Chapter 2 #2
I push past the operative into my penthouse. The space is exactly as I left it this morning. Windows overlooking the city, antiques I've collected from estate sales in the Quarter and auction houses in Paris, art carefully curated over years of travel and careful acquisition.
It should feel safe. Except it doesn't feel that way anymore.
I head for my bedroom, pull suitcases from the closet. The operative stations himself by the front door, giving me privacy but maintaining line of sight to the elevator.
I can pack quickly. I've done it before for business trips, for last-minute board meetings in New York or London.
Except this isn't a business trip. This is running from someone who's been watching me. Someone who knows how to make me vulnerable.
I grab clothes without thinking. Suits for work, casual wear, workout gear. My hands move on autopilot while my mind races through the implications.
A week, maybe a month—living in a guest house on his family's property while he vets every decision about my safety. Living under his authority, following his commands.
My body heats at the thought, and I hate myself for it—hate that my traitorous nervous system responded to his dominance in that conference room, hate that even now, packing to move into protective custody, some part of me remembers the way he stepped into my space, the way his voice dropped.
I am only submissive at the club.
Except my body didn't get that memo.
I zip the suitcases with more force than necessary. Fine. I'll play along with his security protocols for now. But the moment we get to that mansion, we're establishing new terms. Equal footing. Mutual respect. Professional boundaries.
I am the client. He works for me.
My laptop bag goes over my shoulder.
"Ready, ma'am?"
"Let's go."
The ride to the Garden District takes longer than it should.
Traffic is still heavy, and we're moving against the flow heading out of downtown.
I watch the neighborhoods change as we drive.
Business district to residential, newer construction to historic homes, until we're surrounded by the old wealth that built this city.
The Pascal mansion appears through the trees as we turn onto the property.
It's beautiful in that old New Orleans way.
Antebellum architecture, wide galleries, magnolia trees heavy with blooms. The kind of house that's been in families for generations, weathering hurricanes and history with equal grace.
We pull up to the main entrance right on schedule. At least I can't be accused of tardiness.
Both operatives get out, one opening my door while the other retrieves my luggage from the back. I watch him pull out his phone and type quickly. Reporting to Luc, no doubt.
The front door opens before we reach it.
Luc.
He's changed since the meeting. Gone is the professional attire. Now he's in jeans and a black t-shirt that shows exactly how much time he spends staying in shape. Former Delta Force, indeed—every line of him screams dangerous capability.
His gaze sweeps over me, assessing, then shifts to the operatives. "Any trouble?"
The driver exchanges a look with his partner. A brief conversation follows—low voices, professional tone, the operative's gestures indicating locations. I catch fragments: "...questioned protocols..." "...dismissed escort..." "...standard resistance..."
My cheeks flush. I can imagine exactly what they're telling him.
The driver's voice rises slightly. "Nothing we couldn't handle, boss. Just standard client resistance to protection protocols."
Luc's mouth curves slightly. Not quite a smile. "I'm sure it was very standard."
My jaw tightens. "I wasn't any trouble."
"That's not what he said." Luc's attention returns to me. "He said you argued about security protocols, tried to dismiss your protection detail, and questioned their authority. Which tells me you wasted time testing boundaries instead of following commands."
"I don't take orders from—"
"From the operatives assigned to keep you alive. Yes, I gathered that." He takes my luggage from the operative. "Thank you, gentlemen. I'll take it from here."
The operatives nod and head back to the SUV. I watch them drive away down the oak-lined drive.
Luc gestures toward the house. "This way."
"We need to talk." I don't move. "About boundaries. About how this arrangement is going to work. About the fact that I'm the client and you work for me."
"No." He shifts the suitcase to his other hand. "We don't need to talk about any of that. You signed the contract this morning giving me full operational authority over your security. That contract is legally binding. The conversation's over."
"The hell it is." I step forward, using every bit of boardroom presence I've cultivated over the years. "You don't get to talk to me like I'm some incompetent child. You don't get to make unilateral decisions about my life. And you certainly don't get to treat me with disrespect."
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he sets down the luggage and steps into my space with that same deliberate invasion that made my breath catch in his office.
"Let's get something straight right now, Simone.
" His voice is quiet, dangerous. "You're not in a boardroom.
You're not negotiating with someone who gives a fuck about your ego or your corporate power plays.
You're standing in front of someone whose job is to keep you alive, and you're going to either accept my authority or you're going to leave. "
"I'm the client—"
"You're the protected asset." He doesn't raise his voice—doesn't need to.
The dominance rolls off him. "And the moment you became my protected asset, you stopped being in charge.
That's how protection details work. That's how staying alive works.
You want equal footing? You want mutual respect?
Earn it by following my protocols instead of fighting me every step of the way. "
My pulse is hammering. I should be furious. I am furious. But underneath the anger is something else. Something that recognized the absolute certainty in his voice.
"I don't take orders well." The words come out more breathless than I intend.
"I know." His mouth curves slightly—not quite a smile. "That's why this is going to be interesting."
He picks up the luggage again. "The guest house is out back.
Two bedrooms, full kitchen, private entrance.
You'll have your own space, but I'm here around the clock.
