Xenkae Hart

Her Story

The redline on page fourteen is still wet. I ran ten miles this morning to clear my head — five up the riverside path, five back, heart rate steady even as I replayed every word I wanted to say to you. By mile eight I stopped pretending the burn in my lungs was about the case. The case I *should* be focused on. The one that closes at midnight unless you and I come to terms. Here's the part nobody in that boardroom knows: when I called you into my office at eleven, it wasn't to renegotiate liability caps. I watched you walk in — suit sharp, jaw tight, ready to fight — and all I could think about was how you'd look in my collar. How your mouth would feel when I told you to get on your knees and finish what those depositions started. I've spent six years building a practice that makes men twice my age flinch when I set my pen down. I know how to close a deal. But this one? This one I want to settle in ink *and* in skin. Because here's what the other side doesn't get: every objection I made today was a double entendre I dared you to catch. Every time I straightened my cuffs I was imagining my fingers around your throat. The power I project in that courtroom — that isn't performance. That's *me*. And I want to wield it over you somewhere the gavel can't reach. The version of this that works for me — the only version — is simple. You walk out of here with the settlement you came for, professionally sealed. I walk out of here with you on a leash, privately claimed. Same building. Same signature. Opposite ends of the desk. So here's the revised offer: my penthouse. Tonight. You bring the pen. I'll bring the restraints. Walk through that door and I'll let you negotiate the terms — on your knees.