She came back wrecked.
I knew before I saw her. The air in the surveillance suite shifted—like something sacred had been cracked. The live feed confirmed it.
She stumbled into her penthouse like her legs had forgotten how to function. One heel missing. The other scuffed. That stubborn mouth slack with something dangerously close to surrender.
Her fingers twitched like they weren’t sure what to hold anymore—rage, fear, or that flash drive she hadn’t thrown away.
She looked bruised by the night, flushed in places she shouldn’t be, but still upright.
Still wearing the dress I’d commissioned three weeks ago—tight black velvet, slit to the hip. She hadn’t even made it to the zipper. Just collapsed onto the bed like someone unspooled.
She was still mine.
Sia arrived precisely seven minutes later, knocking once before letting herself in like she always did—cold, clean, effective.
“Get ready,” she said.
“For what now? More torture? A company picnic in hell?”
“Business event. With Eric.”
I watched her flop onto the mattress with that exaggerated dramatic flair she used to mask how shaken she still was. “Are you coming?”
“No. Just CEOs and their executive assistants.”
Something in Sia’s tone made her sit up.
“That sounds ominous as fuck.”
Sia handed her the garment bag without expression. “Black tie. Tonight. Don’t embarrass him.”
The moment Sia left, I switched to the interior feed of Floris’s suite. Watched her unzip the bag like it might contain her death sentence. Her fingers hesitated over the velvet.
I saw the exact second her breath caught.
The neckline dropped low. The slit climbed high. It was a weapon disguised as fabric—and the collar resting beside it was the blade.
Not a tracker. A symbol. I watched her storm into the hallway barefoot, shouting after Sia.
“Sia! What the fuck is this?”
“Part of the outfit.”
“It’s a goddamn collar!”
“It’s part of the event dress code.”
She chased her like she thought logic still had a place here.
“What kind of business event requires—”
But Sia was already gone. Elevator doors slicing between them like the chapter break I needed.
I leaned back in my chair, laced my fingers together, and stared at the paused feed of the collar still sitting on her vanity. High-grade leather. Silver hardware. Custom sizing.
No initials. Just a single etched QR code that, when scanned, led nowhere. It wasn’t for information.
It was for intimidation and she’d wear it. Because I said so.
Because I needed to see what she looked like when she realized she already belonged to me—and every other man in that room would see it too.
By the time she stepped into the waiting car, she looked like something the gods would fight over. The dress gripped her curves like a warning.
Her skin glowed from the burn of fury she couldn’t shake. But it was the collar that made me hard. That tight, gleaming band around her throat—visible, delicate, final.
The driver didn’t speak. I’d instructed him not to.
While she descended into her own unraveling, I stood on the top floor of the venue, overlooking the ballroom of Europe’s most dangerous billionaires. Men who’d strip cities bare just to build something with their name on it.
Every woman there wore a collar.
Because I ordered it. Because I wanted her to realize this wasn’t about play anymore.
The moment she stepped onto the sidewalk, her lips parted. “Holy shit,” she whispered.
She had no idea how many eyes were already on her. They’d been briefed. The new one. Brighton’s girl. Off limits. For now.
Inside, the pressure built. Glass ceilings. Sharp suits. Watchful smiles. Her fingers curled at her sides as she scanned the crowd.
Then the first test approached.
“You must be Brighton’s new acquisition,” the man said—smug, smug, smug. Perfect.
Her back snapped straight. “Excuse me?”
“The replacement. The others never lasted long either.” He studied her like she was being auctioned. “Though you seem… different. More spirited.”
“Others?” she asked.
But he was gone. I watched her expression fracture. She knew. Not just that she wasn’t the first—but that she wasn’t the only one who’d been put on display like this.
Jealousy flickered in her eyes.
Good. I needed her raw.
She found me across the room. Mid-conversation with three men who could end governments with one text. My hand barely lifted—a finger curled, beckoning her forward.
She froze. Then she came.
I felt it like electricity under my skin. Her walk wasn’t confident. It wasn’t smooth. It was deliberate—like each step hurt, but she wasn’t going to stop.
The crowd moved out of her way like they sensed something unstable about her. Like if they touched her, they might catch fire.
She reached me.
“You look beautiful,” I said. Low. Private.
Before she could ruin it with something sharp, I caught her hand and placed it flat against my chest.
My heart betrayed me—loud, ragged, erratic. She felt it. I let her. Then I turned her around.
She didn’t resist. Didn’t speak. My fingers brushed her neck, swept her hair aside. She trembled. The old collar unclasped. Fell away.
I lifted the new one—cool leather, unbranded but unmistakable—and locked it in place. Right beneath her pulse.
Her body stiffened. Every inch of her strained against being seen.
I bent low, breath against her ear. “You’re mine now, Floris. Let them all see.”
She didn’t respond. Didn’t need to.
I felt the way her body vibrated—rage, shame, arousal, denial. Every line of her was screaming in conflict. The eyes on us didn’t matter. They were the audience. But she was the performance. And I’d choreographed every second.
She turned to face me. Eyes wet. Lips trembling. “You didn’t even say hello,” she whispered.
I arched a brow. “You’re not here for pleasantries, Miss Middleton.”
“What am I here for?”
My eyes dragged over her mouth, her collar, her pulse stuttering at her throat.
“To remember your place. And to look like something no one else is allowed to touch.”