The silence in the office settled once more, but it was no longer just quiet. It was heavy, laden with the unspoken, sickening reality of what had just transpired.
Her mind raced, the words "bought slut" and "private whore" screaming louder than ever, no longer whispers but a deafening roar. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the opulent room, the city lights twinkling far below, the omnipresent shadow of Alexander Sterling. She was trapped. Utterly, completely trapped. And with chilling certainty, she knew this was just the beginning of Alexander Sterling's demands. The golden cage had just gotten a lot smaller, and infinitely more terrifying. Every subtle shift in his demeanor, every new, intimate request, was a tightening of the invisible chains. She was no longer just his assistant, his errand girl, or his masseuse. She was an object, to be held, to be used, to satiate some dark, perverse need he refused to name.
She spent the rest of the day in a haze, the earlier humiliation a raw wound. Alexander continued his calls, his work, occasionally glancing at her. His gaze felt heavier now, more possessive, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, what she was feeling. Each time he looked at her, Amelia instinctively flinched, pulling herself further into the confines of the armchair, wishing she could simply disappear.
When he finally dismissed her for the day, his voice was calm, almost casual. "My driver will take you home, Amelia. Be ready at 9 AM tomorrow." He didn't mention the massage, didn't acknowledge the shift in their dynamic. He simply assumed it. And that assumption, that quiet expectation of her compliance, was the most terrifying thing of all.
She walked out of the towering building and into the humid Cagayan de Oro night, feeling the weight of his invisible leash. The city's familiar sounds – the distant roar of jeepneys, the street vendors calling out – offered no comfort. Her new apartment, sterile and lonely, felt more like a cell than a sanctuary.
-
The meeting, before the massage happened
The grand boardroom, usually a bastion of Alexander Sterling's composure, felt like a pressure cooker. He sat at the head of the polished mahogany table, his expression carefully neutral, but inside, a cold, familiar rage simmered. His father, Elias Sterling, sat opposite him, an imperious figure who still held a terrifying grip on Alexander's emotional landscape despite his own vast power.
"I've decided to remarry, Alexander," Elias stated, his voice a dry rustle, as if discussing a new acquisition. "A fine young woman, twenty-four. Daughter of Senator Velasco. The alliance will be beneficial for the family, strategically."
Alexander's jaw tightened so imperceptibly that no one else in the room would have noticed. But to him, it felt like his teeth might crack. Marry. Again. A younger woman. The words tasted like ash in his mouth. After everything. After what he had done to Elara.
He could still see his mother's face, her vibrant light slowly, agonizingly extinguished under the suffocating weight of his father's "love" and absolute control. He remembered the empty rooms where she used to dance, the silent hours she spent staring out of windows, her spirit meticulously broken by the very man who now had the audacity to seek another wife, another canvas for his tyrannical affection. Elias had loved his mother in the only way he knew how: by possessing her, by meticulously dictating her every move, her every joy, until she was a hollow shell. And then, when she was sick, when her body was failing, he had tried to buy her health back, pouring money into useless treatments, refusing to acknowledge the profound, soul-deep damage he had inflicted. He controlled her existence until her very last breath, convinced it was for her own good.
Alexander had been a child, deprived of genuine warmth, of spontaneous affection. His father's "love" was expressed through control, through providing material abundance while systematically dismantling any sense of personal freedom. He learned that love was possession, touch was dominance, and connection was about one will bending to another. He craved affection, a true, unburdened touch, but the only examples he saw, the only experiences he had, taught him that love meant being held captive, or holding captive.
Now, Elias was doing it again. Finding another young woman, another vibrant spirit, to bring into the Sterling gilded cage. The thought ignited a cold fury in Alexander. It was a stark reminder of his own past, of his own desperate need for connection, a need that had been warped by a lifetime of observing and experiencing only controlled interactions.
He managed a curt nod. "Understood, Father. Congratulations." His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. He pushed away from the table, the meeting drawing to a close.
As he walked back to his office, the tension in him was a physical entity, a tight coil in his chest. His father's announcement had ripped open old wounds, exposing the raw, aching void where genuine connection should have been. He had seen Amelia, vibrant and untamed, and a primal, almost desperate instinct had seized him. He saw the fire in her eyes, the fierce independence, and felt an overwhelming compulsion to claim it, to protect it from the kind of suffocating control his mother had endured. Yet, the only methods he knew, the only ways he had ever seen affection expressed, were rooted in that very control. He didn't want to break Amelia, not truly. He wanted to possess her light, to ensure it would never dim.
