Chapter 7 The Will #2
I know Hux thinks this is stupid, and he’s probably right. There’s no way I’m ready to drag a bar out of the gutter, but I wasn’t ready for my career to explode at 19 either.
I wasn’t ready for a baby at 24.
I wasn’t ready to be on the cover of Vogue.
But somehow, I made it all work.
And I know I can do it again.
It’s 3:00am, and the apartment is so quiet I can hear Huxley shifting on the sofa, underneath the hum of the fan over in Violet’s room. I kick the blankets off, covered in sweat and exhausted right down to my bones.
Another fucking hot flash.
“Fuck.”
My body feels like it’s burning from the inside out. Sometimes they get so bad, I’m convinced flames are going to erupt from my skin, so between this and Joe’s letter, I don’t think I’m getting any sleep tonight.
I need to distract myself, and start being proactive.
2:00am is always the best time to make life altering decisions, right?
I pick up my phone, open up StarMatch and start swiping, trying to find a husband— not that I’m going to make a proposition immediately or anything.
That would be crazy. I just want to see the talent that’s out there, you know?
If I’m going to get married— however temporarily, I’d like him to be at least somewhat cute.
And preferably not an alcoholic cheating creep.
But it turns out that the universe is a cruel mistress, because as I swipe, all I’m seeing are absolute duds… most of whom I’ve already dated.
Just my fucking luck.
“Lewis Watson… cheater.”
Swipe.
“Matthew Brooks… dumped me for a 21-year-old.” I snort. “Damn Matt, you could also use some eye cream.”
Swipe.
“Wyatt Evans did not believe in foreplay, or eating pussy, so that’s a no.”
God, this list is getting narrower and narrower by the second.
After ten more minutes of my first husband-hunt, I close the app and start Googling ‘hot American actors’. Maybe I can find someone who needs a career boost.
“Married… married… anger issues… total fucking freak— hang on a minute.”
I stop when I see Sebastian Stan’s charming smirk. We met at a Vanity Fair party a couple of years ago and really hit it off. I remember he stepped in just in time to stop someone from spilling their drink on my Armani gown.
But my hopes are quickly dashed when I see photos of him with a gorgeous blonde, followed by the dreaded word: girlfriend.
“Ugh!” I groan, tossing my phone aside.
Maybe my perfect plan was a little undercooked.
Maybe I should just do the sensible thing, email that lawyer and tell him to move forward with the sale, but there’s something in me that won’t let this go. I was already planning on donating some money in his name, so there’s no guilt there.
I just can’t find it in me to let go of this place.
I reach for my phone again. I need an outlet to deal with all of this stress, and I know exactly where to find it. BDSM clubs Seattle gets me more hits than I was expecting, and I quickly get to scrolling through the results.
Kink has always been my little secret that I’ve kept from… well, pretty much everyone. The whole thing started about a year ago. It was late, I had some wine, and I was feeling hormonal and nostalgic. So, I did what anyone would do and started looking up an old friend, specifically Frankie Hughes.
Sorry, Doctor Frankie Hughes, as I’m sure he’d have mentioned.
Instead of getting teary over the boy I’d cast aside all those years ago, I got a little hot and bothered by what I discovered. I found myself falling down a rabbit hole and ended up devouring a paper he wrote: Total Power Exchange: A Sociological Exploration of BDSM Culture.
It was poetic, and oddly hot for what I assume was an academic piece.
Is that appropriate to say about a man whose heart you broke?
There wasn’t much in the way of personal details, but something about his writing told me that he was interested in the subject beyond an academic level.
And it was so much more than just sex. It was about implicit trust and unconditional surrender of the self.
There were interviews with submissives who had given up every aspect of control to their dominant partner: what they wore, what they ate, what they did for work, and even when they went to the bathroom.
Now, I would never take things that far, but I have to admit, for someone like me in the public eye, who spends each waking moment controlling every detail of myself?
It sounded more than a little interesting.
The idea that, even for just a night, someone would tell me what to do and when to do it…
it was freeing. No decisions to be made, no thinking, just implicit trust and the knowledge that I would be taken care of.
God, focus, Daphne. I’m getting distracted from my distraction.
I sigh, scrolling through the rest of the results before finally clicking on a link for a club called Dominion. The site is sleek and well designed, with gorgeous artistic photos of kink sessions, whips, and real bodies. No photoshop, and no bullshit.
I like that.
It’s a private venue with a $2,500 annual fee. You fill out a membership application, they match your name and ID to see if you’re on any registries, and have you sign an NDA prior to entering.
I look over the rest of the rules: no cell phones, no touching people without their consent, no photography, welcoming of all races, genders and orientations…
Seems perfect.
And even better, they’re running a beginners workshop next weekend.