Chapter 8: The Pushback
1842 Words
The design suite on the 76th floor was a glass cage within a glass tower.
Elena spent the day surrounded by fabric swatches, digital renderings, and the low buzz of her own thoughts. The room had been prepared for her: a long white table, mood boards already pinned with her preliminary sketches from weeks ago (before the contract, before the cuff), a state-of-the-art tablet synced to Damian’s private server, and two security cameras discreetly mounted in opposite corners. She pretended not to notice them. Pretended the red light wasn’t blinking like a slow heartbeat.
She worked because it was something she could control.
She chose matte charcoal velvet for the accent chairs in his private sitting room instead of the glossy leather he’d circled on the spec sheet. She swapped the proposed abstract sculpture for a single, brutalist steel piece—sharp edges, no softness. Small rebellions. Tiny assertions of taste in a life that no longer belonged to her.
By 5:45 p.m., her neck ached and her eyes burned from staring at screens. She saved the file, closed the tablet, and stood.
The door opened before she could reach for the handle.
Damian.
Still in the charcoal suit, vest unbuttoned now, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm. The tattoo on his left forearm was more visible in the late-afternoon light—fractured black lines like shattered glass climbing toward his elbow.
He didn’t speak at first.
Just looked at her.
Elena straightened her spine. “I’m finished for the day.”
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounded louder than it should.
“Did you send the required texts?”
She had. Every small compliance: arriving at the design suite on time, accepting the lunch tray without complaint, adjusting the blouse neckline when he’d texted *lower*. Each time she’d typed the single word.
yes
Five times today.
“I did.”
He crossed the room in three long strides, stopping close enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes.
“Then why,” he asked softly, “did you close the door to the restroom at 3:17 p.m.?”
Elena blinked.
The cameras. Of course.
“I needed privacy.”
“Rule Five,” he reminded her, voice low and even. “Privacy is a privilege I grant. You do not close doors unless I allow it.”
Her jaw tightened. “It was a bathroom. I wasn’t trying to escape. I just… needed a moment.”
“A moment you didn’t ask for.”
The air between them thickened.
She felt the first real spark of anger since signing the contract—not fear, not resignation, but something hot and alive.
“I’m not a doll, Damian. I’m not going to ask permission to pee.”
His eyes darkened—a slow eclipse.
“You will ask permission for everything,” he said. “Until you understand that every breath you take in this building is because I allow it.”
Elena took a step back. Her hip hit the edge of the table.
“I followed every other rule today. I smiled for the cameras downstairs. I let you touch me in the elevator. I sent your little *yes* messages like a trained pet. Isn’t that enough?”
“No.”
The single word landed like a slap.
He reached past her, picked up the tablet, and opened the file she’d just saved.
He scrolled.
Stopped on the steel sculpture.
His thumb hovered over the delete icon.
“Don’t,” she said quickly.
He looked at her.
“That piece works,” she insisted. “It’s strong. It fits the space. It’s better than the marble orb you wanted.”
“Better by whose standard?”
“Mine.”
A beat of silence.
Then he pressed delete.
The rendering vanished.
Elena’s breath caught.
“You can’t just—”
“I can.” He set the tablet down. “And I did.”
She stared at the blank space where her work had been.
Something inside her snapped—not loudly, not dramatically, but quietly, irrevocably.
She reached for the tablet again.
He caught her wrist before her fingers closed around it.
The leather cuff pressed into her skin under his grip.
“Let go,” she said.
He didn’t.
Instead he stepped closer, crowding her against the table until she had nowhere to go.
“You defied a rule,” he said softly. “You closed a door without permission. You questioned my decision just now. And you’re still talking back.”
His free hand lifted to her throat—not squeezing, just resting there, fingers spanning her pulse.
“You want to push, Elena? Then feel what happens when you do.”
He released her wrist.
Stepped back.
“Strip.”
She stared at him.
“Here?”
“Now.”
The design suite had glass walls on three sides. Even if the tint was one-way from the outside, the hallway beyond was visible in shadowy outline. Anyone walking past could see silhouettes.
Her hands shook as she reached for the buttons of her blouse.
One. Two. Three.
The silk parted.
She shrugged it off.
Skirt next.
Zipper down. Fabric pooling at her feet.
Bra. Panties. Stockings peeled away.
She stood n***d except for the cuff and the red lipstick that had smudged slightly during the day.
Damian watched without expression.
Then he walked to the door.
Locked it.
Dimmed the overhead lights to a soft amber glow.
The hallway shadows disappeared.
He returned to her.
“Hands behind your back.”
She hesitated.
His eyebrow lifted.
