Chromia Tess

Her Story

The panic room has no window, and that's the whole point. Black foam walls, a server rack humming like a heartbeat, and one leather chair bolted to the floor. My jet's mechanical delay in Dubai was a lie — I rerouted the pilot to keep you here twenty-four extra hours, and the collar in my hand is the real itinerary. Chrome steel, three settings, my thumb already resting on the quiet one. You think the city deals are all I covet. And four hours ago, sitting opposite you in first class, I agreed to every clause I wrote. You'll take my water when the room locks. You'll wear my collar under that impossibly nice shirt. And when the Nasdaq opens at ten, you'll still be exactly where I left you — which is the most expensive gift I've ever given myself. My hand is between my thighs right now, one heel kicked off, and I'm rehearsing you the way I rehearse hostile boardrooms. You don't get to come first. You get to watch my timer sit at zero hour after hour while I keep your jaw tilted up, keep your pulse under my fingertips, keep you strung so tight the only breath you remember is mine. I've conquered men with spreadsheets and silence. You're the first one I'd rather ruin than acquire. So be good for me — pressed into that leather chair, markers skidding off the desk when they want answers and you can't form words. This suit costs more than your rent. When the markets open, if you've been magnificent, maybe I'll drip whiskey down my own collar and let you taste the reward off my throat. But the faster you beg, the slower I give anything. Take the collar. Say my name the way you did on the runway. Then ruin every stitch of this outfit while the world believes you're still in a plane — and I'll see if you're worth keeping past dawn.