Chapter 3
The building was nearly empty by the time five o’clock crept up on me.
I stood in front of the mirror in my office bathroom, smoothing my skirt, checking my reflection like it might tell me something I didn’t already know. My pulse was steady, but beneath it, something tighter coiled.
Anticipation. Nerves. Fear honed into readiness.
It hadn’t been an invitation. It hadn’t offered reassurance or explanation. Just direction.
I grabbed my coat, shut off the lights, said goodbye to Celine, and stepped into the elevator. The doors slid closed with a soft finality, my reflection staring back at me, eyes bright, chin lifted, breath shallow.
This wasn’t desperation.
It was choice.
Outside, the air had cooled, dusk settling over the city in quiet shades of gray and blue.
A sleek, dark Bentley pulled up without a sound, its presence as ominous as the man who had sent it.
My breath hitched, anticipation warring with dread as I waited, waited for him to step out, to face me, to end this suffering. But it wasn’t Creed.
The driver, a man dressed impeccably in black, rounded the car and pulled open the rear door with a polite, measured nod.
Of course he wouldn’t make this easy.
I climbed in and was swallowed whole by the silence.
The scent of leather and cedar wrapped around me, pulling me deeper into his world.
The car pulled away from the curb, moving with a quiet grace, and I leaned back, trying to focus, to rehearse the apology I had pieced together in my mind.
No more lies. No more defenses. Just the truth.
I told myself I was ready to give it, whether he wanted it or not.
But then I noticed we weren’t heading toward the loft. The city lights began to fade, swallowed up by the creeping darkness of tree-lined roads and open fields.
I sat up straighter, unease sliding down my spine. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “Aren’t we going the wrong way?”
The driver’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable. “No, ma’am,” he replied smoothly, offering no further explanation.
My stomach clenched.
The Bentley veered off the main road, its tires whispering over the pavement as it passed through a set of massive wrought-iron gates. They opened without hesitation. Without question. As if my arrival had already been decided.
My throat went dry.
The road curved, winding deeper into an estate hidden within the Virginia countryside.
The manor came into view, and I sucked in a breath.
It was majestic and haunting all at once, its ivy-clad stone facade rising like something torn from the pages of a Gothic novel.
The grandeur was undeniable, but it was the kind of beauty that unsettled as much as it awed, whispering secrets only the walls could know.
It didn’t feel lived in. It felt kept.
The car slowed to a stop, and before I could steady myself, the driver opened my door.
The wind carried a bite, but it was nothing compared to the weight in my chest as I stepped out, my heels clicking against the stone circular driveway. Each step toward the entrance felt measured, like the house itself was counting them.
A tall, slender black man with salt-and-pepper hair greeted me at the door, his bearing calm and composed. “Good evening,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “You must be Ms. Peyton.”
I nodded, barely finding my voice. “Yes.”
“I’m Ennis. Follow me.”
I hesitated, only a second, then obeyed.
Inside, the air smelled of aged wood and jasmine, the warmth of flickering chandeliers casting golden light against dark oak walls. It was beautiful—too beautiful—the kind of beauty meant to disarm.
Intentionally so.
“This is a lovely home,” I murmured, my voice barely steady. “Who lives here?”
Ennis turned, brow lifting. “Mr. Kirkland.”
My heart lurched.
This was Creed’s home? Not the loft, not the office, not the city. This. A house so grand, so carefully hidden, it felt like stepping into a world that existed outside of time. A place he had never mentioned—and had chosen now to bring me to.
Why here?
Ennis led me through a maze of hallways, the crackling warmth of a distant fire the only sound breaking the silence.
Every step felt deliberate. Evaluated.
This felt like a test.
“Where is Mr. Kirkland?” I asked, my voice softer now, more uncertain.
Ennis barely blinked. “Finishing an international call. He’ll see you shortly.”
I nodded, pressing my hands together, forcing myself to breathe.
Then came the part that made my pulse spike.
“He asked that I show you to your room.”
My room?
I followed him up a sweeping staircase, the polished oak banisters gleaming in the flickering candlelight.
The hallway stretched ahead, lined with doors I longed to peek behind, but Ennis kept walking until he stopped in front of beautiful double doors.
He opened them to reveal a room that stole my breath.