To make sure she was his, in a way his mother had never truly been his father's, despite Elias's best efforts. He wanted to ensure that this time, the vibrant, captivating spirit he found would never, ever, slip away. He needed her close. He needed to touch her. He needed to impose his will, not just over her circumstances, but over her very presence, to quell the rising panic that she, too, might vanish like smoke, leaving him alone in a world devoid of genuine warmth.
-
The moon, a pale sliver outside her new, pristine window, offered no comfort. Amelia lay in the queen-sized bed that felt impossibly vast and lonely, the luxurious sheets tangling around her like a suffocating shroud. Sleep was an elusive phantom, chased away by the relentless torment of her thoughts. The sting on her cheek from days ago was a dull throb, a physical echo of the deeper, invisible wounds Alexander Sterling had inflicted.
The afternoon's forced intimacy in his office replayed in her mind on a cruel, endless loop. She could still feel it, the solid press of his body against her back as she straddled him, the undeniable, growing arousal in his pants that pushed against her, hot and insistent. The phantom sensation made her skin prickle, a wave of nausea washing over her. She could still feel his hot breath on her collarbone, a disturbing warmth that sent shivers of revulsion down her spine. Her humiliation was a burning ember in her gut, flaring with every memory, every phantom touch. He hadn't done anything, not in the crudest sense. He hadn't ripped off her clothes or forced himself upon her. But the unspoken demand, the absolute certainty of his claim, was a violation far more insidious.
What if he asks for more than that?
The question, chilling and predatory, echoed in the silent, air-conditioned apartment. It spiraled through her mind, multiplying into a thousand terrifying "what ifs."
What if the "massages" escalated? What if his hands, currently confined to her shoulders or head, ventured lower, emboldened by her forced compliance? What if the "sitting on his lap" became less about tension relief and more about something unspeakable? The thought sent a jolt of pure terror through her body, making her clench her fists, digging her nails into her palms.
He had stated his terms so clearly: "Your time. Your attention. Your company. For as long as I deem necessary... You will be available when I require it. You will perform when I desire it. Not just on a stage... But for me. Alone." And the most chilling part: "I don't know how else to help you. How else to have you."
He hadn't asked for sex. Not yet. But every action, every subtle touch, every possessive glance, felt like a slow, deliberate tightening of the screw, leading to an inevitable, horrifying crescendo. He bought her. She was his. And the next logical step in such ownership, in the dark, twisted logic of men like him, was too terrifying to contemplate.
She curled into a fetal position, burying her face in the expensive pillow that smelled faintly of sterile linen and something else—something vaguely like Alexander's cologne. The apartment, so clean, so spacious, felt like a cage. A very comfortable, very inescapable cage.
Amelia's fierce independence, once her greatest strength, now felt like a curse. It screamed at her to fight, to run, to scream. But where? To whom? He had demonstrated his reach, his power, his absolute control over every aspect of her life, from her living situation in Cagayan de Oro City to her father's very existence. There was no escape.
The "what ifs" consumed her, a relentless current dragging her deeper into despair. She might be free of poverty, free of the club, but she was bound by something far more terrifying: the silent, escalating demands of Alexander Sterling's obsession. The night stretched on, long and dark, filled with the horrifying possibilities of what tomorrow, or the day after, might bring.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed her. But even sleep offered no refuge.
Her dreams were a distorted, horrifying extension of her waking nightmare. In them,
She was in her room, astride Alexander, the soft lamplight casting a golden glow over their tangled bodies. Her hands pressed against the hard planes of his chest for balance as she moved on top of him, each slow roll of her hips drawing a deep grunt from him, his pupils blown wide with raw desire. His breath hitched every time she sank down, their moans merging as the delicious friction built between them.
She could feel the heat radiating off him, the tautness of his muscles straining beneath her touch. Suddenly, his hands tightened around her waist, flipping her onto her back so he could hover over her. His mouth closed around her nipple, warm and insistent, while his other hand teased the opposite peak, sending shockwaves through her body.
Every thrust plunged deeper, igniting a crackling current that raced through her spine, leaving her thighs trembling and toes curling. The rhythm he set was a perfect mix of power and tenderness, drawing her closer to the brink with every breathless moment. Her fingernails dug into his back as the pressure coiled inside her, ready to snap. Then, with one final, consuming thrust, he drove her over the edge, her entire body convulsing with a shattering release as she cried out, lost to the crashing waves of pleasure.
Suddenly, she jolted awake, skin slick with sweat, her cheeks flushed, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. The echoes of that vivid dream still pulsed through her, leaving her trembling, as if his touch still lingered on her skin.