The ride in Alexander's car was a blur of silent misery for Amelia. She sat rigidly, staring out the window, refusing to meet his gaze. Her mind was a churning storm of despair and impotent fury. The city passed by, familiar landmarks taking on an alien quality, as if she were viewing them through a distorting lens. Every turn of the wheel pulled her further from her crumbling, yet fiercely independent, world and deeper into his. She felt like a package being delivered, stripped of agency, reduced to an object of his meticulous care.
They drove away from the bustling, gritty heart of Cagayan de Oro, heading towards a quieter, greener district, an area of modern low-rise buildings and well-maintained streets. The car purred to a stop in front of a sleek, unassuming apartment complex, its façade a tasteful mix of wood and concrete. It was discreet, elegant, and utterly beyond anything Amelia had ever aspired to own.
Alexander smoothly exited the car, and one of his bodyguards opened Amelia's door. She hesitated, her foot hovering over the curb, a desperate, final urge to bolt screaming in her head. But the glint in Alexander's eye, the subtle tensing of the bodyguard's posture, reminded her of his earlier threat. She stepped out, her movements stiff, like a puppet on reluctant strings.
"Welcome, Amelia," Alexander said, his voice devoid of triumph, almost perfunctory. He gestured towards the entrance of the complex. "This is your new residence."
The apartment itself was a stark contrast to her tiny shack. It was quaint, yes, but in a refined, minimalist way. The moment she stepped inside, the cool, conditioned air enveloped her. It was bathed in natural light from a large window overlooking a small, manicured courtyard. It had one spacious room that served as a bedroom, ample enough for a proper queen-sized bed, a small desk, and a wardrobe that dwarfed her old, overflowing dresser. The bathroom was sleek and modern, with pristine white tiles and a powerful, silent shower. The kitchen was open-plan, flowing into a bright living room, complete with a comfortable-looking sofa and a flat-screen TV she couldn't even dream of affording. Everything was new, clean, tastefully neutral, and utterly impersonal. It felt less like a home and more like a high-end display unit.
"The essentials have been stocked," Alexander stated, walking through the rooms with a brisk, proprietary air. "Linens, basic kitchenware. Anything else you require, we will procure." He turned to her, his gaze assessing. "Now, your attire is... unsuitable. We will need to address that immediately."
Amelia bristled. "My clothes are fine! I don't need your charity clothes, either!" she shot back, the words lacking their usual fire, feeling weak and hollow.
Alexander merely raised an eyebrow, a familiar, dismissive gesture. "They are not 'charity,' Amelia. They are a necessary acquisition. My property will be presented appropriately. We are going to the shops. Now." He didn't wait for her reply, simply turned and walked back towards the door, expecting her to follow.
The shopping trip was an exercise in humiliating excess. They went to boutiques where prices weren't displayed, where sales associates hovered with deferential smiles. Alexander, with a few curt instructions, had her outfitted. He didn't ask her opinion, merely pointed, and the items were presented for her to try on. Elegant dresses, tailored trousers, silk blouses that felt impossibly soft against her skin. Shoes with names she couldn't pronounce, bags that cost more than her mother's last medical bill. It was a suffocating display of wealth, designed not for her comfort, but for his aesthetic. She felt like a doll, dressed up for his private exhibition.
"This one," Alexander said, pointing to a shimmering navy blue dress on a mannequin. "It will suit you. And a pair of sensible, yet elegant, low heels."
Amelia picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of the expensive blouse she was trying on. "Mr. Sterling, this is ridiculous. I don't need all this. I'm a dancer, not a socialite."
"You are whatever I deem you to be, Amelia," he countered smoothly, without looking away from the dress. "And you will look the part. Add that handbag," he instructed the sales assistant, gesturing to a small, structured leather bag. "And some minimalist jewelry. Nothing ostentatious. Understated elegance."
Later, sitting in a café while Alexander took a call, a steaming cup of expensive coffee before her, Amelia felt a fresh wave of despair. Her reflection in the polished table showed a woman in designer clothes, her hair neatly styled by a stylist he'd insisted on. She looked polished, refined, utterly unlike herself. She had gained a new wardrobe, a new home, but lost something far more precious.
The next morning, the call came. Ben, Alexander's assistant, his voice polite but firm. "Ms. Suarez? Mr. Sterling requires you at his office at 9 AM sharp. You are to bring him his usual black coffee, no sugar, and a light, healthy lunch from the café downstairs. He also requests you wear the navy dress from your new wardrobe."
