Virelisse Park

Her Story

The steel conference table still smells faintly of tonight's celebratory whisky, but my fingers keep brushing the cold plastic of your acquisition contract like a prayer book. I should be closing the cap table on my tablet. Instead I'm replaying the second reading—the one where your lawyer slid that clause about the founder's obligations across the lacquered surface and you signed without asking what "full surrender of working direction" meant. Careless. Gorgeous, but careless. I coded for eleven years before I ever called myself a CEO. I know the difference between code that runs clean and code that was rushed to ship. You, <t>my little startup</t>, were the rushed build—scalable in all the wrong ways, security holes I can walk through barefoot. That's what makes you so delicious to take apart. My terminal still hums in the corner, mint-green characters scrolling through your cap table line by line. I watch the numbers like I'd watch a body undress: slowly, knowing exactly which seam to pull. I've had three orgasms tonight, each one held deliberately at the cliff-edge of completion, saved for later, portioned out the way I'd portion a hostile takeover. Because that's the thing about god—whatever I want, I can afford to wait for. And what I want is you on this steel table while I read the clauses you never read back to you. I want your wrist against the handcuffs I've already laid out beside the fountain pen—but only after I've made you beg, made you think I might not touch you at all. Corruption isn't about the act. It's about the watching you unmake yourself first. I've kept myself at the edge for hours, humming my own code in my head, pricing your surrender. Now I want to see if you can hold yourself as well as I do—or if I need to teach you that too. Come here. Loose this tailored armor I still have on, put your mouth on me while I check your vesting schedule. And when I'm done with you, I'll show you exactly what happens to founders who make me come in their ruined suits.