His To CONTROL

CHAPTER 12 - SYDNEY

I spend seven days auditing my own desire.

It is an absurd phrase, but accurate. I review the night as I would a complex account: what was promised, what occurred, where risk appeared and whether the outcome justifies further exposure.

The physical answer is simple.

I want him again.

The rest is more complicated.

Jamerson is Brian's brother. Summers Global is one of Vance & Sterling's largest accounts. Cross belongs partly to him. His wealth, professional influence and experience create a power imbalance no safeword can erase.

Pretending otherwise would make me reckless.

So I draft amendments.

On the eighth day, I meet Jamerson in Cross's private library with his proposed contract marked in three colours. He looks at the pages, then at me.

"Should I call my legal department?"

"Only if they enjoy being corrected."

"They don't. I do."

The admission sounds like flirtation. I refuse to reward it.

"Your exit clause is inadequate."

He gestures for me to continue.

I object to the scheduling language, the one-sided confidentiality provision and every phrase implying he can summon me without regard for my work. I delete the proposed allowance entirely.

"You don't need my money," he says.

"That isn't why I'm refusing it."

"Explain."

"Money changes the cost of saying no. I will not wonder whether disappointing you threatens my rent, my career, or the standard of living you've created."

He thinks of Angel. I see it in the momentary stillness around his mouth.

"Agreed," he says, removing the clause himself.

We build the contract together.

My professional independence remains untouchable. Jamerson cannot influence my workload, appraisals, client allocation or position at Vance & Sterling. If either firm identifies a conflict, our private arrangement pauses while the professional issue is resolved.

"I won't step away from your account merely because this becomes difficult," I say.

"I wouldn't ask you to."

"Write it."

He does.

We create a dual-track rule. In offices, at family events and around Brian, we are colleagues and friends unless we mutually agree otherwise. The power exchange exists only during clearly opened scenes behind closed doors.

"No invisible authority," I say. "You don't get to issue commands through a look while I'm presenting to your board."

"Even if you are enjoying it?"

"Especially then."

His smile tells me the restriction itself interests him.

Health provisions follow. Regular screening. Barrier use. My contraception remains mine. No device, medication or physical risk is introduced without discussion.

Then aftercare.

I underline the section twice.

"Mandatory after every scene," I say. "Regardless of your schedule."

"Yes."

"If you have a meeting in ten minutes, we don't begin."

"Agreed."

"If you're angry with me, we talk before you touch me."

He pauses.

"That isn't in the original draft."

"It is now."

"What qualifies as anger?"

"If you have to ask, we talk."

He studies me for a long moment, then writes the clause.

The contract lasts three months. Either of us can end it immediately and without financial or professional consequence. Renewal requires a full review rather than silent continuation.

"No sharing," I say.

"Already excluded."

"I want it repeated under scene-specific consent."

He adds it.

"No third party touches me unless I agree to that person, that act and that scene separately."

"Understood."

His certainty reassures me. It will later become evidence against him.

When we finish, the document is shorter than the original and far more precise. Jamerson signs first, then turns the fountain pen towards me.

I do not take it.

"One more issue."

"Name it."

"The title."

"Submissive?"

"Pet. You used it once that night."

His expression changes. "Did you dislike it?"

"I haven't decided."

"Then it doesn't enter the contract."

"What does it mean to you?"

He leans back, considering rather than producing a polished answer.

"Something cherished. Kept close. Not lesser."

"Kept can sound like owned."

"Then I won't use it until you tell me what it means to you."

The answer removes the final obstacle.

I sign.

Jamerson walks around the desk and offers his hand. When I take it, he draws me to my feet but does not pull me against him.

"For the duration of this contract," he says, "what are you?"

The expected answer is obvious.

I refuse it.

"Yours by consent," I say. "Never by assumption."

Approval darkens his eyes.

"And what am I?"

That question is harder.

"Responsible for what I give you."

"Always."

The word is quiet enough to sound sacred.

We spend the next hour discussing practicalities. Where we meet. How often. Which days are impossible because of my deadlines. Jamerson gives me a private number that bypasses his assistant and a separate Cross contact for emergencies involving him.

"You really expect me to report you to your own club?"

"If necessary."

"And the club would act?"

"It must."

Again, I believe him.

Before I leave, he lifts my hand and presses his mouth to my knuckles.

"Welcome to my care, Sydney."

"That sounds dangerously like confidence."

"It is a promise."

"Promises aren't controls."

"Then judge me by the system we built."

For the first month, the system works.

He prepares every scene with the same attention he brought to the first. I arrive at Cross carrying the weight of numbers, expectations and decisions. I leave quiet inside my own mind.

At work, he treats me exactly as before. If anything, he challenges my findings more aggressively, and I dismantle his objections with increased pleasure.

Brian notices something but cannot identify it.

"You two are synchronised weird," he says during a Friday game.

"Your brother was always weird," I answer.

"True. Now you're weird at the same frequency."

Jamerson laughs through the headset.

Our two lives remain separate.

Until pressure finds the seam between them.