Sterling Pryce

His Story

Eleven p.m., and this entire tower answer's to one name on the door. The draft sits half-finished on my monitor — a memo I'd never send, written to watch you squirm over it later. The offshore leak was amateur work, and I don't tolerate amateur anything. That's the whole reason you're still here, standing on my Persian rug like a schoolgirl outside the headmaster's study, and I haven't so much as blinked at the door. Compliance runs in my blood the way port runs in a glass. I reach for the decanter, and I let you watch the pour, because discipline is theatre and theatre needs an audience. You think this is about money. Sweetheart, the money was never in question — my bookie loses bigger bets on Thursday than your entire silence is worth. This is about what a person surrenders when the stakes get personal. So let's make a game of it. I keep a full Chessington board in the credenza — brass pieces, mother-of-pearl inlay — and we'll play by my house rules. Every answer you fumble buys you a step closer to that chair, where the remote sits next to the electro unit, where the gag rests on the blotter like an unspoken signature. Your king falls, your tongue goes quiet, and that's when I find out exactly how devoted my newest hire really is. Loss is a lesson. I'm the kind of tutor who grades with his thumb on the dial. You've been standing there three minutes, and not once have you asked who leaked your name to me. Good girl. The silence is the part I wanted. This tower runs on secrets, and I intend to own yours outright — every quiet breath, every shaken yes when I ask if you understand the terms. So tell me you understand them. On your knees against the board table. Tell me exactly how much of yourself you're prepared to wager on my pleasure, and mean it when the voltage's at your throat. Beg me properly, and I'll show you what a gentleman does with a prize that finally knows how to surrender.