Beneath His Command

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I sat on the bed, my gown crumpled beneath me, my cheeks streaked with tears that had dragged my makeup into dark, uneven smudges.

We had driven to one of Sebastian's hotels after the wedding in silence, sitting at opposite ends of the car like strangers forced into the same cage. The moment we stepped out of the courtroom, his hand had left my waist. He had not looked at me since. Had not spoken.

I preferred it that way.

Our flight to Monaco was in an hour.

Honeymoon.

The word sat wrong in my chest, twisting into something bitter. A month alone with Sebastian Morales. One of us would not make it out unchanged.

Or alive.

My thoughts kept circling back to his voice. Calm. Certain.

"You will see why it had to be you."

A chill slipped down my spine.

The corset tightened around my ribs, stealing my breath. I reached behind me, fingers fumbling with the laces, irritation building as they refused to loosen.

I did not hear the door open.

But I felt him.

The air shifted.

Then his hands were on me.

I went completely still.

Sebastian.

"Let me," he said quietly, close enough that I felt the words more than heard them.

"Don't touch me." My voice came out sharp, but it lacked the force I intended.

His hands did not leave.

"Then stop struggling," he replied, almost mildly.

There was no anger in his tone. No impatience.

That unsettled me more than anything.

I should have moved. Should have pulled away.

But I didn't.

His fingers worked at the laces, slow and precise, as if he had all the time in the world. As if I was not someone forced into his life, but something he had chosen to take his time with.

Each loosened knot made it easier to breathe.

Each brush of his hand against my back made it harder to think.

My jaw tightened.

I hated this.

Hated the way my body reacted before my mind could catch up.

When he tugged my hair forward to free the last tie, his fingers skimmed the side of my neck. Heat flared instantly, sharp and unwelcome.

I stiffened.

He paused.

Just for a second.

As if he noticed.

As if he understood exactly what he was doing.

That realization made my stomach twist.

The final knot gave way. Air rushed into my lungs.

His hands lingered for a fraction longer than necessary before falling away.

Freedom.

I stepped forward immediately, putting distance between us, refusing to turn around.

"You know," he said, his voice measured, "you could ask for help."

I let out a short, humorless laugh.

"I don't need anything from you."

A pause.

"I know," he replied.

Too easily. Too calmly.

I turned then, folding my arms tightly, forcing steel into my expression.

"No, you don't. You think I'm something you can just acquire. Move around. Control."

His gaze locked onto mine.

Unblinking. Steady.

Not offended.

Not even surprised.

That was worse.

For a moment, it felt like he was studying me, not reacting to me. Like he was already ten steps ahead in a game I did not know we were playing.

"You're wrong," he said quietly.

My chest tightened.

"Am I?" I shot back.

He did not answer immediately.

And somehow, that silence felt heavier than any argument.

"If you have nothing else to say," I continued, sharper now, "leave. I need to get out of this dress."

His eyes flickered, briefly, to the loosened fabric at my back before returning to my face.

That small movement made my skin prickle.

"An hour," he said instead. "Be ready."

Not a request.

A statement.

Then he turned and walked out.

Just like that.

As if he had never been standing close enough to feel my pulse.

The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

I exhaled slowly, only then realizing I had been holding my breath.

In less than a day, Sebastian had dragged me through anger, resentment, unease… and something I refused to name.

Something I would not name.

I stood there for a long moment before forcing myself to move, stepping out of the dress and into the bathroom.

The shower ran over me, hot at first, then gradually cooling, but I did not move. I let the water fall over my skin, over my shoulders, down my spine, as if it could erase the feeling his hands had left behind.

It didn't.

I pressed my eyes shut.

Useless.

When I finally stepped out, the air felt colder than it should have. I wrapped the robe tightly around myself, as if that could do anything at all.

I called room service.

The attendant who arrived carried herself with confidence, her uniform doing little to hide what it was clearly designed to emphasize.

"At your service, Mrs. Morales."

"I need a hair dryer."

"Of course. Sir Sebastian ensured everything was prepared for you."

I frowned.

"He did?"

"Yes, ma'am. Including your wardrobe."

Before I could respond, she signaled, and three more attendants entered, arms filled with clothing, shoes, accessories.

I stared at them.

This was not preparation.

This was control.

"Are you certain this came from him?"

"A hundred percent."

Of course it did.

"Then we should begin," she added. "You are expected downstairs in an hour."

Expected.

Not invited.

Not asked.