Chapter 5
Dahlia
T hree Weeks Ago
The glow of my laptop screen is the only light in my tiny apartment in Brooklyn, half-covered by blackout curtains and the weight of too many secrets.
The heist is done. Clean. Fast. The money routed. Another corrupt asshole bankrupted. Another charity funded under a burner identity.
I should feel good. Triumphant. But I don’t. I feel… empty. Wired. Angry and aching.
I tell myself it’s adrenaline. That the crash will pass. But I know the truth.
I’ve been lying to myself for months.
Because the truth is: every time I take something from them, I want someone to take something from me.
The thought slips in uninvited.
I shouldn’t feel this way. Not after everything I’ve achieved. Not after putting another monster down.
I close the tracking scripts. Then I hover over the icon I swore I’d delete—The Club.
Its sleek black logo pulses. Discreet. Dangerous. Invite-only. A digital dominion for people like them. The ones who want control. The ones who crave surrender.
I opened an account on a dare to myself. No photos. No name. Just a profile. Anonymous. Private. Safe.
Looking for something real.
That’s what I wrote. Pathetic. But under the filters, the tags, the preferences… there was something more honest.
Submission.
Not the fake kind. Not roleplay. Not the watered-down power games everyone likes to pretend is enough.
I want the kind of surrender that hurts . That exposes. That strips me raw and makes me forget. Makes me feel.
Even if it terrifies me.
I scroll the message requests.
Dozens of them. Most I delete without reading. Too crass. Too boring. Too fake.
Then I pause.
New message. No name. Just a symbol. A chess knight.
I’ve been watching you.
You don’t know what you’re looking for. But I do.
When you’re ready to stop pretending, come find me.
A three-second video of blood-red leather gloves, fingers linked. Resting on a dark surface. Waiting. For me.
My heart stutters. Who are you?
No response. I dig, because of course I do.
There’s no profile attached. No contact info. No reply button. I check the back end. Nothing. It’s clean. Too clean.
Someone built a fingerprint trap—snared my click, traced my pattern. Saw through the encryption.
I should be furious.
I should be scared.
But I’m wet.
And I don’t even understand why.