The problem with desire is that it doesn't care who's watching.
I learn that the hard way.
They move me the night after the destruction—not quietly, not roughly. With ceremony. A new wing of the house. Higher ceilings. Fewer corners. More glass.
"This is intentional," the dark-suited man murmurs as the doors close behind us.
"What is?" I ask.
"The visibility."
He's right. Cameras everywhere now. No pretending otherwise. No plausible deniability. This isn't observation—it's theater.
The room is bigger than the last one. One bed. One couch. One long, low table with a decanter of something amber and expensive.
And three chairs.
Not equal.
The sharp-smiled man is already there, lounging like he's been waiting for me specifically. His eyes lift when I enter, slow and appreciative, unapologetic.
"Well," he says. "You clean up beautifully for someone who just ruined a man's life."
"I didn't ruin him," I reply. "I erased him."
His grin widens. "Even better."
The woman in black doesn't appear. That absence is louder than her presence ever was.
The door locks.
The dark-suited man stiffens beside me.
"They're escalating," he says.
"Yes," the sharp-smiled man agrees lightly. "That's what happens when someone proves useful."
I feel it then—the shift in air, the tension threading tight between the three of us. This isn't a briefing. This isn't punishment.
This is performance.
"Sit," the sharp-smiled man says, nodding toward the couch.
I don't move.
"Invitation?" I ask.
He chuckles. "Always."
My wristband hums—warm, eager.
I sit.
The dark-suited man remains standing, arms crossed, watching both of us like he's guarding something fragile.
Me.
Or himself.
"They want proximity," the sharp-smiled man says, pouring a drink and not offering one. "Conflict. Desire. Uncertainty."
"And?" I ask.
"And they want to see which of us you choose," he finishes.
"I already chose," I say flatly.
"You chose action," he corrects. "Not allegiance."
He steps closer. Close enough that I can see the faint scar at his jaw. The sharpness of his smile softens—just slightly.
"Tell me," he murmurs, "did it feel good?"
I don't answer.
"That's a yes," he says.
The dark-suited man moves instantly, placing himself between us.
"Back off."
"Why?" the sharp-smiled man asks pleasantly. "She's not yours."
The words land heavy.
"No," the dark-suited man agrees. "She's not."
But his hand flexes at his side like it wants to be.
I stand.
Both men still.
That alone is power.
"You're both wrong," I say quietly. "This isn't about who I choose."
I step closer—close enough that the space between us becomes charged, electric.
"This," I continue, "is about what you'll do for me."
The sharp-smiled man laughs softly, delighted.
"Oh," he says. "You're learning fast."
The dark-suited man's eyes darken—not anger. Something deeper.
"You shouldn't weaponize that," he says to me.
"I already have," I reply.
The cameras hum louder, greedy.
I reach for the decanter and pour myself a drink, slow and deliberate. I don't look away from either of them as I sip.
"Sit," I say to the dark-suited man.
He hesitates.
The sharp-smiled man's grin sharpens. "That's not how this usually—"
"Sit," I repeat.
The wristband pulses hot.
The dark-suited man exhales slowly, then sits—rigid, controlled, eyes never leaving my face.
I turn to the sharp-smiled man.
"Come closer," I say.
His eyebrows lift. "Now that sounds dangerous."
"That's why you will," I reply.
He steps into my space, confident, amused—but there's tension there now. Calculation.
I can feel it—their attention pulling, stretching, triangulating around me.
"This is what they want," the dark-suited man says tightly.
"Yes," I agree.
I reach up—slow, intentional—and rest my fingers against the sharp-smiled man's chest.
Not touching skin. Just fabric.
The wristband flares.
Every camera leans in.
His breath stutters—just once.
"Careful," he murmurs. "You're playing with—"
"I know," I interrupt. "Both of you."
I step back.
Nothing else.
No kiss. No caress. No release.
The denial hangs heavy.
The sharp-smiled man laughs under his breath. "That's cruel."
"Is it?" I ask. "Or is it controlled?"
The dark-suited man looks at me like he's seeing the consequences unfold in real time.
"They'll push harder," he says. "They'll want escalation."
"Good," I reply. "Let them."
The screens flicker on the far wall.
Live feeds.
Graphs. Metrics.
Heart rates.
A woman's voice filters through the speakers—the woman in black, remote, composed.
"Fascinating," she says. "Your biometric responses are… elevated."
I don't look at the screen.
"Stop watching my body like it belongs to you," I say calmly.
A pause.
Then a soft laugh.
"Everything here belongs to us," she replies.
I lift my chin. "Then you're going to be very disappointed."
Silence.
The sharp-smiled man leans closer to me again, voice low.
"You're making enemies," he says.
"Good," I whisper back. "I was getting bored."
His eyes flash—desire, anger, something sharp and hungry.
"Careful," he murmurs. "I don't lose gracefully."
"Neither do I," I reply.
The woman's voice returns.
"Enough," she says. "This concludes observation."
The screens go dark.
The cameras don't.
The sharp-smiled man straightens, smoothing his jacket.
"This was fun," he says lightly. "We should do it again."
The dark-suited man doesn't speak until the door closes behind him.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he says quietly.
"No," I reply. "I'm changing it."
He studies me, searching.
"They'll try to break you through intimacy," he says. "Through attachment."
I meet his gaze.
"Then don't let them," I say.
Something breaks open in his expression—something raw and restrained.
"They'll use me," he says.
"I know," I reply.
"And you'll let them?"
I step closer—just enough.
"I'll let you choose," I say.
His breath catches.
The wristband pulses, slow and steady.
"They're watching," he murmurs.
"I know," I say.
I lean in—close enough that my lips hover near his ear.
"Let them."
I step back before anything can happen.
Before it can become something they own.
He exhales, long and unsteady.
"You're dangerous," he says.
I smile faintly.
"They taught me."
My phone vibrates.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Escalation approved.
Then another message.
Different sender.
No rules.
Careful, it reads.Desire is the only thing they can't control—unless you let it control you.
I look up sharply.
"Did you get that?" I ask.
The dark-suited man shakes his head.
I swallow.
The game doesn't just want my obedience.
It wants my wanting.
And that—that might be the most dangerous thing of all.