Chapter 21 Emma #2
Questions collided, overlapped, demanded space. The collar. The rules. The surrender. How did anyone trust someone enough to give them that kind of power? How did you know when you'd found the right person? How did you silence the voice in your head that screamed this was wrong, shameful, broken?
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"How did you get into this?"
The question felt safer than the others. A starting point. A way in.
Vivian's expression turned thoughtful, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug.
"Honestly? By accident." She huffed a quiet laugh. "I was twenty-three, fresh out of a terrible relationship with a guy."
She paused, attention drifting toward the pink corner where the women were still giggling over their braids.
"Then a friend dragged me to a munch—that's like a casual meetup for people in the lifestyle.
Totally vanilla setting, just coffee and conversation.
" A smile tugged at her lips. "I went expecting to hate it.
Instead, I met people who were... kind. Respectful.
They talked about consent like it was sacred.
About communication. About trust." She shook her head slowly.
"It was nothing like what I'd experienced before. "
"And that's when you knew?" I asked.
"God, no." She laughed. "That's when I got curious. It took another year before I worked up the courage to actually try anything." Her gaze returned to mine, warm and steady. "There's no rush, Emma. Everyone finds their way in their own time."
"How did you figure out you wanted the..." I hesitated, searching for the right words. "The traditional housewife thing?"
Vivian's smile turned wistful. "That was its own journey."
She shifted in her chair, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear.
"My first Dom—not Damien, someone before him—was into brat-taming. You know what that is?"
I shook my head.
"It's when the submissive is deliberately defiant. Mouthy. Pushes back against orders just to get a reaction." She wrinkled her nose. "The Dom gets off on the challenge. On breaking through the resistance and forcing the submission."
"That sounds..." I frowned, trying to picture it. "Exhausting."
"It is. For some people, that tension is the whole point. The fight is foreplay." She shrugged. "But that's not me. I hated it. Every time he wanted me to argue, to resist, to make him work for it—I just felt tired. Wrong. Like I was wearing someone else's skin."
She set her mug down, fingers curling around her knee.
"I don't want to fight, Emma. It isn't in my personality.
I want peace. Calm. I want to know exactly what's expected of me and then do it perfectly.
" A soft smile. "I want to serve—not because someone forced me to, but because it brings me joy.
Because making Todd's life easier makes my life feel meaningful. "
She met my gaze, and there was no shame there. No apology.
"It took me years to figure that out. To stop trying to be the submissive I thought I was supposed to be and just... be myself."
"And what about you and…" I trailed off, dropping my attention to the cup in my hands.
The question felt dangerous somehow. Like I was peeking into a room I wasn't sure I was allowed to enter.
"Me and Damien?" her brows quirked. "Almost as bad, but in completely different ways."
Vivian tilted her head, considering. Her gaze drifted toward the far wall where Damien and Todd were still talking, their conversation punctuated by occasional laughter.
"Damien is..." She paused, searching for words.
"He's a protector. A provider. But not in the way Todd is with me.
" Her fingers tapped absently against her knee.
"He doesn't want someone who needs him to function.
He wants someone who functions brilliantly on their own—and then chooses to let him in anyway. "
She turned back to me, recognition in her expression.
"He needs to earn a submissive's surrender. Not in a brat-tamer way—not through force or resistance—but through his own service."
My expression twisted in confusion.
She laughed softly. "I know it sounds strange.
But that doesn't make him a submissive. He's still very much a Dominant.
" She tapped a finger against her mug, thinking.
"He finds happiness in watching his submissive succeed.
Thrive. He wants to be the reason she stands taller, not the reason she shrinks. "
"He doesn't want a doormat, Emma. He wants a queen who chooses to kneel."
Her gaze drifted toward the armchairs where Damien sat, fondness flickering in her expression.
The words settled over me, weight and warmth at once.
A queen who chooses to kneel. Is that what I was to him? Is that what he saw when he looked at me?
I turned the phrase over in my mind. One word kept snagging—catching like a splinter.
"Protocols," I said slowly. "You mentioned protocols. What does that mean?"
Vivian's eyebrows lifted slightly, as if surprised by the question. Then she nodded, settling deeper into her chair.
"Protocols are… rules, I guess. Rituals.
The agreed-upon structure of how a dynamic operates.
It's different for every couple," she continued.
"For Todd and me, it's things like how I serve his tea, how I greet him when he comes home, how I ask permission before spending money.
" She smiled. "Some people have protocols around speech—certain words they use, ways of addressing their Dominant.
Others have them around behavior, dress, even sleep schedules. "
"And you had them with Damien?"
"Some." She shrugged. "Nothing as elaborate as what Todd and I have now. But there were expectations. Ways I knelt. How I presented myself before a scene." Her gaze flickered with memory. "Small things that reminded us both of our roles."
"Damien and I don't really have… those. At least not yet. He mentioned rules, but with everything that happened…"
Vivian's smile softened. "That makes sense. You two have probably been surviving more than settling." She flipped a strand of ruby hair over her shoulder. "Honestly, it was probably the best call, especially with you being new."
I narrowed my eyes.
"It takes effort from both sides," she went on. "Your willingness to bend. His willingness to stand steady." Her shoulders dipped. "And sometimes life makes that… hard."
I hesitated, then pushed forward. "What did you and Damien have? What were your protocols like?"
She considered the question, fingers tracing the gold chain at her throat.
"Day to day, there were a few things." She ticked them off. "He liked to pick my clothes. Laid them out for me every morning."
I blinked. That was one of mine. Something he'd done for me every day since he'd fastened the chain around my neck. I looked down at the deep red dress that had sat waiting for me on the bed this morning.
