Celeste's POV:
I know the signs of transference.
It's practically the first thing we're taught in school. When a client projects emotions — fantasies, desires — onto the therapist. But what they don't teach you is what to do when it happens in reverse.
When the therapist, trained and tempered, begins to unravel under the weight of her own restraint.
I've never crossed a line. Not once. Not even close. My reputation is airtight, like the sleek glass office I've built high above a city that smells like sex and gasoline.
But Lucien — if that's even his name — doesn't follow rules. He slips through them like smoke.
Today is his third session. He still hasn't said a word.
He enters like he owns the place. Always late by a minute or two, like it's a power play. He wears those suits like second skin, dark and fitted, expensive in a way that whispers rather than shouts. His cologne is subtle — cedarwood, leather, something ancient and male.
And those eyes.
They don't just look. They strip. They study me, as if every blink is a wasted second. He never breaks the silence. Never fidgets. Just leans back in the chair with that arrogant stillness, like he's dared more dangerous things than me and survived all of them.
I should have ended this on day one.
Instead, I sit across from him, legs crossed, spine straight, pretending I'm unaffected. My pen scribbles notes I won't keep. My voice — clinical, composed — asks open-ended questions he doesn't answer.
But inside?
I'm burning.
I feel his gaze on my throat, my wrists, the inside of my knee. Places no one has touched in a year. My skin hums beneath my silk blouse, betraying me. I find myself reapplying lipstick before his appointments. Wearing perfume I haven't used since Damien used to notice.
I tell myself this is research. Observation. A controlled experiment.
But I'm lying.
Today, something is different.
He watches me more intently than usual, his gaze flicking to the small silver cross pendant I forgot to remove. His lips twitch — not a smile. A reaction. As if he's figured out some private truth and is letting me stew in it.
The session ticks by in silence.
Then, just as the minute hand nears the hour, Lucien moves.
He reaches into his coat and places a small velvet box on the table between us. Midnight blue, not black. Royal. Intentional.
He stands, buttons his jacket, and walks to the door.
But before he leaves, he speaks — for the first time.
"You were born to be worshipped," he says, his voice low, French-accented, dark as a midnight promise. "You just forgot."
And then he's gone.
---
I don't move for a long time.
The box sits there, unassuming. Silent.
I should leave it alone. I should call security. I should pretend this never happened. But my hand moves before I tell it to — fingers brushing the velvet, lifting the lid.
Inside lies something that steals my breath.
A cuff bracelet, gleaming gold, minimalist but heavy with intention. Not delicate. Not decorative. It's a bold circle, opening only on one side, seamless when closed — a modern shackle, if shackles could be elegant. Inside, engraved in small, sharp script:
Domina mea.
My queen.
My pulse stutters.
This isn't a collar. This isn't for a pet or a plaything. This is something else. Something sacred, almost mythic — the kind of offering a man makes to a goddess, not a possession.
It isn't about humiliation.It's about recognition.About claiming — not by force, but by devotion that doesn't ask for permission.
I stare at the bracelet for too long, fingers brushing the inscription.
A dangerous part of me whispers:
Try it on.
Just once. Just to feel it.
But I don't. Not yet.
Because this isn't just seduction.
It's war. And I don't know yet if I'm the prize, the battlefield, or the weapon.
All I know is that he sees me — not as a doll to be dressed, not as a broken wife or a therapist on a pedestal. But as something holy.
And terrifying.
Domina mea.
My queen.
And God help me — I want to know what it feels like to be that.