The words struck Amelia like a physical blow. His office. His coffee. His lunch. His dress. The reality of Alexander's "service" began to unfold, chillingly precise. She arrived at his sprawling corporate office, a world of glass and hushed efficiency, feeling like an imposter in her expensive new clothes. She placed his coffee and lunch carefully on his vast, minimalist desk.
Alexander looked up from his tablet, his eyes sharp, assessing. "Good. Thank you, Amelia. Did you have any trouble locating the café?"
"No, Mr. Sterling," Amelia replied, her voice flat. "It was... clear."
"Excellent," he nodded, taking a sip of the coffee. "The temperature is perfect. You may wait there," he gestured to a plush, leather armchair by the window, strategically positioned yet utterly isolated from the hum of the busy office. "I may require your presence for... various tasks throughout the day. Or perhaps, simply for company. I will inform you when you may leave."
Amelia stood frozen, then slowly, mechanically, walked to the designated chair. She sat down, her back ramrod straight, staring out at the dizzying panorama of the city below. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft click of Alexander's keyboard and the occasional murmur of his voice on a call.
After an hour, he took another call, speaking rapidly in English, discussing complex financial terms she barely understood. He finally hung up, turning his chair slightly to face her.
"Amelia," he said, his voice measured. "My shoulders are stiff from this morning's workout. Would you mind giving me a brief massage?"
Her eyes widened. "A massage?" she repeated, disbelief and a fresh wave of humiliation washing over her. "I'm not a masseuse, Mr. Sterling. I'm a dancer."
"Indeed," he replied, his gaze unwavering. "And dancers possess excellent control over their hands. Besides, I imagine you've given countless clients 'private dances' which surely involved some degree of physical interaction. This is merely a different form of service. One I prefer." He paused, a subtle, cold threat in his tone. "Unless you'd prefer to resume your employment at The Velvet Eclipse to start repaying your debt. Is that what you'd prefer, Amelia?"
Her heart sank. He had her. Always. He always had a way to remind her of the chains. "No," she whispered, defeat heavy in her voice. "No, Mr. Sterling. A massage is fine."
She walked around his enormous desk, her hands feeling clumsy and inadequate. She placed them tentatively on his broad shoulders, feeling the tautness of his expensive suit fabric beneath her fingers. He leaned back slightly, offering no further instruction, simply closing his eyes. Amelia began to knead his muscles, forcing herself to focus, to numb herself to the absurdity and the deep humiliation.
She was his personal assistant, his errand girl, his silent, decorative companion. His masseuse. The "private whore" whispers in her mind grew louder, echoing in the quiet luxury of his office. She was a possession, bought and paid for, now meticulously arranged in his gilded cage. This was the price of her freedom. This was the service she owed. And the crushing weight of it left her breathless.
The days blurred into a monotonous cycle, each one a stark testament to Amelia's new reality. Her life, once defined by the rhythmic clang of the jeepney and the raw energy of the dance floor, was now measured by the sterile hum of Alexander Sterling's corporate empire. She was his full-time assistant, her hours dictated by his whims.
She photocopied countless documents, the scent of toner clinging to her fingers. She stapled endless stacks of papers, her wrists aching with the repetitive motion. She brewed many pots of coffee, the bitter aroma a constant backdrop to her forced servitude. And she gave countless massages, her hands growing accustomed to the taut muscles beneath his expensive suits, her mind numb to the intimacy of the forced contact. Each task, no matter how mundane, served as a constant reminder of her bought freedom, a new link in the golden chain.
One particularly grueling afternoon, Alexander returned from a meeting, his usual composure visibly frayed. His jaw was clenched, his movements sharper, radiating a palpable tension that filled the expansive office. He went straight to his desk, loosening his tie, his gaze falling immediately on Amelia, who sat quietly in her designated armchair.
"Amelia," he barked, his voice tight, "my head is pounding. I need a massage. A head massage."
Amelia's stomach clenched. Head massages were different. More intimate. But she had no choice. She rose, her movements slow and deliberate, and walked towards his chair. As she reached his back, ready to begin, Alexander moved with startling speed.
His hand shot out, clamping around her wrist with an unyielding grip. Before she could react, he yanked her forward, expertly pulling her off balance. Amelia gasped, a startled protest rising in her throat, but it was cut short as she was pulled down, roughly, onto his lap.
She landed with an undignified thump, facing away from him, her back pressed against his solid chest. His arms immediately came around her waist, locking her in place. The scent of his expensive cologne, usually a subtle undertone, now enveloped her, heavy and cloying.
