Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Candace
L eathers—BDSM Club
Five Years Ago
The tension is electric as I enter the club, sparking through my body in ways that make me shiver. I love this—the anticipation, the surrender, the not knowing exactly what will come next. For me, half the thrill of D/s is in the loss of control. And tonight’s Dom has already managed to get under my skin, even before we’ve met. My hard preferences as well as my hard and soft limits are well known here. I have nothing to worry about, but still the butterflies in my lower belly tell me differently.
The corset and thong he sent were delivered in discreet packaging, yet the contents were anything but subtle. The lace barely covers me, my nipples stiff against the cool air, visible beneath the delicate fabric. I’m already slick, my body betraying how much I want this. My clit pulses, swollen and aching for attention, and I know he planned it this way—the thong no real barrier between me and what’s coming.
A woman behind me ties the blindfold—a lilac silk scarf with a fitted nosepiece—around my head. The world goes dark, my senses narrowing to the feel of the silk against my skin and the sound of my own breathing. I steady myself, trying to adjust to the disorientation, the subtle vulnerability.
A hand touches my elbow, firm but not rough. One of the house Doms, I assume. “You can still say no,” he says, his voice calm but laced with authority. “High protocol doesn’t mean you can’t use your safe word.”
I smile faintly, though I doubt he can see it. “No. I’m fine. More than fine,” I murmur, my voice low and edged with arousal. “But he should know—if he’s looking for fear, he’s got the wrong girl.”
The Dom chuckles. “Noted. As soon as I hand you to him, you’re under his command. No speaking unless he gives permission. I’ll guide you to him now.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak again without betraying how fast my heart is racing.
The journey through the club is a blur of muted sounds and distant music, my blindfold heightening every small sensation. The air shifts slightly, cooler, as we step into another room. My hand is passed to someone else—his hand. The moment our skin touches, I know he’s the one. His grip is stronger, firmer, commanding without being harsh. He tugs on my wrist, indicating he wants me to kneel.
He helps me down, steadying me before releasing my hand. My knees sink into the soft rug beneath me, and I sense his movement as he leans in.
He doesn’t give me time to linger. His hand trails down my spine, firm and deliberate, before tweaking a nipple. I gasp, a mix of pain and pleasure sparking through me. I can hear him finishing a drink and feel the leather-wrapped handle of a flogger—old, well-used, its deerskin falls supple and pliant.
It isn’t long before he helps me up and carefully leads me into the dungeon. I know the club well and don’t need my eyes to know where we are. He leads me up onto the main stage and straps me to the St. Andrew’s Cross. I feel the spine of a knife blade slip between my skin and the laces of the corset as well as both sides of the thong. They both fall to the floor.
I can hear a swish of sound as the Dom swings the flogger once, then twice, the swishes sound graceful, almost hypnotic. Then he strikes.
The rhythmic blows of the flogger land on my back and thighs, each one sending a wave of pleasure and pain through my body. The Dom's measured strikes are soft enough to warm me up but firm enough to make my body hum in anticipation. I let myself sink into the sensations, melting against the St. Andrew’s cross as the tension in my muscles fades.
A moan escapes my lips before I can stop it, my body reacting instinctively to the pleasure derived from the pain. The Dom pauses for a moment. I can feel his eyes gauging my reaction. There’s a pause, and when I sense he likes what he sees, I hear him pick up a second flogger to be used in concert with the first.
I gasp as the blows begin to come faster and faster. He must be using one flogger in each hand. The sensations are overwhelming, the pain melding with pleasure until I can no longer distinguish between the two. The Dom's movements are precise, his rhythm matching the beat of the music playing in the background. I close my eyes, even though I’m blindfolded, and let myself get lost in the experience, the fog of subspace descending upon me.
My mind quiets, leaving only sensation, heat, and the rising tide of pleasure that make me tremble. The Dom's skill is evident, each strike calculated to push me closer to the edge. And just when I think I can't take any more, he stops.
He runs his hands over the areas he has worked, his touch light but deliberate. My skin burns in the best way, hypersensitive to every brush of his fingers. I let out a soft sigh, completely lost in the moment.
He makes a lovely resonant sound from deep in his chest as he releases the restraints, and I melt into him. He is strong, solid…
“Good girl,” he purrs, his voice soft, familiar.
The voice.
