Romance

Amelia's POV 
Victor is getting married, and I'm on my way to fuck a stranger.
The thought circles my mind as I sit at my desk, pretending to review merger documents while actually replaying the conversation I'd overheard in the break room an hour ago.
"I'm telling you, I saw them." Linda from HR, voice pitched low with gossip. "Victor Ashford and Catherine Chen at Lumière last night. You know, that restaurant with the year-long waiting list? They looked very cozy."
"The tech heiress?" Someone else—I couldn't see who. "I heard their families have been negotiating an arrangement for months."
"Well, it's clearly moving forward. She was wearing a ring. Not on that finger yet, but still. And Victor looked... I don't know. Resigned? Like he was attending a business meeting."
"Maybe he was. Those society marriages are basically mergers anyway."
Their laughter had felt like glass in my chest.
N

V's hands are on me, and everything I thought I knew shatters.
The blindfold stays on as gentle fingers guide me from the car, across smooth pavement, through a door that whispers expensive on well-oiled hinges. A woman's voice—professional, detached—murmurs something about this way, careful of the step, and then I'm inside.
The temperature changes first. Warmer. The scent hits next—leather and something rich, cedar maybe, with an undertone of smoke that catches in my throat. Not unpleasant. Just... different.
"Leave us." His voice cuts through the darkness, and my breath stops.
It's him. V. Finally real, finally here, finally more than pixels and promises.
But God, he sounds like Victor.
Not exactly—this voice is deeper, rougher around the edges, like Victor's voice dragged through gravel and sin. But the cadence is the same, that precise articulation, that commanding tone that makes my

