Willingly.
Because there was no power like the power someone gave you.
And once she gave me that—I’d train her to be my little toy.
Yes.
My personal little fucktoy.
?? ?? ??
I let her off the hook tonight when she began to yawn. Connie mentioned she’d travelled by train, then bus, then walked the remaining stretch—two bags and a full suitcase in tow. All alone and exhausted.
I walked her to her bedroom door, my gaze lingering on those bare legs and child-bearing hips. I measured her silently, like assessing a valuable asset.
Perfect proportions.
Young. Unspoiled.
Exceptional breeding stock.
There were no red flags in her file, but I’d requested the extended dossier anyway. I didn’t rely on luck—I verified my investments.
Now I sat in my office, cigar smouldering in the ash tray, drink in hand, scrolling through the photos my PI retrieved.
She didn’t use her real name online—not on any platform. Everything private. Everything locked down.
And yet, I had it all in front of me.
Hidden profiles. Deleted posts. Direct messages. Photographs she’d never meant anyone to see.
The file was immaculate.
I sent one concise message to my PA:Clear my calendar for the next three days. Limited availability.
Everly Mehta had become my sole priority.
I lifted the cigar, drew in smoke until my lungs burned pleasantly, then exhaled slowly—savouring the bitter taste.
My finger drifted to one of the photos—a candid shot, her hair messy, laughing at something off-screen. Not posed. Not polished.
Just her.
I traced down the line of her jaw. Heart-shaped face. Full lips. Intelligent eyes.
I would own her.
?? ?? ??
I should’ve gone to bed. Past midnight, and the house had gone still. That thick, old-money silence. The kind that muffled sins behind velvet drapes. It was mine now, just like she would be.
Sleep wouldn’t come. Not while she was under my roof.
Not while I hadn’t seen her one more time.
I put out my cigar, finished the last inch of scotch, and rose from my chair. My office light snapped off behind me.
The hallway was dark. Only the low wall lights illuminated the path—soft gold pools of light stretching down the corridor. I walked quietly, hands in my pockets, shoes soundless on the polished wood.