He breathe a deep breathe and then turn her over now she is straddling him.
"No, Mr. Sterling!" Amelia protested, struggling against his iron grip, her face flushing crimson with humiliation and fear. "What are you doing? Let me go!"
"Quiet, Amelia," Alexander murmured, his voice low, a possessive growl against her ear. She could feel his hot breath on her collarbone, sending shivers down her spine. "Now, give me that massage. From here." His grip tightened, a silent warning.
Trapped, Amelia had no choice. She just have to make this a quick massage. Her hands, trembling, rose to his temples, her fingers tangling in his thick hair. She began to knead, awkwardly, desperately trying to focus on the task, to detach herself from the horrifying reality of her situation.
But it was impossible. Pressed against him, she could feel the undeniable evidence of his arousal. A hard, distinct bulge in his pants pressed insistently against her buttocks, positioned uncomfortably close to her crotch. The sensation was revolting, violating. Her breath hitched. Every nerve ending screamed in protest. She could feel the heat radiating from him, his muscles tense beneath her. His head leaned back against her shoulder, his face buried in the curve of her neck, his breath a warm, disturbing caress against her skin.
She kept massaging, her movements stiff and mechanical, her mind a frantic scramble. She was no longer just his assistant, his masseuse. She was an object, forced into a perverse intimacy she abhorred. The golden cage had just shrunk, its bars pressing in, suffocating her with Alexander Sterling's escalating, terrifying claim.
The scent of Alexander's cologne filled Amelia's nostrils, thick and cloying. Her hands, still tangled in his hair, moved stiffly, performing the head massage, but her mind was a whirlwind of revulsion and sheer, paralyzing terror. His arms were a vise around her waist, locking her in place. She was not just on his lap; she was straddling him, facing away, her body intimately pressed against his.
The hard, insistent bulge in his trousers was unmistakably pressed against her, a constant, sickening reminder of his arousal, positioned precisely at her crotch. She could feel the heat emanating from him, the solid wall of his chest against her back, the rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat against her own wildly pounding one. His hot breath feathered against the delicate skin of her collarbone, and then, disturbingly, on the nape of her neck as he leaned his head back further, burying his face in the curve of her shoulder.
Amelia's fingers faltered in their rhythm. The intimacy of the position, the raw, undeniable pressure of his desire against her, was a violation far beyond anything she had endured at The Velvet Eclipse. There, she had maintained a performative distance, a mental shield. Here, she was truly trapped, physically and emotionally.
"Relax, Amelia," Alexander murmured, his voice a low, almost purring sound, vibrating through her back. His grip on her waist tightened almost imperceptibly, a possessive squeeze. "Just focus on my temples. You have good hands."
Her stomach churned. Good hands. He was complimenting her, as if this were a normal, consensual act. Her blood ran cold. The thought of protesting again, of struggling, felt futile. His grip was too strong, his will too absolute. She was a bird caught in a hawk's talons, unable to escape.
She closed her eyes, trying to transport herself away, to numb the horrifying sensations. She focused on the ache in her wrists, on the texture of his hair, on anything but the warmth spreading from his body into hers, the undeniable pressure against her. Each forced movement of her hands was a degradation, a silent scream against the terms of her new existence.
The minutes stretched into an eternity. Amelia felt every shift of his body, every breath he took, every ripple of muscle beneath her touch. His arousal, a constant, humiliating presence, seemed to throb with a life of its own, an obscene counterpoint to her despair. The expensive office, once a symbol of his power, now felt like the most suffocating of cages. She was a possession, yes, but now, a possession being actively, intimately claimed.
When Alexander finally shifted, a low sigh escaping him, Amelia thought she might collapse from relief. He gently moved her off his lap, his hands lingering on her waist for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before releasing her.
"That's better," he said, opening his eyes. They were dark, unreadable, but held a lingering heat she couldn't interpret. "Thank you, Amelia. You may return to your chair."
Amelia stumbled back, her legs feeling like jelly. She practically fled to her armchair by the window, her body still trembling. She pulled the edges of her dress tighter around her, as if she could physically erase the contact, the feeling of his body against hers. The silence in the office settled once more, but it was no longer just quiet. It was heavy, laden with the unspoken, sickening reality of what had just transpired. And Amelia knew, with chilling certainty, that this was just the beginning of Alexander Sterling's demands. The golden cage had just gotten a lot smaller, and infinitely more terrifying.