I freeze.
No.
I stand up and push myself away as I whirl around, whip off the blindfold with my fist already clenched, and punch him square in the mouth. “Bastard!” The room falls silent, the other Doms and subs staring, but I don’t care. “Someone get me a cab,” I snap, my voice trembling with rage. “I’m out of here.”
Present Day
The vintage hum of the Rolls Royce engine quiets as we crest the final hill of the long, winding drive. The Celtic Knot Winery is every bit as picturesque as I remember, the vines stretching like delicate green ribbons over the rolling hills, kissed by the golden light of the late afternoon. It's beautiful—achingly so—but I refuse to let it affect me. I sit perfectly still in the back seat, my hands folded in my lap, every bit the picture of poised indifference.
The memories claw at the edges of my mind, sharp and unwanted. The last time I was here, my world had shattered. Ryan had left me. His father, that cruel bastard, had told me to get lost, twisting the knife by calling me ‘white trash’ as I stood there clutching the pieces of my broken heart. And then the crash. The loss of my baby. The loss of myself.
I push it all down with practiced ease. I’m not that girl anymore. That girl was fragile, na?ve, easily discarded. She no longer exists.
I’ve worked too damn hard to be here today, not as the girl crying in the dirt, but as the woman in control. This isn’t a nostalgic trip down memory lane. It’s far better than that. It’s vengeance, carefully planned and perfectly timed.
The car stops in front of the main building, its facade a blend of rustic charm and understated elegance. My driver, dressed in a crisp, dark uniform, rounds the vehicle and opens the door for me. I take his gloved hand as I step out, my heels clicking on the stone drive.
The cool breeze brushes my skin, and for a fleeting moment, I catch the scent of the grapes ripening on the vine. It’s intoxicating, but I tamp down any appreciation before it can fully take hold. This visit isn’t about pleasure, it’s about business.
My suit is sharp, my blouse soft and luxurious. The bag on my arm—a Birkin, of course—rests comfortably against my side and contains a collection of contracts, legal documents, and every weapon I’ll need to finish what I started. A small, malicious smile tugs at the corner of my lips as I survey the building.
I know the sunlight will make the diamond studs in my ears sparkle, and the wind tugs playfully at my hair. I tuck a strand behind my ear and straighten my shoulders.
I don’t look around much; I don’t need to. This place is etched in my memory, every vine, every stone. The last time I was here, I left broken. Today, one way or another, I won’t be leaving empty-handed.
The door opens, and I step inside without hesitation. This place might hold pieces of my past, but today, it’s all about the future—and my victory.
As I reach the entrance, the woman at the reception desk stares, startled. I give her a brief, icy smile and speak, my voice cutting through the stillness.
“I’m here to see Brennen Murphy.”
The woman falters for a moment before regaining her composure. “Of course, Ms…?”
“Prescott. Candace Prescott. Sapphire Development.”
Her expression flickers briefly—recognition, maybe? It doesn’t matter. She nods and presses the button of a dilapidated intercom system, murmuring softly into the receiver.
“Brennen, I’m sorry to interrupt, but you have a visitor. She’s quite insistent.” After a brief pause she hangs the phone up and turns to me.“Mr. Murphy will be right out.”
I don’t respond, merely offering a tight smile before taking in the space. The reception area is tasteful, with polished wood accents and a sweeping view of the vineyards through floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s meant to be warm and inviting, but it feels cold to me. Or perhaps that’s just me.
Footsteps echo from the hall. I turn slowly, composing my features into a mask of icy calm. Brennen Murphy emerges, and I immediately recognize him—older, broader, his face lined with tension and exhaustion. His gaze sharpens the moment he sees me.
He knows who I am.
His brows draw together, his mouth tightening as he approaches. I see the flicker of recognition, followed by a spark of anger. Good.
“Candace” he says, his voice rough and low. No handshake, no pleasantries. He doesn’t need to say it—I can see it in his eyes. He remembers me, remembers Ryan, and now he realizes exactly who holds the note on his family’s legacy.
“Brennen,” I reply, my voice smooth, unbothered.
He gestures wordlessly, his hand a brusque indication for me to follow.
I trail him down the hall, the tension palpable, the sound of my heels echoing with each deliberate step. The air between us crackles, heavy with unspoken words.