A grand four-poster bed loomed at the center, its canopy draped in delicate fabric that whispered against the fire crackling softly in the hearth. A charcuterie board rested on a nearby desk, its precision unsettling.
Not indulgent. Intentional.
Prepared.
“You are to wait here,” Ennis said before disappearing down the hall.
I sank onto the bed, my hands trembling. What was happening?
Every moment in this house felt like a test. A game. A judgment still in progress.
I reached for a cracker, but my stomach was too twisted to eat. My nerves were unraveling.
Then—
The door creaked open behind me.
I turned.
Creed stood in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the space, his dark suit immaculate, his gaze piercing and unreadable.
He didn’t step inside.
He waited.
I rose, and the air shifted.
“Hello, Sir,” I whispered, my voice laced with fear, hope, and something I couldn’t name.
The word slipped out before I decided to let it. A mistake. I knew it the moment it left my mouth.
His jaw tightened.
“I didn’t give you permission to speak.”
The words settled over me, heavy and unmistakable. For a second, I considered saying nothing. Letting the silence stand between us. But my pulse was already racing, my instincts scrambling for footing.
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
His eyes flicked toward me for half a second, just long enough for something dark and unreadable to pass between us.
He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him.
The sound felt final.
My breath hitched as he moved closer. Every step he took was measured. Controlled. Not rushed. Not angry.
Intentional.
He stopped a foot away, his hands still in his pockets, his head tilting slightly as his gaze swept over me. I dropped my eyes, heat rushing to my face.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
I did. Holding his gaze felt harder than looking away. The restraint in his expression was devastating anger banked beneath discipline, something sharper lurking just beneath the surface.
“I’m sorry for not trusting you,” I said, the words trembling despite my effort to steady them.
His expression didn’t change.
“Have I ever given you reason to doubt me?”
The question landed clean and sharp.
No.
Never.
The answer pressed against my teeth, but my throat tightened around it.
“No, Sir.”
“And yet,” he said evenly, “you chose not to tell me the truth.”
I flinched.
He didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t need to.
“You broke the rules.”
“I know.”
“You made decisions for me,” he continued. “You decided what I could handle. What I deserved to know.”
“I was wrong.”
“Yes,” he said. “You were.”
He let the words sit between us. Didn’t soften them. Didn’t take them back.
“Undoing that,” he said after a pause, “starts with obedience.”
Something in my chest twisted.
Not relief.
Not comfort.
Recognition.
I nodded, even as doubt flickered beneath the movement.
“Tell me what to do.”
Creed took another step closer. Too close to retreat. Too far to touch.
“You want forgiveness?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm.
My pulse pounded.
“Yes, Sir.”
His lips curved slightly. Not a smile. Something colder. Calculated.
“Then earn it.”
The words didn’t comfort me. They exposed me.
“I—” I started, but his raised hand stopped me.
“What do you think is an appropriate punishment?” he asked.
The question froze me. Not because I didn’t understand it, but because I did.
My mouth went dry.
Every answer I knew felt too easy. Too familiar. And suddenly, I knew that was the problem.
“A spanking,” I offered quietly.
Even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t enough.
He repeated the words slowly. “A spanking.”
His fingers moved to the buttons of his suit jacket. Not hurried. Not indulgent.
Methodical.
He shrugged it off and placed it over the back of a chair.
“Do you honestly think that’s enough?”
The question wasn’t cruel.
It was surgical.
My spine straightened despite the tremor running through me.
“It’s a start.”
The silence that followed was heavier than any command.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of him without contact.
Close enough that I couldn’t pretend this was still theoretical.
“We’re not here to waste my time.” The words cut clean.
I swallowed. “I’m sorry I disappointed you, Sir.”
His eyes darkened, not with fury, but with something deeper. Slower. Something that didn’t vanish just because I apologized.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, the sound too gentle for what was happening between us.
“I don’t take betrayal lightly, Peyton.”
A sharp pang of guilt pierced my chest.
“You’ll earn back every ounce of my trust.”
Not someday.
Not easily.
“Yes, sir,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
His gaze lingered on me, weighing, measuring, seeing far more than I wanted him to.
Then he nodded once and said, “Good.”
He turned away, the firelight casting long shadows across the room.
He wasn’t finished.
He was setting terms.
Something inside me settled, not into comfort, but into acceptance.