Security cameras cover the perimeter, motion sensors on all access points.
You don't go anywhere without me. You don't open doors or windows without checking with me first. You follow my commands without argument. "
His gaze holds mine, waiting.
"That's completely unreasonable—"
"That's how you stay alive." He starts walking toward a path that leads around the main house. "Now you can keep arguing and waste both our time, or you can accept reality. Your choice."
I follow because there's nothing else to do. The path winds through the gardens that probably look beautiful when I'm not seething with frustration. Jasmine and roses and something I can't identify but smells incredible.
The guest house appears through the trees. It's smaller than the main house but still substantial. Two stories, wide gallery with rocking chairs, the same antebellum charm as the main building.
Luc unlocks the door, holds it open. I step inside.
The interior is surprisingly modern—hardwood floors, exposed brick, furniture that manages to be both comfortable and stylish. High-end appliances gleam in the kitchen. Stairs lead to what I assume are the bedrooms.
"You're upstairs, first door on the right." Luc sets my luggage by the stairs. "Bathroom's attached. There's a workspace if you need it. My room is downstairs, at the end of the hall."
"You're staying here?" The words come out sharp. Too sharp.
"Twenty-four seven protection means exactly that." He moves to the windows, checking locks with practiced efficiency. "I'm here at all times. You're never alone, never unprotected. Get used to it. I’ll have one of my team posted here before I leave."
I watch him move through the space, checking security points, testing systems—like a predator, all coiled energy and tactical precision.
"This is insane." The objection needs to be voiced even though I know it won't change anything. "You can't seriously expect me to live like this. I have a company to run. I have commitments, obligations, a life that doesn't stop just because some creep is sending me photographs."
Luc turns to face me. "That creep is escalating.
Direct threats with timelines. They know your patterns, your schedule, your vulnerabilities.
" His expression doesn't change. "Surveillance, psychological warfare, explicit threats.
I've seen this pattern before. Physical action is next.
They're telling you when it's coming. The only question is whether you let me stop them or not. "
The email—how does he know about the email?
He must read the question on my face. "Real-time sync. Your communications feed straight to my system." He crosses his arms. "That threat came through while you were at your office."
Tonight you sleep alone. Tomorrow you won't.
My stomach turns. "That's private."
"Nothing's private when someone's trying to kill you.
" His expression hardens. "And that's what this is heading toward, Simone.
You need to understand that. This isn't about intimidation anymore.
This is about someone who's been planning, escalating, building toward action.
They're telling you exactly what they're going to do.
The only question is whether you're going to let me keep you alive long enough to stop them. "
The words hit like ice water. Part of me wants to argue, to maintain the fiction that this is all some misunderstanding or overreaction.
But I've seen the photographs. I've read the threats. I know how much someone would have to know, how much access they'd need, how much planning it would take to do what they've done.
"Fine." The word tastes like defeat. Not surrender. Strategy. I can play along until I regain control. "What do you want me to do?"
"First, you're going to stop fighting me on every security protocol.
" He doesn't move closer, but somehow his presence fills the room.
"Second, you're going to follow my commands without argument.
Third, you're going to learn the difference between performing submission in a club and actually surrendering control to someone who knows what they're doing. "
My breath catches. "This isn't about the club—"
"Everything about this is about the club.
" His gaze holds mine. " Remy has started talking to your regular play partners, and I've studied every photograph in detail.
Someone's been watching you perform. They know what buttons to push, how you respond.
And they're going to keep using it until I teach you the difference between performing surrender and actually surrendering. "
"I know how to submit." The protest sounds weak even to my own ears.
"No." He steps closer. "You know how to chase endorphins. You know how to perform surrender while maintaining complete control. You know how to use submission as a tool to get what you want instead of actually giving anything up."
The accuracy of it steals my breath. How can he see through years of carefully constructed performance with just hours of observation?
"Tomorrow we start training." His voice drops to that register that makes my pulse spike.
"Real training. Not the performance version you're used to.
You're going to learn how to follow commands without testing boundaries.
You're going to learn how to surrender control without negotiating terms. And you're going to learn what it feels like when someone actually dominates you instead of playing along with your scenes. "
Every instinct I have screams to argue, to push back, to establish that I'm not some submissive who needs training.
Standing here in this guest house that's both prison and sanctuary, watching Luc Pascal look at me like he sees every defense I've ever built, something terrifying becomes clear.
This isn't like my club scenes. This isn't Vincent or any of the other Doms who accommodated my preferences, worked around my boundaries, let me dictate the terms.
This is someone who sees through every bit of performance and doesn't care about my comfort level or my ego.
This is real dominance from someone who knows what I've been pretending at for years.
"Get settled." Luc heads for the door. "Dinner soon. We'll go over your schedule and determine what meetings you can handle remotely. And Simone?"
I look up.
"Tomorrow we find out if you're actually brave enough to stop performing."
The door closes behind him. I stand in the center of the guest house, my luggage still by the stairs, my carefully maintained control cracking at the edges.
Tomorrow we start training—real submission to his protection, not the performance version. The difference between playing submissive and actually being one. I should be terrified. I am terrified.
But not for the reasons I expected.