She obeyed.
He circled behind her, drew her wrists together, and fastened them with a thin black silk tie he produced from his pocket. Not tight enough to bruise. Tight enough to remind.
“On your knees.”
Her legs folded.
The carpet was soft against her shins.
He crouched in front of her, bringing their faces level.
“You will stay here,” he said, “exactly like this, until I return.”
“How long?”
“As long as it takes for you to understand.”
He stood.
Walked to the light panel.
The room plunged into near-darkness—only the faint city glow through the windows and the tiny red blink of the cameras.
Then he left.
The door locked from the outside.
Silence swallowed her.
At first, she knelt straight-backed, chin up, refusing to let the position break her.
Minutes passed.
Her shoulders began to ache from the bound wrists.
Her knees pressed into the carpet.
Cold seeped through the fibers.
She shifted once—barely an inch.
The cameras watched.
She stopped moving.
More time passed.
Thirty minutes? Forty?
The city lights blurred through unshed tears of frustration.
She thought of her mother—alone in the care facility, probably asking the nurses when Elena would visit next.
She thought of the two million dollars that would keep the lights on there.
She thought of the man who had just walked out, leaving her n***d and bound in his glass tower.
Anger burned low in her belly.
Then something else.
Humiliation, yes—but threaded with a strange, unwelcome awareness.
The way the silk tie bit just enough.
The way the air felt against bare skin.
The way she was utterly, completely at his mercy.
And he hadn’t even touched her sexually.
Not yet.
The door opened again.
She didn’t look up.
His shoes stopped in front of her—Italian leather, polished to a mirror shine.
“Eyes on me.”
She lifted her gaze.
He crouched again.
Studied her face—tear tracks, flushed cheeks, defiant mouth.
“You may speak.”
Her voice came out hoarse. “I hate you.”
A faint smile touched his lips.
“Good. Hate is honest.”
He reached behind her, untied the silk.
Her arms fell forward, numb and tingling.
He helped her stand—gentle now, almost careful.
Her legs shook.
He caught her around the waist, steadying her against his chest.
She hated how good it felt to lean into him.
Hated more that she didn’t pull away.
He brushed a strand of hair from her face.
“Next time you break a rule,” he murmured, “the isolation will be longer. And the restraint will be tighter.”
He tilted her chin up.
“But tonight, you’ve earned one small mercy.”
He kissed her.
Not gentle.
Not tentative.
Claiming.
His mouth was hot, demanding, tasting of coffee and control.
She didn’t kiss back at first.
Then—traitorously—her hands fisted in his vest and she did.
Angry. Desperate. Needy.
He broke away first.
Breath steady while hers came in ragged gasps.
“Go to your room,” he said. “Shower. Dress for dinner. Black dress, the one from last night. No underwear.”
She stared at him.
He brushed his thumb across her swollen lower lip.
“And Elena?”
She waited.
“Text me yes when you’re ready.”
He walked out.
She stood n***d in the dim room, arms wrapped around herself.
The cameras still blinked.
She crossed to the tablet.
Opened a blank note.
Typed one word.
yes
Hit send.
Then she gathered her clothes, dressed enough to walk the hallway, and returned to the room that no longer felt like hers.
In the shower, hot water pounded her skin.
She pressed her forehead to the tile.
Tears mixed with the spray.
Not from pain.
Not from fear.
From the terrifying realization that part of her—small, secret, shameful—had waited for him to come back.
And when he had, she hadn’t wanted him to leave.
She turned off the water.
Wrapped herself in a black towel.
Walked to the wardrobe.
Pulled out the midnight silk dress.
Slipped it on.
No underwear.
Just skin and silk and the leather cuff that now felt like a vow.
She dried her hair.
Reapplied the red lipstick.
Looked at herself in the mirror.
The woman staring back had dark eyes and flushed cheeks and a mouth that looked thoroughly kissed.
She picked up the phone.
Typed again.
yes
Sent it.
Then she walked downstairs to dinner.
Damian was waiting.
He rose when she entered.
His gaze swept her—slow, approving.
He pulled out her chair.
She sat.
He leaned down, lips brushing her ear.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
She met his eyes.
This time she didn’t look away.
This time she let him see the fire still burning beneath the obedience.
He smiled—small, dangerous, pleased.
Dinner arrived.
They ate in silence.
But under the table, his hand rested on her thigh.
Not moving.
Just claiming.
And for the first time, she didn’t flinch.
She let it stay.
Because the pushback had cost her.
But it had also taught her something far more dangerous:
She could bend without breaking.
And maybe—just maybe—he could be made to bend too.
- Writer
