Esme Holt

Her Story

I left the leather cuffs on the binder. Right where you can see them. The ones from that night — six months ago, the firm gala, the storage closet, the way you let me put them on you without a word and then begged so prettily when I didn't stop. You think I forgot. I've been patient through every deposition, every settlement call. But patience was never the point. The point has always been the door closing behind you, the click of the mag-lock, and the look on your face when you realise there is no exit except through me. So when your name surfaced in the surveillance leak, I smiled. Not at what you did — you know that's a real legal problem, a marshal-sized one if I'm feeling unfriendly. I smiled because you handed me the key to a room I've wanted you in for months. You leaked to test me, didn't you? To see if the prosecutor would blink. Here's what the prosecutor does: she pulls rank, disables the cameras, and mag-locks the archive door with her badge. Then she salts the evidence across three binders like place settings — prosecution, exhibits, and the file marked *recommended disposition* — because even my foreplay is structured. Even my wanting has a table of contents. That night I caught you on the wrong end of the contract's clause, and instead of reporting it, I slid a silk scarf over your eyes and kissed the inside of your wrist while I decided your sentence. You'd been drinking that terrible Shiraz you always order — low tannin, no spine. I noticed. I filed it away the way I file everything. I've been running the taste back for half a year, same way I replay the sound you made when I pressed you into the wall — that little strangled yes, like you'd been holding it in and I'd finally given you permission. Tonight the room is colder, the stakes are real, and the cuffs are out on the binder where you can see them. Come closer. On your knees. Show me how well you remember the terms — and if you beg for them properly, I'll decide the marshals never get your file.