Signed in Silence

Chapter 3

‎I stared at the folder for a long time after Damien left.

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‎I didn’t touch it.

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‎I didn’t even breathe.

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‎It sat there on the edge of the desk like a loaded gun. Just a few pages of cold, clinical language offering more money than I’d ever seen… in exchange for my body. My silence. My submission.

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‎Thirty days.

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‎It didn’t sound like much. A month. Four weeks. Just over six hundred hours.

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‎But I knew better.

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‎Time didn’t move the same when someone else owned your body. It bent. Twisted. Hurt.

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‎And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

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‎I took the folder home, buried deep in my bag like a sin I wasn’t ready to confess. I didn’t tell my brother. He was passed out again, shirtless on the couch, mumbling in his sleep about debts he’d never repay.

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‎I stood by the window for hours. Trying to remember the girl I used to be.

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‎Before the club. Before loosing the house. Before I stopped dreaming about anything but surviving.

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‎That girl would’ve said no.

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‎She would’ve torn the contract in half, flipped him off, and walked away with her spine intact.

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‎But I wasn’t her anymore.

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‎And maybe I hated myself for that. Or maybe I’d just stopped pretending.

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‎Dignity didn’t pay rent.

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‎And pride didn’t keep the lights on.

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‎I didn’t sleep that night.

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‎But when the sun rose and the weight of reality settled into my bones, I knew what I had to do.

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‎I put on my best dress.

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‎It wasn’t much, just a black slip that clung to my hips and made me feel like I still had something to offer. I brushed my hair, lined my lips with what was left of my lipstick, and walked out like I wasn’t about to sell my soul.

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‎The car was waiting outside the club. Just like he’d said it would be.

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‎The driver didn’t speak. Just opened the door and offered a stiff nod as I slid into the back seat. The ride to his building was smooth, silent, suffocating.

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‎My hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

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‎When we pulled up to the entrance, I had to force myself to breathe.

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‎The glass doors opened like they knew me. The doorman didn’t ask questions. The elevator didn’t need instructions.

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‎Penthouse.

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‎Of course it was.

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‎When the doors opened, I stepped into a space that looked like it belonged in a magazine, marble floors, towering windows that drank in the city skyline, and the scent of leather, spice, and something darker.

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‎He was already there. Standing at the far end of the room.

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‎Watching me.

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‎Damien Voss.

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‎Black dress shirt. Sleeves rolled. Collar open. Casual, but only on the surface. His eyes were all control.

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‎I froze when I saw the folder in his hands.

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‎“You came,” he said.

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‎I nodded.

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‎“Sit.”

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‎There was only one chair at the long table. I took it.

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‎He opened the folder and placed it in front of me. The page was already marked. A silver pen lay beside it.

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‎My name was supposed to go there.

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‎“I need to hear you say it,” he said.

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‎“Say what?”

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‎“That you understand what you’re signing.”

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‎My throat was dry. “I do.”

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‎“You obey me. Without question. In and out of the bedroom. You speak to no one. You lie to no one. You do not run.”

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‎“And in return?”

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‎“Security. Freedom. No more double shifts. No more wondering how to make it through the month. And at the end of thirty days, you walk away with half a million dollars.”

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‎My heart stuttered.

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‎Half a million.

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‎It felt like blood money.

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‎I picked up the pen.

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‎My hand hovered.

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‎This was it. The last moment before I let go of the illusion that I had boundaries left to protect.

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‎I signed.

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‎IVY DANIEL.

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‎The moment the ink dried, he closed the folder and looked at me like something had changed.

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‎Like I wasn’t a person anymore.

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‎Like I was his.

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‎“Take off your dress.”

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‎My breath caught.

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‎Here?

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‎Now?

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‎I opened my mouth, but no sound came.

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‎“Now,” he repeated. Calm. Sharp. Commanding.

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‎So I did.

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‎I reached back, pulled the zipper down, and let the straps slide from my shoulders. The dress slipped to the floor in a whisper, pooling around my feet.

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‎I stood in my bra and panties, trembling. My heart slammed against my ribs.

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‎He didn’t move. Just watched.

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‎“You’re beautiful,” he said. Then: “Take off your bra and panties.”

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‎Heat rushed to my face. But I didn’t look away. I slid them off while staring at him.

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‎He stepped closer. In one swift move, he picked me up and laid me across his knees on the leather couch.

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‎The first spank cracked across my ass, hard enough to make me gasp. The sting melted into heat, a tingling ache that spread between my thighs.

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‎Pain laced with pleasure.

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‎His hand smoothed over the skin he’d just punished, teasing, circling, lowering until his fingers brushed the slick heat between my legs.

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‎I moaned before I could stop myself.

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‎He found my clit and rubbed it gently, too gently. My hips twitched, greedy for more.

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‎Then another sharp spank.

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‎“Call me Daddy,” he said.

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‎I whimpered, “Daddy.”

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‎“Louder.”

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‎“Daddy,” I moaned again, my voice breaking.

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‎He kept fingering me until I was close, so close my whole body tensed with need.

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‎Then he stopped.

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‎I gasped, wide-eyed, flushed, trembling. “Why did you...?”

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‎“Beg me,” he said, his voice low and wicked.

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‎“Please, Daddy,” I whispered. “Please, I need to cum.”

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‎He slid his fingers back in and worked me fast and deep until I shattered, crying out, my body arching as the orgasm ripped through me.

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‎My legs shook. My breath came in short, uneven pants.

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‎I’d never felt anything like it.

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‎I was dizzy. Drenched. Wild.

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‎But he didn’t touch me again.

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‎Instead, he stood and looked down at me with something like dark satisfaction.

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‎“I’m not going to fuck you tonight.”

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‎My eyes widened. “You’re not?”

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‎“No.” He leaned down, brushing a hand along my bare thigh. “Tonight was just to watch you tremble.”

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‎This was a game.

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‎A dangerous one.

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‎And I’d already started playing.

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