The heir's mask

chapter 3 Eleanor’s Pressure

The Heir’s Mask

Chapter 3

Eleanor’s Pressure

Steve’s penthouse felt like a gilded cage tonight. The city lights stretched out beneath him like jewels on black velvet, but all he could see was Ken’s flushed face from the restaurant earlier, lips parted, c**k straining against his trousers, eyes screaming yes while his mouth spat no.

Should I call him? No. I need him to submit to me. No matter how long it takes, I will get you, baby.

His phone buzzed again. Another message from Ken.

Ken: I’m blocking you after this. Do not contact me.

Steve chuckled slowly, palming his heavy c**k through his slacks. “Try it, baby. See how far that gets you.”

The elevator dinged. Eleanor Vanderbilt swept in like a queen. At fifty-eight, with her impeccable silver-streaked hair and a presence that could make billionaires flinch, she commanded the room instantly. She took one look at her son and sighed.

“Steven. You rejected Camille Harrington again. The girl is perfect old money, discreet, and fertile. Exactly what this family needs to project strength.”

Steve poured himself a whiskey, not bothering to turn around. “I’m not marrying some socialite broodmare to make you feel secure, Mother.”

Eleanor’s heels clicked sharply across the marble floor. “Your father let love make him weak. Look where that left us scandals, whispers, near bankruptcy. I rebuilt this empire. I will not watch you destroy it because you can’t keep your d**k in check.”

Steve’s grip tightened on the glass until his knuckles turned white. Her words always cut deep, dragging him back to memories he had spent years burying. He was only eight, the first time he learned that love could collapse kingdoms. Hidden behind the heavy velvet curtains in his father’s study at Hampton’s estate, he had watched Richard Vanderbilt, the man he once worshiped, on his knees, crying in front of another man.

“I love him,” his father had whispered brokenly. “I never meant for any of this to come out.”

The scandal that followed nearly destroyed Vanderbilt Tech. Whispers haunted the hallways of their world: The heir’s father is a fag. The family almost went bankrupt over a gay affair. Eleanor had moved with ruthless efficiency, forcing Richard out and rewriting the narrative. She taught young Steven a single, brutal lesson Vanderbilt does not break. Vanderbilt’s do not love weakly. Vanderbilt’s does not disappoint.

She fired nannies who hugged him too long. Tears earned him hours of isolation in the dark library. When he fell from his pony at ten and cried from the pain, she made him get back on immediately, blood still running down his scraped knee.

“Pain is temporary,” she had said coldly. “Weakness is forever.”

That was why her presence tonight felt like salt in an open wound. She had no idea how deeply her words affected him. His d**k was very much *not* in check, and the only person it wanted was the one man who could burn everything down.

“I have Lila,” he said coldly. “The press loves her. That’s enough for now.”

“Lila is a placeholder,” Eleanor snapped. “Pretty arm candy. But the board is watching. One rumor is that you’re not the perfect straight heir and we lose everything. Fix this. Or I will.”

She left a folder on the counter, another dossier on yet another suitable woman and swept out, leaving behind the heavy scent of her perfume and the ghosts of his childhood.

The second the doors closed, Steve’s control snapped. He yanked his phone out and dialed Ken before he could stop himself. It rang twice before that familiar, pissed-off voice answered.

“What the f**k do you want, Steve?”

Steve closed his eyes, leaning against the cool glass wall. Just hearing Ken’s voice made his c**k throb. The obsession ran so much deeper than lust. Ken had been his anchor since boarding school, the one person who defended him when older boys taunted him about his “fairy father.” That moment of protection had planted something dark and possessive inside Steve. If love had destroyed his father, then Steve would never love. He would own. He would break first.

“You. Naked. On your knees. That’s what I want.”

A sharp inhale on the other end. “I told you.”

“You told me you’re straight,” Steve interrupted, his voice dropping into that low, nasty register that always got under Ken’s skin. “Yet every time I push, your c**k leaks for me. Tell me I’m wrong for saying what I want and how I feel.”

Silence. Then, quietly furious: “You’re sick.”

“Am I?” Steve unzipped his slacks, freeing his thick, veiny c**k. It was already dripping. He stroked slowly, imagining Ken’s hand instead. “I’m in my penthouse right now, jerking off at the thought of you. I want to bury my face between your cheeks and tongue—f**k that virgin hole until you’re grinding back on me like a desperate whore.”

Ken’s breathing grew ragged. “Steve… stop.”

But he didn’t hang up.

Steve smiled, vicious and triumphant. “I bet you’re hard right now. Touch yourself. Let me hear how much you hate wanting this.”

A long pause. Then the faint sound of a zipper. Steve’s strokes quickened.

“Good boy,” he purred. “Wrap your hand around that c**k. Think about me bending you over my desk at the office. No prep. Just spit and my d**k forcing its way into your tight ass. I’ll f**k you so deep you’ll feel me for days. I’ll flood your guts with load after load until you’re sloppy and ruined.”

A broken groan slipped through the line. Ken was stroking. Steve could hear the wet sounds.

“I hate you,” Ken whispered, his voice cracking with shame and lust.

“I know. That’s why it’s going to feel so f*****g good when I finally break you.” *Mum caused this pressure," Steve thought bitterly, "And I love it. His mother’s cold lessons had forged him into this ruthless, controlling, terrified of weakness. His hand flew over his c**k, his thumb smearing pre-c*m. “I’m going to own every inch of you, Ken. Your mouth. Your ass. Your soul. No more hiding behind women. No more lying. You’ll be mine—my secret husband, my c*m dump, my everything.”

Ken’s breathing turned desperate. Steve could picture him leaning against a wall, pants around his thighs, biting his lip bloody to stay quiet.

“Come for me,” Steve commanded. “Right now. Say my name when you do.”

“F-f**k… Steve!” Ken came with a choked moan. The sound sent Steve over the edge. He growled Ken’s name like a prayer and a curse, painting the window with thick streaks of c*m.

For a moment, there was only heavy breathing between them.

Then Ken’s voice, small and shattered: “This has never happened. Stay away from me.”

He hung up.

Steve stared at his phone, chest heaving, c*m still dripping down his knuckles. The obsession clawed deeper. Phone s*x wasn’t enough. He needed Ken broken beneath him. Needed to feel that tight heat squeezing his c**k while Ken cried and came untouched.

The childhood lessons echoed louder tonight. His father’s tears. His mother’s iron rule. The constant fear that one slip, one real emotion could destroy everything he had built. Ken was the only crack in his armor. Claiming him wasn’t just desire; it was revenge against every rule Eleanor had drilled into him. By breaking Ken, Steve would prove he was stronger than his father. Stronger than love. Stronger than her.

He cleaned up mechanically, mind already racing. The Hampton’s yacht party was in two weeks. Ken would be there his cybersecurity startup had just landed an invitation. Perfect.

Steve typed one last text before Ken could block him.

Steve: Two weeks. Hampton’s yacht party. I’m going to get drunk on jealousy watching you pretend you don’t want me. And when I snap… I won’t stop at words. I’ll drag you into my cabin and finally f**k that denial out of you.

He sent it, then poured another drink.

Eleanor could parade a hundred women. Lila could play her role. None of it mattered.

Ken Thompson was going to be his.

Even if Steve had to tear the world apart to make it happen.

Later that night, Ken lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, body still buzzing from the most shameful orgasm of his life. His phone lit up with Steve’s latest message. He read it once. Twice.

He should delete it. Block him. Run.

Instead, his thumb hovered over the reply button as fresh h

Eat pooled in his gut.

The yacht party was two weeks away.

And Ken already knew he was going to show up.