The Rejection

The Gucci tie burns in my palm like a confession I'm about to regret. I've rehearsed this moment for three hundred and sixty-five days—every word, every smile, every possible outcome except the one where Victor says yes. Because men like him don't say yes to women like me. The Christmas party swirls around us in a haze of champagne bubbles and forced laughter. Someone's draped tinsel over the conference room's abstract art. The CFO is already drunk, swaying near the punch bowl. Junior associates cluster in nervous groups, their anxious energy palpable as they exchange gossip about year-end bonuses and promotions that may never come. The air smells of pine from the enormous tree dominating the corner, its lights blinking in rhythmic patterns that feel almost hypnotic. But I only see Victor, standing alone by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his sharp profile silhouetted against the city lights twenty stories below. He looks untouchable. He always does. My dress—black, fitted, the most expensive thing I own—suddenly feels like a costume. I bought it for tonight. For him. The red soles of my heels click against marble as I cross the room, and I swear every sound amplifies my humiliation before it even begins. "Mr. Ashford?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel. He turns, and those grey eyes—cold, assessing, perpetually unimpressed—sweep over me with the same indifference he reserves for quarterly reports. "Amelia." Just my name. Nothing more. I thrust the small box toward him before I lose my nerve. "Merry Christmas. I wanted to thank you for... for everything this year." His gaze drops to the distinctive Gucci wrapping, and something flickers across his face. Annoyance? Pity? I can't tell, and that's the problem—I've spent three years trying to read this man, and he remains as opaque as frosted glass. "I can't accept this." He doesn't touch the box. Doesn't even pretend to consider it. "It's just a tie. It's not—" "Your salary isn't meant for currying favor with your boss." His tone is arctic, professional, devastating in its detachment. "It reflects poorly on both of us." The words land like a slap. Around us, conversations continue, oblivious. Someone laughs too loudly. Christmas music drifts from hidden speakers, all joy and false promises. "That's not what this is." My fingers tighten around the box until the edges dig into my skin. "I just thought—" "Don't." He cuts me off with surgical precision. "Whatever you thought, you were mistaken." He turns back to the window, dismissing me as thoroughly as if I'd never existed at all. I stand there for three heartbeats, four, waiting for him to say something else, to acknowledge that I'm still here, bleeding out in my expensive dress with a gift he won't accept. He doesn't. I walk away before anyone can see my face crumble. The elevator ride down feels endless. Twenty floors of fluorescent lights and my own reflection mocking me from polished steel. You were mistaken. As if my feelings were just an error in judgment, a miscalculation to be corrected. My apartment is dark and cold when I stumble through the door. I kick off the heels—those stupid, painful heels—and sink onto my bed, still clutching the rejected gift. I don't cry. I'm too angry for tears. Instead, I grab my phone with shaking hands and do something reckless. The ad had been everywhere lately—Hidden Realm: Where Anonymity Meets Desire. I'd scrolled past it a dozen times, curious but too cautious to click. Too afraid of what wanting something like that might say about me. Tonight, I don't care what it says. The app downloads faster than my second thoughts can catch up. The interface is sleek, dark, asking for nothing but a username and what I'm seeking. I type quickly, before rationality returns: Username: AmeliaUnbound Seeking: Someone who can completely control me, so I can forget reality. I hit submit and toss the phone onto the mattress, suddenly exhausted. What am I even doing? Victor has made his position clear. I need to move on, except I don't know how to stop wanting someone who barely acknowledges I exist. The phone buzzes. Ten minutes. It's been ten minutes since I created the profile, and already there's a message. My heart hammers as I unlock the screen. V: You're looking for a Dom, aren't you? Something electric shoots through me at those words. The directness. The certainty. As if he already knows exactly what I need, even when I barely understand it myself. My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling with something that isn't fear. This is dangerous. This is exactly the kind of escape I shouldn't be seeking. I type anyway: Yes. Three dots appear immediately, and I realize I'm holding my breath. The reply comes through, and everything shifts. V: Good girl. Let's begin.