Chapter 4 #2
"Because it is a security problem. And I solve security problems." I move to the panel, and start adjusting settings. "Additional cameras, infrared sensors, patrol schedule. You stay away from windows after dark. No exceptions."
"But they're escalating—"
"They're trying to. But escalation requires access. And they don't have access anymore." I finish with the panel, turn back to her. "Without access, all they have is psychological warfare. And that only works if you let it."
"I'm bordering on panic." The admission breaks through on a shaky breath.
"I know." She's spent her whole life maintaining control, and now that control is slipping through her fingers. She needs something concrete to focus on. "Which is why we're expanding the protocols. Right now."
She blinks, caught off guard by the shift. "What?"
"High protocol. When we're in private, you follow specific rules about posture, speech, service. Nothing sexual. Nothing that crosses professional boundaries. Just the foundation of what real submission looks like when it's not a scene."
"And if I can't do it?" There's vulnerability beneath the question. Fear that she'll fail at this too.
"Then you learn. That's what training is." I let that settle. "But you're not going to fail."
She drops her arms to her sides, uncertainty replacing the defensive posture. "What do I do?"
"First rule. When I'm in the room, you ask permission before sitting." I gesture to the kitchen stool she was leaning against. "Stand unless I give you explicit permission otherwise."
She straightens immediately, moving away from the stool. That boardroom posture snapping into place automatically.
"Second rule. You address me as Sir in private. Not Luc. Not Mr. Pascal. Sir." I watch her process that, seeing the resistance war with the desire to have something concrete to focus on. "Clear?"
"Yes." The word comes out automatic, then she catches herself. "Yes, Sir."
"Good." I move to the sink, start washing vegetables. "Third rule. You speak when spoken to or when you need to communicate something important about your safety or wellbeing. Otherwise, you're silent unless I give you permission."
Her jaw tightens. That's going to be the hardest rule for her. A woman who commands boardrooms, who built her career on the ability to speak with authority and confidence. Silence will feel like surrender.
"Fourth rule. When I tell you to do something, you respond 'Yes, Sir' and you do it immediately.
No hesitation, no negotiation, no debating whether it makes sense.
" I glance at her. Fear and fascination war in her expression.
"The only exception is if I ask you to do something that violates your hard limits or feels genuinely unsafe.
Then you use your safeword and we discuss it.
Everything else, you follow without question. "
"What's my safeword?" Her voice is quieter now, less CEO and more the woman who's trying to find solid ground in chaos.
"Red for full stop. Yellow for slow down or check in.
Green means you're good and I can continue.
" Standard protocol, nothing she wouldn't know from the club.
But saying it here, in this context, makes it different.
More real. "Use them honestly. Don't perform being fine when you're not.
I need your genuine responses, not what you think I want to hear. "
"Yes, Sir." The words come out steadier this time.
"Good." I hand her the vegetables. "You're going to prep these while I handle the salmon. Dice the bell peppers, slice the zucchini, mince the garlic. There's a cutting board in that cabinet, knives in the drawer."
She moves to follow the command, then catches herself. "May I sit while I work, Sir?"
"No. You stand. Posture matters in protocol, Simone. Keeps you present, aware of your body, grounded in the moment instead of lost in your head."
"Yes, Sir." She retrieves the cutting board and knives, sets up at the counter. Her hands are still shaking slightly, but having a task helps. The focus settles over her as she starts prepping vegetables with the same precision she probably brings to contract negotiations.
We work in silence for several minutes. I season the salmon, prepare the pan. She's doing well, following the command without argument, letting the structure ground her.
"How are you feeling?" I ask when she's halfway through the peppers.
"Less like I'm falling apart." The admission comes out quiet. "It helps. Having something concrete to focus on."
"That's what protocol does. Gives you structure when chaos threatens."
"Is this what you meant?" She doesn't look up from the cutting board. "About the difference between performing submission and actually submitting?"
"Part of it." I watch her concentrate on every movement. "At the club, you negotiate every scene, control the parameters, perform surrender while maintaining ultimate authority. Here, you follow my commands because you trust my judgment. Not because you've approved every detail in advance."
She's silent for a long moment, processing. Then: "It's harder than I thought it would be."
"Good. If it was easy, it wouldn't be real."
"What if I can't do it?" The vulnerability in her voice catches me. "What if I keep fighting you because that's the only way I know how to protect myself?"
"Then we adjust until we find what works." I keep my voice level. "Every time you follow a command instead of arguing, that's progress. Every time you ask permission instead of assuming, that's progress. Keep trying until the behavior becomes natural."
She brings the vegetables to the stove, stands beside me while I sauté them. Close enough that I can feel the tension radiating off her, the effort it's taking to maintain silence instead of filling the space with words.
"You're doing well. Better than most people manage on their first day of formal protocol."
"Thank you, Sir." The words come out automatic. Her eyes widen slightly. Like she didn't expect the structure to feel this natural this quickly.
When dinner is ready, I plate both portions and carry them to the small dining table. She follows, standing beside her chair, waiting for permission.
