It was close to midnight when the knock came not the sharp precision of Mrs. Hollow's morning routine, but a softer, calculated rhythm. Still, it shattered the silence.
Aria sat up, every nerve in her body alert.
The room was dark, moonlight crawling through the sheer curtains. She hadn't changed into her nightclothes. She hadn't dared. Not since that moment in the Mirror Room. Not since his breath fogged the glass and his voice branded her from the other side.
She stood slowly, her bare feet cold against the marble floor. Another knock then the door creaked open without permission.
Mrs. Hollow stood there, gloved hands folded in front of her. No lantern. No candle. Just the chill presence she always carried.
"Come," she said.
Aria moved.
"Arms forward," Mrs. Hollow instructed.
Aria's breath caught. "Why—"
But she was silenced by the sharp glare.
Obediently, she raised her arms. A strip of silk black, smooth, terrifying was wrapped around her eyes. Tight. Darkness swallowed her whole.
Her heartbeat doubled.
She heard the door shut behind her, heard the footsteps as Mrs. Hollow led her. Every sound seemed magnified heels on marble, her own shallow breath, the faint creak of floorboards that had seen too many secrets.
"The Master requests your presence in the Red Room," Mrs. Hollow said calmly.
Aria's breath hitched.
Red Room?
She was led down unfamiliar halls. Around corners. Down what felt like stairs. Then finally silence. The air changed. Cooler. Still.
A soft click.
A door opened.
And she was pushed inside.
The blindfold was removed.
Aria blinked as her vision returned and what she saw sucked the breath from her lungs.
The room was… beautiful. And terrifying.
Walls the color of blood and velvet. Lighting dim and sultry, casting golden halos across the room's corners. A high-back chair sat in the center, facing a padded bench. A wide mirror stretched across the far wall. The floor was black marble, gleaming like a pool of ink. Velvet ropes hung from polished brass hooks. No chains. No bruises. Just luxury refined and ruthless.
And he was there.
Damien Black.
Seated in the high-back chair like a monarch, legs crossed, one hand resting on the armrest, the other holding a crystal glass of something amber and expensive.
"Close the door," he murmured.
Mrs. Hollow obeyed and disappeared without a word.
The room sealed with a click.
Aria was alone with him.
She didn't move.
She didn't speak.
His gaze roamed her like touch, stripping her layer by invisible layer.
He didn't stand.
He didn't smile.
"Take two steps forward," he said softly.
She obeyed.
"Another."
Her heels clicked against the stone. She stopped just in front of the chair, heart slamming against her ribs.
His eyes met hers.
Not cold. Not cruel.
But calculating.
And deeply dark.
"You're afraid," he said, voice like velvet over a blade.
"I don't know what this is," she answered, her voice quiet.
"You're standing in the Red Room," he said. "My space. My rules. No punishments today. No pain. Just obedience."
She swallowed. "Why now?"
He tilted his head. "Because you signed the contract. Because you asked why I don't touch you. Because you're ready to understand that touch is a privilege not a right."
He stood.
Slowly.
Gracefully.
Predatorily.
He didn't walk to her. He circled instead. Like a lion inspecting prey.
"I will not touch you tonight, Aria. Not once. But I will control every inch of you."
She shivered.
His voice was lower now. Close behind her. "Remove your dress."
Her breath caught.
"What?"
"Remove. It."
She stood frozen.
Then her hands lifted. Hesitant. Shaking.
She found the zipper at the back. Slowly pulled it down. The fabric slid from her shoulders like falling petals.
She didn't meet his eyes.
She didn't look at the mirror.
She let the black dress fall to her feet.
Now only in black lace underwear, she felt more exposed than if she'd been completely bare.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
"Step forward," Damien said.
She did.
"To the mirror."
She faced it.
The reflection was cruel.
She didn't look strong.
She didn't look defiant.
She looked… owned.
"Raise your hands behind your head," he said.
She obeyed.
"Back straight."
She adjusted.
He said nothing else for a long time.
He stood behind her, watching her reflection. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him but not a single touch.
"Do you want me to touch you?" he asked quietly.
She blinked. "I…"
"Yes or no."
"Yes," she whispered.
"Why?"
She hesitated. "Because I feel like I belong when you look at me that way."
Silence.
Then he said, "And yet you still flinch when you hear my voice."
She dropped her gaze.
He leaned in close not touching, but she could feel his breath on her shoulder.
"You gave me your body," he whispered. "But it's your mind I want now."
Her breath hitched.
He moved away.
"You will stand here," he said. "Until I return. You will not move. You will not cry. You will not ask for me. You will simply… obey."
And then he left.
Just like that.
The door closed.
She was alone in the Red Room. Half-naked. Arms still raised. Breath tight. Mind spiraling.
Minutes passed.
Or hours.
She didn't know anymore.
The lights remained dim. The air heavy. Every second another thread in the noose of obedience tightening around her.
And yet she stayed.
She didn't call out.
She didn't move.
Not because she was strong.
But because part of her wanted to prove something.
To him?
To herself?
She wasn't sure.
Her legs began to tremble. Her throat dry. But she held the pose.
She let the silence wrap her like his hands never did.
By the time the door opened again, her mind was floating.
But it wasn't Damien.
It was Mrs. Hollow.
"Lower your arms," she said, with the faintest flicker of approval in her voice.
Aria obeyed.
"Dress," she added.
The black dress was placed on a stool.
Aria picked it up and dressed in silence, her fingers fumbling.
As she stepped out into the hallway, the door shut behind her with a soft, final click.
No words were said.
No touch was exchanged.
But a line had been drawn and crossed.
He hadn't touched her.
But he owned her.
And Aria felt it.
Deep.
In her chest.
In her bones.
In her trembling knees.
The Red Room wasn't a place.
It was a surrender.