One of the few threads of our dynamic that had survived the chaos. Everything else—the check-ins, the structure, the accountability—had fallen away in the wake of Sebastian's fall.
"He also liked to watch what I ate."
"That's—that's one of mine." I shifted in my chair. "I'm going to be honest, I'm not sure what I think of that one yet."
"I know how it sounds." Vivian acknowledged. "But it wasn't restrictive. It was care. He wanted to make sure I was eating enough, eating well. Fueling my body properly." A grin tugged at her lips. "He never once said no to chocolate."
A surprised laugh escaped me. "Really?"
"Really. The man understands priorities." She winked. "Happy submissive, happy life."
The tension in my shoulders eased.
"Another one," she continued, "was that I'd ask permission before leaving the house."
My eyebrows shot up.
"Again—not in a controlling way," she added quickly. "It was about protection. He wanted to know where I was, when to expect me back. If something happened, he'd know where to start looking." She shrugged. "It made me feel safe, honestly. Like someone was always watching out for me."
I turned that over in my mind. The idea of asking permission to leave felt foreign. Constraining. But the way she described it—as safety rather than restriction—softened the edges.
"There was one more," Vivian said, a fond smile crossing her face. "This one confused me at first too."
"What was it?"
"When I texted him or wrote him notes, I had to write 'i' in lowercase. And anything referring to him—You, Your, You're—had to be capitalized."
I frowned. "Why?"
"That's exactly what I asked." She laughed.
"He said that every time he saw it—this small submissive 'i' next to a capital 'You'—it made him smile.
A tiny reminder of our dynamic, hidden in plain sight.
" Her expression softened. "It seems silly, but after a while, I loved it too.
It was ours. This secret language no one else understood. "
"Was that everything?"
Vivian laughed—a warm, knowing sound. "Not even close.
But like I said, I thrive on structure. The more rules, the more rituals, the safer I feel.
" She tilted her head. "Damien provided that for me.
He was good at it. But not every dynamic looks the same, Emma.
What worked for us might not work for you—and that's okay. "
I nodded slowly, filing that away.
"He was strict about some things, though," she added, something shifting in her expression. "Non-negotiables. Things he wouldn't bend on no matter what."
"Like what?"
Vivian set her mug down, folding her hands in her lap.
"Before any play session, there was a ritual he insisted on. Every single time. No exceptions."
I frowned. "What kind of ritual?"
"I would kneel on a pillow at his feet." Her voice softened with the memory. "He would say some things—affirmations, I guess you'd call them. Reminding me of my safewords. Telling me I was safe. That he was proud of me." She paused. "And then he would braid my hair."
A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it.
Vivian smiled, unsurprised by my reaction. "I know. It sounds strange."
"No, it's just—" I pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to compose myself. "I didn't expect that. It's so..."
"Tender?"
"Yes."
She nodded. "It was. Every time." Her gaze grew distant. "He'd take his time with it. Gentle fingers, slow movements. Like he was preparing me for something sacred." A soft exhale. "It was like he was thanking me for something that hadn't happened yet. For the trust I was about to give him."
I took a slow breath. Forced the images away.
This beautiful woman in front of me had knelt at Damien's feet. Felt his fingers in her hair. Heard the same tender words he'd showered on her. Words of safety and promise, in the space I'd thought of as ours.
I stared at Vivian's red hair—those perfect waves tumbling past her shoulders—and imagined Damien's hands weaving through them. Sectioning. Braiding. His voice low and soft as he told her—
What? What had he told her?
The question climbed my throat before I could stop it.
"Did he ever tell you he loved you?"
Vivian's eyebrows rose. Then she laughed—full and hearty, her head tipping back.
"God, no." She wiped at the corner of her eye, still chuckling. "It was never like that for us, Emma. Not even close."
Relief hit, sudden and overwhelming.
"We cared about each other," she continued, her laughter fading into something softer. "Deeply. But love?" She shook her head. "That wasn't what we were. I don't think either of us wanted it to be."
The question hovered on my tongue—fragile, terrifying.
I shouldn't ask. It wasn't Vivian's place to answer. It wasn't fair to put her in the middle of something so personal.
But the words slipped out anyway.
"Do you think he's capable of it?" I kept my voice light. As if the answer didn't matter. "Love, I mean."
Vivian's expression shifted. The playfulness faded, replaced by something more careful. More perceptive.
"Why do you ask?"
I shrugged, but my fingers had tightened around my mug. "Just curious."
She studied me for a long moment. Too long.
"He calls me 'love,'" I finally said. "All the time. But he's never actually said..." I trailed off, voice tight. "It's fine. It doesn't matter."
"It clearly does." Vivian's voice was gentle. No judgment. Just understanding. "Emma, look at me."
I lifted my gaze reluctantly.
"Damien Holt is one of the most guarded men I've ever met," she said slowly. "He gives and gives and gives—his time, his attention, his protection—but the words? The actual declaration?" She shook her head. "That's not something he would do lightly."
"But," she continued, holding up a finger, "that doesn't mean he's incapable.
It means he's terrified." A sad smile tugged at her lips.
"Something broke that man a long time ago, Emma.
I never got close enough to find out what.
But whoever finally hears those words from him?
" She reached over, squeezing my hand. "She'll know she's the first. And probably the last."
The words sank in slowly, finding cracks I hadn't known were there.
Terrified. Something broke that man a long time ago. The first. Probably the last.
I thought of Damien's father—the man he never spoke about except in fragments sharp enough to cut.
I lifted my head, meeting Vivian's warm gaze.
"I have more questions."