"Sit." I take my own seat. "You may eat."
She sits with practiced grace, but there's something different in her posture now. Less professional polish, more genuine attention to the moment. She picks up her fork, takes a bite. Her eyebrows lift slightly when she realizes how hungry she actually is.
We eat in silence for several minutes. I watch her, making sure the protocol is grounding her instead of overwhelming her.
"This is good," she says quietly, then catches herself. "I'm sorry, I didn't ask permission to speak."
"You don't need permission for simple observations or direct responses. The silence rule is about learning to be comfortable without filling every moment with words."
"Oh." She relaxes slightly. "That makes sense."
"How's the anxiety level? Compared to when that photograph arrived."
She considers the question. "Lower. Not gone, but more manageable. Like I have something to hold onto instead of just drowning in fear."
"Like I said, protocol can give you the structure and support you need."
"Is that what this is?" Her eyes meet mine. "You're giving me permission to stop fighting?"
"I'm giving you a reason to trust that someone else can handle the fear for you."
For a moment I see everything she's been holding back—the fear, the exhaustion, the weight of maintaining control when her world is cracking at the foundations.
"I don't know how to do that." The admission costs her something. "How to trust like that."
"Then we start here." I gesture to the table, the simple act of following protocols for dinner. "Small steps. Building trust through consistency."
She nods slowly, processing. Then: "May I ask a question, Sir?"
"Yes."
"What happens tomorrow? Do the protocols continue?"
"Every day until you leave this property. Morning routine, evening routine, whenever we're in private together. High protocol becomes your normal. You learn to submit in practical, daily ways instead of just performing surrender at the club."
"And when this is over?" There's something vulnerable in the question. "When you catch whoever's doing this and I go back to my life?"
"That depends on what you want. These protocols can end the moment you walk out that door. Or they can continue if you decide you want to explore what real power exchange looks like outside of protection detail parameters. Your choice."
She's quiet for a long moment, turning that over in her mind. Then she picks up her fork, takes another bite of dinner. Settling into the structure I've given her.
We finish the meal in comfortable silence. When we're done, I stand and start clearing plates.
"May I help, Sir?" she asks.
"No. You sit and let me handle this."
I can feel her watching me as I wash dishes, the tension in her silence. She's a woman used to doing everything herself, maintaining independence as armor against vulnerability. Accepting help, accepting service, requires a different kind of surrender.
When the kitchen is clean, I turn to find her still sitting at the table, hands folded in her lap, waiting for direction.
"Good girl." The praise slips out automatically. Her eyes widen. Relief washes across her features.
"You can speak freely for a moment. How are you feeling?"
"Steadier." She stands, moves closer. "The protocol helps. Gives me something to focus on that I can actually control."
"That's the foundation. Tomorrow we build on it. More structured routine, additional protocols, deeper surrender. But tonight, you've done enough. You followed commands, maintained protocol, and stayed grounded when fear threatened to overwhelm you. That's significant progress for day one."
"What do I do now, Sir?" The question comes out uncertain, like she's not sure whether formal protocol is still in effect.
"Now you go upstairs, get ready for bed, and get some rest." I move to the security panel, start implementing the enhanced measures I planned earlier.
"Stay away from windows. If you need anything during the night, you text me.
Don't come downstairs, don't open doors, don't investigate strange noises.
You follow those safety protocols without question. Clear?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Good." I glance at her. "Tomorrow morning, you wait upstairs until I clear you to come down. Same as this morning, but you're going to follow the command without pushing back this time. Understood?"
"Understood, Sir."
She heads for the stairs, then pauses. "Luc?" The use of my first name instead of Sir signals she's stepping out of formal protocol for a moment. "Thank you. For seeing what I needed even when I didn't know how to ask for it."
"That's my job. Seeing what you need and giving it to you in ways that keep you safe. Even when it's not what you expected."
"As a Dom or a security expert?"
"Both."
She nods. Less resistance, more trust beginning to form. Then she heads upstairs.
I watch until she disappears into her room, then turn back to the security panel. Enhanced protocols implemented. Additional cameras active. Infrared sensors along the tree line, motion-activated coverage on every approach to the guest house.
I pull up the new photograph on my phone one more time. Simone through the window, silk pajamas, completely unaware she's being observed. The stalker was close. Right outside the guest house. Standing in the dark, documenting her vulnerability.
I send the image to Andy with coordinates and timestamps.
My phone buzzes almost immediately. Andy's response:
Got it. Processing the other cameras now. Should have preliminary results by morning.
The suspect pool is narrowing. Soon we'll have a name, a face, concrete evidence to move on.
Until then, I keep Simone alive. Keep her safe. Keep teaching her the difference between performing surrender and actually letting go.
I pour myself a glass of whiskey and settle into the chair facing the stairs. The security feeds cycle through their loops. Empty gardens, quiet perimeter, motion sensors silent.
Somewhere out there, the stalker's reviewing tonight's failure—close enough to photograph her but not close enough to breach the property. They'll adjust. Try a different approach.
Good. Let them adjust.
Gives me more time to find them first.