His To CONTROL

CHAPTER 7 - JAMERSON

For five months, I observe Sydney without allowing myself to call it pursuit.

The distinction is dishonest, but useful.

Vance & Sterling already manages our European audit work, so her professional appearances at Summers Global require no manipulation. I do not expand the retainer to manufacture access. I do, however, stop delegating the quarterly meetings she leads.

Across the glass conference table, Sydney is formidable.

Senior executives twice her age attempt to bury weak decisions beneath terminology. She waits until they finish, turns to the correct page and removes each excuse with numbers. She never raises her voice. She does not need to.

I watch the subtle straightening of her spine whenever someone challenges her competence. The focus in her hazel eyes. The controlled breath before she delivers an answer sharp enough to change the room.

I know exactly what she would look like kneeling.

I also know imagining it creates no right to ask.

Outside work, we meet through Brian. Friday games become regular. Sydney prefers RPG campaigns and shooters, and she approaches both with the same ruthless attention she brings to accounts. She reads maps, tracks resources and becomes personally offended by inefficient inventory management.

She also refuses to let me purchase advantages. The first time I offer to upgrade the team's equipment, she blocks the transaction.

"We earn it in-game."

"I can solve the problem in thirty seconds."

"That is not the same as playing."

"The objective is to win."

"The objective is to become good enough to win."

The principle extends beyond games. Sydney distrusts shortcuts because too many people mistake access for ability. I recognise the criticism even when she does not aim it at me.

"It's a game," Brian tells her.

"Then why are you determined to play badly?"

I mute my microphone to laugh.

She hears anyway.

"Don't encourage him, Jamerson."

"I wouldn't dare."

The months give me information I could never obtain from a matching questionnaire. Sydney values competence but distrusts performance. She dislikes waste, public scenes and people who confuse money with personality. She takes care of others quietly and rejects help when it arrives wrapped in obligation.

That becomes clearest when Meg loses a contract and Sydney spends a weekend rebuilding her budget. She never mentions the work. Brian lets it slip weeks later.

"She'll be furious you told me," I say.

"Only if you make it sentimental."

I do not. I remember.

Meg is one of the few people permitted to see how soft Sydney's loyalty runs beneath the sharpness. When Brian mentions that Meg has become curious about alternative relationships, I say nothing. Cross is not a place I advertise through family gossip.

Yet I wonder whether curiosity will eventually bring both women to my door.

Her Wapping flat overlooks the historic docks. She buys it because the commute works and the neighbourhood still feels unfinished enough to become hers. On the rare occasions our gaming nights happen there, I notice that every object has been chosen rather than inherited.

I ask her to dinner in February.

"Business?" she asks.

"No."

"Brian?"

"Definitely not."

"Then what is the agenda?"

"I'm still constructing an answer you won't reject on principle."

She studies me. "Construct faster."

I almost tell her about Cross then.

Almost.

But disclosure is not an invitation I can withdraw. Once she knows, she will always carry knowledge capable of changing her relationship with Brian, Summers Global and me. I want her curiosity to be hers, not something engineered by my desire.

So I wait for a natural crossing of our worlds.

It arrives on a wet Friday in April.

I am in Cross's private reception lounge reviewing maintenance costs when the entrance curtain opens, and Meg Ashton walks through.

I recognise her from Brian's stories. She dated one of Sydney's cousins at college and somehow remained part of Sydney's life long after the relationship ended. Tonight she wears crimson and undisguised excitement.

Sydney enters behind her.

For a second, I assume obsession has finally become hallucination.

Then her gaze sweeps across the foyer, assessing cameras, exits, staff positions and patrons. She wears a charcoal dress with a high neckline, her black hair pinned over one shoulder in loose waves. Every line of her body is controlled vigilance.

She is here to protect her friend.

I close the ledger and cross the room.

"Good evening, Sydney."

Her composure fractures for less than a second. "Jamerson?"

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm deciding whether surprised covers it. What are you doing here?"

"I am a founding investor."

Meg catches Sydney's arm. "This is the CEO brother?"

"Unfortunately."

"And he owns Cross?"

"In part," I say. "What brings you here?"

Meg answers before Sydney can redirect. She has spent months researching submission and wants to experience multiple partners, two people controlling the scene so completely that she can stop managing everything herself.

The desire is specific enough to be useful.

Cross has an experienced two-man team whose preferences align with hers. I explain that an introduction is not a commitment. She can meet them, review limits and leave without participating.

"Yes," Meg says immediately.

Sydney touches her wrist. "You don't need to decide now."

"I've been deciding for six months."

"Then we verify everything first."

I smile. "I would expect nothing less."

The consultation room is private and deliberately neutral. The two Doms conduct a full intake while Sydney stands beside me. Hard limits. Soft limits. Medical history. Safewords. Aftercare preferences. Meg asks intelligent questions and receives clear answers.

Sydney watches the men, but she also watches me.

"You really built all this," she says quietly.

"With others."

"Brian knows?"

"No."

"Your family?"

"No."

"Yet you just told me."

"You walked through the door. Pretending otherwise would insult us both."

Meg signs the consent document.

She reads it fully, with Sydney leaning over one shoulder. The two Doms answer a final series of practical questions: where the monitor stands, how an amber call changes the pace and what happens if Meg becomes non-verbal.

"If she freezes?" Sydney asks.

"We stop," one answers. "Enthusiastic participation matters more than the absence of a safeword."

Sydney looks at me. "Your policy?"

"Mine and the club's."

"Good."

The single word feels absurdly like praise.

When the pair invite her into Suite Four, Sydney's hand tightens around her handbag.

"Would you like to observe?" I ask. "There is one-way acoustic glass. Meg won't see you, but you will be able to confirm she is safe."

"Of course I'm watching."

"For her?"

"Why else?"

I hold her gaze.

Colour rises along her throat.

"The booth has its own exit," I say. "You may leave at any point."

"Stop trying to reassure me."

"Is it working?"

"Annoyingly."

I lead her upstairs.

For months, I have searched for a way to introduce Sydney to my world without using influence to draw her there.

Now she walks beside me by choice.

The knowledge should calm me.

Instead, every controlled instinct I possess turns towards her.