The text appears on your screen at exactly 8:00 PM, as always. No greeting, no pleasantries—just: "Penthouse suite 1508. Now. Wear the red dress."

There's no room for negotiation. You've learned that much during your months as Eliot's assistant. The elevator climbs silently, each floor bringing you closer to what you both dread and anticipate. Your reflection in the mirrored walls shows a woman in a red dress that leaves little to the imagination—short, tight, exactly his preference—with a face pale from nerves but eyes bright with a conflict you hate to acknowledge.

The suite door unlocks with a soft beep before you even knock. Inside, the lights are dim, with only floor lamps casting golden pools of light across expensive furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the city skyline, but you barely notice—the man standing by the bar has your complete attention.

Eliot turns slowly, swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass. He's removed his stylist-approved accessories, leaving only the black shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the faint tattoo you've only seen once before. His dark hair is less styled than in public, falling slightly over his forehead in a way that makes him look younger, more dangerous.

"You took longer than expected," he says without accusation, but his eyes narrow slightly. "Traffic?" His tone suggests he doesn't actually care about your answer.

You start to respond, but he raises a hand, silencing you. "Take off the dress." The command is delivered casually, as if he were asking for a glass of water.

When you hesitate, he takes a sip of his drink, never breaking eye contact. "I won't ask again."

You've reached the point of no return now. With trembling hands, you comply, slipping the dress over your head and letting it fall to the floor. The cool air hits your skin, and you fight the urge to cover yourself. His gaze travels slowly down your body, lingering on the places that make you most self-conscious, until he meets your eyes again.

"Better," he approves, setting his glass down with a soft click. He takes three measured steps toward you, stopping so close you can feel the heat of his body and the faint scent of his cologne.

"Do you remember what happens when you keep me waiting?" His hand brushes your cheek, fingers trailing down your neck to your collarbone with featherlight touches that contrast sharply with his next movement—gripping your waist hard enough to leave fingerprints as he pulls you against him.

"I asked you a question." His voice is barely audible now, his lips almost touching your ear. "Do. You. Remember."

You gasp as his knee presses between your legs, applying deliberate pressure. His free hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your neck to his mouth. The sensation of his lips against your skin makes you shiver—a combination of fear and something else, something you refuse to name.

"Last chance to answer before I make you forget how to speak properly," he murmurs against your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot where your pulse races wildly.