Inside, emotions churn beneath the surface—anger, regret, even a twinge of pain—but I lock them away behind the armor I’ve spent years perfecting. On the outside, I am calm. I am untouchable, and I’m about to win.
We reach his office, and he steps aside, motioning for me to enter. I do so, keeping my movements measured and graceful as I take in the space. It’s functional, utilitarian… and neat as a pin. My guess is the man has OCD.
I turn to face him as he closes the door behind us, my bag still slung over my shoulder.
“Let’s talk,” I say, the slightest edge of a smile playing on my lips. Let the game begin.
Brennen’s jaw tightens as he leans against the edge of his desk, his arms crossed over his chest. The tension in the room is almost suffocating, and I drink it in, savoring every moment. His eyes flash with anger, but his voice is even.
“Let’s not play games, Candace. This isn’t about business, and we both know it. You’re here because of something my brother or my father did to you years ago.”
I arch an eyebrow, letting out a soft laugh, cool and sharp. “Don’t flatter yourself. Or them. I have better things to do than dredge up old grievances from the past.” My voice is calm, cutting, every word a weapon. “This is business, Brennen. Plain and simple. And if you and your family were better at it, you wouldn’t be in this position.”
His eyes narrow, his fists clenching at his sides. It’s a low blow, and we both know it. But I don’t care. The truth stings, and I’m happy to let it bite.
“This isn’t just business,” he says, his voice hardening. “This is our home, our legacy. Why would you even want it?”
I shrug, tilting my head slightly, as though the question bores me. “Because it’s a good investment,” I say smoothly. “And because, frankly, you’ve left it vulnerable. If I don’t take it, someone else will. You should have been more careful.”
“You’re full of shit,” he snaps, stepping closer. His frustration is palpable, but I hold my ground, meeting his gaze with icy disdain.
“You can tell yourself whatever you need to sleep at night,” I reply, a small smile curling my lips. “But facts are facts. You’re here because of your and your father’s failures. Not mine.”
His shoulders stiffen, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s going to lose his temper. He doesn’t, though I can see the effort it costs him. Instead, he straightens, his voice cold and deliberate. “Fine. You’ll get your money. Every damn cent of it. By the due date.”
I laugh, sharp and mocking, the sound echoing through the office. “Oh, Brennen, don’t embarrass yourself. Look around.” I gesture to the worn furniture, the peeling paint, the signs of a business that’s barely holding itself together. “Do you honestly think you can scrape together enough money to pay off the note? This vineyard is falling apart, and you know it. Admit defeat. Walk away gracefully.”
His jaw tightens, but he says nothing, his eyes burning with barely contained fury.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” I continue, letting my voice drop into something almost sweet. “I’ll pay off all your debt and give you three million on top of that. No fuss. No drawn-out fight. Just a clean slate. Otherwise? You’ll get nothing.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy and charged. Brennen’s hands curl into fists, his chest rising and falling as he fights to keep control.
“Leave,” he says finally, his voice low and steady, though I can see the storm raging behind his eyes.
I smile, the victory already sweet on my tongue. “As you wish.”
Turning on my heel, I stride out of his office, my heels clicking against the floor with every confident step. The woman glances up as I pass, her expression uncertain, but I don’t spare her a second thought.
My driver is waiting at the entrance, and he steps forward to open the door as I approach. I slide into the back seat, smoothing my skirt as I settle into the plush leather.
“Take me into town,” I say. “It appears I may be here a while.” I give him the address of a luxury Airbnb.
The Rolls Royce purrs to life, gliding smoothly down the winding drive. I watch the vineyard fade into the distance, the rows of vines disappearing behind us, and allow myself a moment of reflection.
I don’t usually let my emotions rule me. I pride myself on being calculated and pragmatic. Vindictiveness isn’t a trait I indulge in often. But Ryan Murphy is the one exception.
He broke something in me all those years ago, something I’ve worked tirelessly to rebuild. And no matter how much time has passed, I can’t seem to let it go. He needs to pay.
And that means taking down everything he cares about—starting with his brother, his mother’s precious Celtic Knot, and his little sister, Emma.
Emma. The memory makes me smile, though now it’s a smile laced with venom. We’ve crossed swords before, and I have no doubt she’s already called Ryan. Let her.
Let him come back.
It’ll make destroying him all the sweeter.