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)
Pull it together, Emmaleen.
The sick thing is, I can picture it perfectly. Giovanni, methodically disassembling a woman piece by piece, his precise hands separating her components like one of those exploded-view diagrams. The beautiful shell in Toronto, flinching at loud voices.
I close my eyes, trying to force my brain back online.
Get. A. Grip.
What the hell am I doing here? Standing naked in a basement while a ski-masked man circles me like a shark. There's a literal riding crop involved. And a manual of submission that reads like it was written by a control freak with a thesaurus and a God complex.
Giovanni clearly wants me gone. Here’s your prize, Miss Take. Cash, a plane ticket, a new identity. Take it and run. When that didn't work, he resorted to... whatever the fuck this is. Submission Boot Camp. Demerits and humiliation and rules designed to break me.
And yet I'm still here. Why?
My brain offers up a series of increasingly stupid answers:
Because I need the money. (The money is upstairs, practically begging me to take it.)
Because I'm stubborn. (There's stubborn, and then there's whatever standing naked in a basement qualifies as.)
Because I have nowhere else to go. (The world is large. Toronto, apparently, has cafés.)
Because I want to win. (Win what, exactly? The privilege of being hollowed out?)
But beneath all those half-truths lurks the real reason, the one I'm afraid to admit even to myself.
I like this game.
I like that I've captivated the imagination of this dangerous, controlled man.
That I've somehow gotten under his skin.
That I matter enough for him to build an entire elaborate scenario just to prove I don't.
A man like Giovanni Bavga doesn't play games he doesn't need to play. If he truly wanted me gone, there are more efficient ways to do it. He could have taken his money back, thrown me in a trunk, and dropped me in the middle of nowhere without a backward glance.
Or had his goons handle it. No involvement whatsoever.
But instead, he put me here.
Playing along with my double-or-nothing challenge.
And he brought his A-game.
This whole setup—the basement, the manual, Master Ski Mask here—it's all Giovanni's move in whatever twisted chess match we've found ourselves in. He's not fucking around. He's showing me exactly what I'm getting myself into if I stay.
So maybe I should bring my A-game too.
The Master is still watching me, waiting for my reaction to his little speech about Giovanni's past conquests. I let my eyes meet his through the ski mask holes.
I consider the question burning in my mind: Can I win by merely complying?
No. Competence isn't good enough for a man like Giovanni.
But I could win by excelling.
I'm not going to defy Giovanni like some bratty sub who wants punishment. I'm going to obey him. Down to the letter. Every rule, every position, every "Yes, Sir" and downcast gaze—I'll master them all. I'll become the perfect submission machine.
And each flawless compliance will be my rebellion.
Because when I've accumulated zero demerits, when I've executed every instruction perfectly, when I've proven I can play his game better than anyone before me—he'll be forced to see that I am different.
That I saw the trap and walked into it anyway. Eyes open. Spine straight. Head high.
The moment will come when he has to choose: break me or acknowledge me. And I'll be damned if I give him any excuse for the former.
"I understand now," I tell the Master, straightening my posture to textbook perfection. "Thank you for the lesson."
His eyes narrow slightly, as if he senses something has shifted but can't quite identify what.
From obedience, power.
From loyalty, safety.
From surrender... freedom.
My chains, my choice.
7
I understand now.
What did Emmaleen mean by that?
It's cryptic, almost innocent, but there's something in her tone. Something in the change of her voice. In the way she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin.
It's… defiance.
I lean forward in my chair, eyes narrowing at the monitor. My fingers tap a restless rhythm against the desk as I press the call button—again.
Jino doesn't even flinch. Like he didn't even hear it.
Instead of coming back upstairs to get guidance about Emmaleen’s instruction—as was agreed upon beforehand—he tells her that her excessive accumulation of demerits before the first lesson even started has erased her right to a uniform today. She will do all her lessons naked.
Then he immediately begins instructing her on how to stand again, touching her body wherever he pleases with that crop of his.
I scoff. The nerve. The absolute fucking audacity.
He wants her naked. He wants her naked.
Does he think I chose a uniform for no reason?
Does he think he can just alter my plans without consultation?
Ignore my summons? Repeatedly?
Jino is starting to feel like a mistake. Especially with that little monologue he performed. And Rico. Emmaleen didn’t correct him when he blamed her for Rico’s attack. At least one person in that dungeon understands when to shut up.