Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
And then, Article XV: Loyalty. Four simple, terrifying lines.
You belong to me.
Hesitation is disloyalty.
Disloyalty is betrayal.
Betrayal is death.
The manual continues relentlessly, Appendices detailing every possible infraction and consequence. Speaking out of turn. Making eye contact without permission. Fidgeting. Being late. Moving incorrectly. Touching without permission. Failing rituals.
Each with its own swift, specific punishment.
By the time I reach the closing words, I'm trembling. Not with laughter or even fear—with pure, distilled rage.
"These are not suggestions. These are the law of belonging to me. You will fail, and you will be corrected. This is the path you chose when you agreed to stand in my shadow. Your service will be measured against this Doctrine every hour, every day. If you falter, you will be reshaped. And if you break, you will be gone."
— Giovanni Bavga
The Doctrine sits open before me, severe and binding, already punctuated by the demerits I've earned just by existing in its presence. Three marks against me, and I've barely begun.
But something hardens inside me, a seed of defiance crystallizing into resolve. If Giovanni thinks this is how he wins—by burying me under an avalanche of impossible rules and inevitable failure—he has catastrophically underestimated me.
The more rules he places, the more determined I become to survive every single one of them. Not because I want to belong to him. Not because I accept his doctrine. But because I refuse to lose this way.
I'll learn every rule. I'll obey every article. I'll be so fucking perfect at his little game that he'll have no choice but to face me himself instead of hiding behind this leather-bound bullshit and his masked enforcer.
The masked figure sets down two items on my desk with theatrical precision.
First, a keyring with a single skeleton key—antique, brass, the kind you'd find in a Gothic novel where the heroine makes terrible life choices. It gleams dully in the candlelight, so perfectly staged it might as well have its own Instagram filter.
Second, a fountain pen. Not some BIC ballpoint from the junk drawer, but a weighty Mont Blanc positioned with militaristic precision beside the signature line of the Doctrine, the nib pointing accusingly at the blank space awaiting my name.
A choice that isn't really a choice. How very Giovanni.
"The key to the door upstairs is yours and at any time, you may use it," the masked man says, his voice carrying that same stilted cadence, like he's reading off ritual cards at a cult induction. "Upon using it to exit the dungeon, you will find a stainless-steel box containing sixty-three thousand five hundred dollars, a new name, a new passport, and a plane ticket to Paradise, whatever that means to you, once you step outside. You are free. Free to choose. Because when taking big risks, there must always be a choice, Miss Take. You may leave, but if you do, you will never return."
The way he says "Miss Take" makes my skin crawl. It's Giovanni's nickname for me, not his. The theft of it feels more invasive than the riding crop against my hand.
His gloved finger slides from the key to the pen in a gesture so deliberate it borders on pornographic.
"Or sign, and belong to him." The masked man leans forward, and I can see his eyes glittering through the holes in the mask. "And by him, I mean... ME. I am your Master until you fail or graduate. You will live in my dungeon until I pronounce you worthy of leaving and serving your true master, Giovanni. But until that time, while you are here, you are MINE. Choose now."
The words hit like a plot twist in a bad thriller. This isn't just some enforcer Giovanni hired to intimidate me. This is the training wheels version of Giovanni himself—a proxy Dom, the understudy to whatever sick power play Giovanni has planned.
I'm supposed to graduate from this guy to Giovanni? Like some fucked-up finishing school for... what? Submission? Servitude?
He returns to his throne, settling into it with the measured movements of someone who's practiced looking intimidating in a chair. The silence stretches between us, heavy with expectation.
I stare at the two objects.
The key represents freedom. I could grab it, bolt up those stairs, and never look back. I could go back to the shelter, back to job applications and minimum wage and the slow, grinding descent into homelessness.
I'd have my dignity, at least. Whatever that's worth these days.
Sixty-three thousand five hundred dollars, apparently.
Yeah, that’s not pocket change. That’s a car. That’s paying off every credit card I’ve ever dramatically thrown in a freezer. That’s… well, an entire year of my life if I played it safe. But double or nothing was never about money.
It was about—
Don’t you dare say love, Emmaleen. You say the L-word and I will throat-punch myself just to spite you.
It was about a chance. That’s what I wanted. One stupid chance.