The morning after Cheyenne left, I stood by the window with a glass of water and watched the city wear its early light like a secret. The skyline was washed in pale gray and gold, a quieter palette than the chaos I keep under control every day. My reflection in the glass was sharp, cold—habitual—but there was something softened at the edges. She’d left that behind without meaning to.
Every choice I’d made the night before had been intentional. Every knot tied, every pause before a touch, every word murmured into her skin. Control isn’t about dominance; it’s about trust. The men I deal with confuse those things daily, and I see where it gets them—spinning, losing, scrambling for leverage that was never real. Cheyenne gave me her wrists willingly, not because I demanded it, but because she
