he dragged it out just to watch me suffer."
I flexed my toes, groaning. "Haggled over the price too — like a million more or less matters to someone like him."
I massaged the soreness from my calves, wincing.
"Was he handsome?" she asked, waggling her eyebrows.
"Mari! I'm not interested in being one of his concubines," I shot back, rubbing my sore arches. "I'm looking for something sensible. Serious."
Even as I said it, the memory of his slow smile flickered at the back of my mind — the way he watched me walk. A sharp, assessing gaze.
Sadistic bastard had enjoyed every second. Me in the godforsaken five-inch heels — but he had strolled around like some casual king surveying his new domain.
I returned to rubbing my poor, abused feet, sighing again with a mix of relief and irritation.My hands slid over the sheer nylon, the silky fabric whispering under my fingertips.
As the throbbing in my legs faded, something else started brewing underneath. A sharper kind of heat.
I curled my toes again, wincing, furious — not just at him, but at myself.
For how easily I’d given him what he wanted. I had been paraded like a show pony.
I yanked the pins from my bun, and my hair tumbled free. It should’ve felt like relief. But I still felt him. Like his eyes were stuck to my skin, etched into my posture.
I picked up one of the heels. My fingers curled around the leather that had carved itself into my skin. The arch was still warm from my skin, damp where the sweat had gathered.
The bastard. He hadn’t even touched me, but he’d played me. And the worst part? I’d let him.
Normally, in my personal life, I was the one in control.
But today?
Today I’d let a stranger lead me around like a perfectly dressed marionette. Because of professionalism. Because of commission and contracts and reputation.
I lingered too long beneath the shower, letting the scalding water drum against my skin as if it could wash away more than sweat. That low, humming tension in my core that wouldn’t dissolve.
Later, wrapped in a robe, a heavy glass of wine cradled in one hand and my laptop balanced across my thighs, I told myself it was nothing. Just another eccentric billionaire.
Still, curiosity itched like a sunburn. Who exactly was this Jhon?
I typed his name into the search bar. His tech company popped up immediately, followed by a string of articles: accolades, acquisition figures, keynote speeches, his tech company, the patents he'd sold.
Photos of him at charity galas, shaking hands with royalty, looking charming in the disinterested way only the truly rich could master.
Clean. Controlled. Unreachable.
But I kept digging. Past the gloss.
Down into the strange corners of the internet — fringe blogs, comment threads on old forums, half-deleted Reddit posts. The anonymous gossip, that’s where the real stories lived.
Who said it again? “I love rumors! Facts can be so misleading, where rumors, true or false, are often revealing.”
"Wild parties."
"Exclusive gatherings, very private, very unusual entertainment."
"Guests were required to sign NDAs.Phones confiscated.”"
No photos. No confirmations. Just whispers in the dark
I stared at the screen, wine forgotten, a slow thrum building at the base of my spine. Not fear. Not quite desire. Recognition.
Before I could chase that thought down any darker path, my phone buzzed sharply on the floor beside me. It was the agency.
The owner's side had accepted the offer.
