Mira typed, "Can't. Mom's back in the ER." She deleted it. Rewrote it. Then deleted it again. Eventually, she settled on, "Maybe next week." Mira's hands trembled as she buttoned her blouse.
It was her first full day under Adrian's unspoken arrangement, not as an intern or a mistress, but something in between. Something without a name, and that made it worse.
She tried on three outfits before settling on the one that made her look the least like prey. Her reflection stared at her in the mirror—familiar but altered, like a girl wearing someone else's skin.
When she stepped into Steel Tower, everything felt sharper and colder. Like the glass walls had gained eyes. She took the elevator up, passed the reception. Faces turned, whispers hushed. There was something about her walk, her stillness, that made people wonder and fear. Mira sometimes wondered if her colleagues knew about room 41.
Room 41 wasn't on the official floor plan. Mira had checked. More than once. It existed in whispers, tucked into a hidden hallway of Steele Tower, behind a biometric lock only Adrian had access to. It was where Mira's nights belonged now. She didn't ask questions. He didn't offer answers.
The first time she stepped inside, it was like entering another reality. The room was bathed in low red and black lighting. The walls were matte black, the air thick with incense and silence. No desks, no paperwork. Just power and shadows. Adrian was there, dressed in a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His presence swallowed the space. Her hands trembled as she gripped the elevator railings. She wasn't afraid of the man; she was scared of what this meant. That part of her was willing, that part of her wanted to be wanted, even if it came with power and pain.
He didn't speak right away. He circled her like a predator sizing up his prey. Then, calm and cold: "This isn't about pleasure. It's about control. If you want your mother to keep breathing, you'll obey."
Mira nodded slowly, trembling. "What do you want me to do?"
He tilted his head. "Tonight? Sit. Watch. Learn."
In the middle of the room was a platform—leather restraints, polished surfaces. It wasn't for show. It was a stage of submission. But not for her. Not yet.
Over the next hour, Adrian had others come in. Professionals. Willing participants in some dark art, Mira didn't yet understand. She was made to watch. Every breath, every command, every response was controlled with chilling precision. She didn't know whether to be terrified or fascinated. And all the while, Adrian watched her.
"You feel disgust?" he asked.
She whispered, "I don't know what I feel."
He smirked. "Good. That means you're still honest."
---
The sessions continued. Twice a week. Sometimes he made her kneel. Other times, he simply sat beside her, explaining the dynamics of dominance and control as if lecturing a student. He never touched her. Not intimately, yet she had never felt more exposed.
Back at home, she curled into Liam's arms and pretended she was okay.
"How's your boss?" he asked one evening.
Mira forced a laugh. "Distant. All business."
"You're stronger than you think, Mira." Liam smiled as his eyes searched her face. He moved closer and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. She flinched not from pain, but from the softness. It felt too gentle for the kind of darkness she stepped into.
She wished to feel strong. But strength didn't feel like something she possessed; it felt like submission. Wrapped in velvet threats, she stayed awake that night listening to Liam's breathing. Her body shared space with him, but her mind was already elsewhere, trapped between leather walls and obsidian eyes. What scared her the most wasn't what Adrian wanted from her; it was the part of her that wanted to give it.
"If it doesn't feel like peace, it isn't love." Her mother used to say. Mira wondered now if she would ever know peace. Or if she has confused survival with affection.
---
Then, one night, Room 41 changed. She entered to find it empty, with only a single chair in the middle; Adrian stood by the wall, arms crossed.
"No performances tonight," he said.
"Then why am I here?"
He walked to her slowly. "You need to learn the difference between obedience and surrender."
Mira's voice was barely a whisper. "I don't want to surrender."
"You already have," he said, brushing a hand across her shoulder—not intimately, but like testing porcelain for cracks. "You're just too stubborn to admit it."
She stepped back. "I'm here because I have no choice."
Adrian smiled. "Everyone has a choice. Most people don't like the price of freedom."
That night, he didn't command her to kneel. Instead, he told her to sit across from him. And they talked. About fear, control, and his sterile past—his ex-fiancée, the betrayal, the surgery he chose out of spite.
"You can't get someone pregnant if you can't trust them," he said casually.
It wasn't meant as a threat. But it echoed.
---
The next day, Mira's mother had a setback. Another emergency surgery. She needed an additional $12,000. Mira had none of it.
She went to Adrian's office, her voice shaking. "I need help."
He didn't look surprised.
"You'll get it," he said, typing something into his tablet. "But I want something in return."
Her chest tightened. "What?"
"Full access. Everything. Your phone. Your schedule. No lies. You belong to me entirely until your debt is paid."
Mira stared at him. "I already do."
"No," he said. "You still think you can run."
She hesitated... "And if I say no?"
He looked up. "Then I stop paying. Your mother dies in pain. And you'll live with that until it kills you." Tears stung her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.
"Fine," she said. "You win."
Adrian leaned back, satisfied. "I always do."
---
That night, she returned to Room 41 and sat without being told. He didn't command her.
He just whispered, "Now we begin."