The depraved performance continuing just beyond the closet door was a masterclass in psychological manipulation. Emma Hopkins had lowered her voice to a sharp, high-pitched register, a calculated mimicry that sent a shiver of revulsion down my spine—she was imitating Eva White. In the cramped, stifling confines of the walk-in closet, the air had become thick with the scent of expensive cedar and the heavy, metallic tang of arousal. I struggled to regulate my breathing, feeling as though the very walls were closing in on me, unable to contain the explosive mix of fury and primal desire clawing at my chest.
"Does that feel good, baby?" the man growled, his voice a rhythmic grunt that syncopated with the steady, wet thud of their bodies colliding. He had fully surrendered to the fantasy, mov