Victor's POV
I'm going to destroy the only good thing I've ever touched, and I can't seem to stop myself.
The invitation sits on my phone like a confession—Saturday night. Come meet me.—and I know the moment she walks through that door, everything changes. The careful distance I've maintained, the professional boundaries I've hidden behind, the lie I've been living for months—all of it crumbles.
I pour another scotch I won't drink and stare at the city lights below my penthouse. Somewhere out there, Amelia is preparing to meet a stranger. Preparing to submit to V.
To me.
The thought sends heat and guilt spiraling through me in equal measure.
I never meant for this to happen. When I'd stumbled across her profile on Hidden Realm three months ago—AmeliaUnbound, seeking someone to control her completely—I should have closed the app. Should have pretended I'd never seen my secretary's desperate plea for surrender.
Instead, I'd sent a message.
You're looking for a Dom, aren't you?
Even now, I can't explain what possessed me. Maybe it was the scotch. Maybe it was the memory of her face at the Christmas party, beautiful and devastated, holding that rejected Gucci tie like a broken promise. Maybe it was three years of watching her move through my office with quiet grace while I pretended she was invisible.
Or maybe I'm just my father's son—drawn to things I have no right to touch, destined to destroy them.
The Paris incident plays on loop in my mind. Amelia trembling in my arms in that elevator, her body going limp, that small whimper of pleasure she couldn't quite suppress. I'd felt the moment it happened—the shudder that ran through her, the way her nails dug into my shirt, the heat radiating from her flushed skin.
I'd known exactly what was happening to her.
And instead of stopping it, instead of being horrified or concerned, I'd been achingly, impossibly hard. Wanting nothing more than to press her against that elevator wall and make her come again, properly this time, with my hands instead of some toy I'd sent her.
That's when I'd known I was in too deep.
My phone buzzes. A text from my father: Meeting with the Chen family is confirmed for next month. Don't embarrass me.
The arranged marriage. The merger of families, fortunes, and futures that has nothing to do with love and everything to do with legacy. My father had made it clear—this was my duty, my obligation, the price of bearing the Ashford name.
And I'd agreed. Because that's what men like me do. We honor our commitments, even when they taste like ash.
Even when they mean giving up the one woman who's ever made me feel anything real.
I pull up the video from Paris—the security footage I'd obtained through connections I shouldn't have used. The elevator camera caught everything. Amelia's face as pleasure overwhelmed her. The way she'd collapsed into my arms. The trust in her eyes even as she fought against what was happening to her body.
She'd looked at me like I was her salvation.
If she only knew I was the one orchestrating her downfall.
My thumb hovers over her contact. Not V's anonymous messages, but her real number, the one in my work phone. I could call right now. Could tell her the truth. Could watch everything we've built—fragile and forbidden and beautiful—shatter into pieces.
Instead, I open the app and type:
V: Are you having second thoughts about Saturday?
The response comes quickly. She's been waiting.
Amelia: Terrified thoughts. Not second thoughts.
V: Tell me what frightens you.
Amelia: That you'll be disappointed. That I'm not strong enough for what you need. That this will ruin everything.
My chest tightens. If she only knew how impossible disappointment would be. How I've spent months learning every expression, every hesitation, every small rebellion before surrender. How I've memorized the curve of her neck when she bends over my desk, the way she bites her lip when concentrating, the small sounds she makes when pleasure overwhelms her control.
V: You're stronger than you know. And nothing about Saturday will ruin anything—it will simply reveal what's always been true.
Amelia: Which is?
V: That you were made to be claimed. And I was made to claim you.
The lie tastes bitter even through text. Because the truth is I was made to destroy beautiful things. Just like my father destroyed my mother with his infidelities, his cold calculations, his belief that love was weakness and control was everything.
I'd watched their marriage rot from the inside. Watched my mother's light dim until she was nothing but a shell in designer clothes, smiling for cameras while dying inside. I'd sworn I'd never become him.
And yet here I am, manipulating a woman who trusts me, playing puppet master with her desires while hiding behind anonymity like a coward.
My father calls it strategic thinking. I call it cruelty.
Another message arrives:
Amelia: I went back to work today. Like you told me to.
Pride surges through me. My brave girl.
V: And?
Amelia: Victor barely looked at me. Just said "welcome back" and handed me a stack of files. It was like Paris never happened.
Because I couldn't look at you without remembering how you felt in my arms. Without wanting to throw you over my desk and make you scream my real name.
V: Maybe he's more affected than he let on.
Amelia: Impossible. Victor doesn't get affected by anything. He's made of ice.
I laugh bitterly at that. If she only knew how many cold showers I've taken, how many nights I've fisted my cock to memories of her voice saying "yes, Sir," how close I'd come in that elevator to throwing away every shred of control I've built my life around.
V: Saturday, Amelia. Wear the pearls. Wear something that makes you feel powerful. And trust that whatever happens, I'll take care of you.
Amelia: Promise?
The word is a knife between my ribs. Because I can't promise her anything beyond Saturday night. Can't promise I won't break her heart the same way I did at that Christmas party. Can't promise I'm anything more than my father's son, destined to destroy what I touch.
But I type it anyway:
V: I promise.
I close the app and return to the window, to the city that holds both of us—Amelia in her small apartment, probably wearing those pajamas she thinks hide her beauty, and me in my sterile penthouse, counting down to the moment I either save us both or destroy everything.
Saturday is three days away.
Three days until she learns the truth.
Three days until I prove I'm either worthy of her submission or exactly the monster I've always feared I'd become.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's work email. The merger documents need review. Blackstone wants changes. And somewhere in that sea of corporate demands is a message from HR about next week's schedule.
Amelia's name is listed under my appointments. Every day. Every hour. Inescapable.
I close my eyes and make a decision that will damn us both.
Saturday will be our first meeting.
And our last.
One night to give her everything she deserves. One night to worship her the way she should be worshiped. One night to pretend I'm the man she thinks V is—confident, controlled, capable of loving without destroying.
Then I'll let her go.
Before my father's genetics and my family's poison turn me into the nightmare she doesn't yet know I am.
It's the kindest thing I can do.
Even if it kills me.

Amelia's POV 
Victor is getting married, and I'm on my way to fuck a stranger.
The thought circles my mind as I sit at my desk, pretending to review merger documents while actually replaying the conversation I'd overheard in the break room an hour ago.
"I'm telling you, I saw them." Linda from HR, voice pitched low with gossip. "Victor Ashford and Catherine Chen at Lumière last night. You know, that restaurant with the year-long waiting list? They looked very cozy."
"The tech heiress?" Someone else—I couldn't see who. "I heard their families have been negotiating an arrangement for months."
"Well, it's clearly moving forward. She was wearing a ring. Not on that finger yet, but still. And Victor looked... I don't know. Resigned? Like he was attending a business meeting."
"Maybe he was. Those society marriages are basically mergers anyway."
Their laughter had felt like glass in my chest.
Now, three hours later, I'm still bleeding from it.
I chance a glance through the glass wall of Victo

The Truth Hurts