The Gucci tie burns in my palm like a confession I'm about to regret.

I've rehearsed this moment for three hundred and sixty-five days—every word, every smile, every possible outcome except the one where Victor says yes.

Because men like him don't say yes to women like me.

The Christmas party swirls around us in a haze of champagne bubbles and forced laughter. Someone's draped tinsel over the conference room's abstract art. The air smells of pine from the enormous tree dominating the corner, its lights blinking in rhythmic patterns that feel almost hypnotic.

But I only see Victor, standing alone by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his sharp profile silhouetted against the city lights twenty stories below.

He looks untouchable. He always does.

My dress—black, fitted, the most expensive thing I own—suddenly feels like a costume. I bought it for tonight. For him. The red soles of my heels click against marble as I cross the room, and I swear every sound amplifies my humiliation before it even begins.

"Mr. Ashford?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

He turns, and those grey eyes—cold, assessing, perpetually unimpressed—sweep over me with the same indifference he reserves for quarterly reports. "Amelia."

Just my name. Nothing more.

I thrust the small box toward him before I lose my nerve. "Merry Christmas. I wanted to thank you for... for everything this year."

His gaze drops to the distinctive Gucci wrapping, and something flickers across his face. Annoyance? Pity? I can't tell, and that's the problem—I've spent three years trying to read this man, and he remains as opaque as frosted glass.

"I can't accept this." He doesn't touch the box. Doesn't even pretend to consider it.

"It's just a tie. It's not—"

"Your salary isn't meant for currying favor with your boss." His tone is arctic, professional, devastating in its detachment. "It reflects poorly on both of us."

The words land like a slap. Around us, conversations continue, oblivious. Someone laughs too loudly. Christmas music drifts from hidden speakers, all joy and false promises.

"That's not what this is." My fingers tighten around the box until the edges dig into my skin. "I just thought—"

"Don't." He cuts me off with surgical precision. "Whatever you thought, you were mistaken."

He turns back to the window, dismissing me as thoroughly as if I'd never existed at all. I stand there for three heartbeats, four, waiting for him to say something else, to acknowledge that I'm still here, bleeding out in my expensive dress with a gift he won't accept.

He doesn't.

I walk away before anyone can see my face crumble. The elevator ride down feels endless. Twenty floors of fluorescent lights and my own reflection mocking me from polished steel. You were mistaken. As if my feelings were just an error in judgment, a miscalculation to be corrected.

My apartment is dark and cold when I stumble through the door. I kick off the heels—those stupid, painful heels—and sink onto my bed, still clutching the rejected gift.

I don't cry. I'm too angry for tears.

Instead, I grab my phone with shaking hands and do something reckless. The ad had been everywhere lately—Hidden Realm: Where Anonymity Meets Desire. I'd scrolled past it a dozen times, curious but too cautious to click. Too afraid of what wanting something like that might say about me.

Tonight, I don't care what it says.

The app downloads faster than my second thoughts can catch up. The interface is sleek, dark, asking for nothing but a username and what I'm seeking. I type quickly, before rationality returns:

Username: AmeliaUnbound

Seeking: Someone who can completely control me, so I can forget reality.

I hit submit and toss the phone onto the mattress, suddenly exhausted. What am I even doing? Victor has made his position clear. I need to move on, except I don't know how to stop wanting someone who barely acknowledges I exist.

The phone buzzes.

Ten minutes. It's been ten minutes since I created the profile, and already there's a message. My heart hammers as I unlock the screen.

V: You're looking for a Dom, aren't you?

Something electric shoots through me at those words. The directness. The certainty. As if he already knows exactly what I need, even when I barely understand it myself.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling with something that isn't fear.

This is dangerous. This is exactly the kind of escape I shouldn't be seeking.

I type anyway: Yes.

Three dots appear immediately, and I realize I'm holding my breath.

The reply comes through, and everything shifts.

V: Good girl. Let's begin.

The Rules

Good girl.

Two words, and I'm already addicted.

I stare at my phone screen, at those simple words from a stranger who calls himself V, and something inside me unravels. Victor's rejection still burns in my chest, but this—this feels like salve on a wound I didn't know how to treat.

My fingers shake as I type: What happens now?

The response comes within seconds, as if he's been waiting, watching.

V: Now you tell me what you know about this world. What you've read. What you've imagined in those moments when you touch yourself late at night.

Heat floods my face even though I'm alone. How does he know? How can he possibly—

But that's the point, isn't it? He doesn't know. He's guessing, reading between the lines of my desperate profile, and somehow he's right.

Me: I've read things. Forums. Stories. I know the basics—Dominants and submissives, safe words, contracts.

V: Reading isn't experiencing. Tell me what you want, Amelia. Use your words.

My real name feels obscene on the screen, too exposed. But I'd put it in my profile, hadn't I? Some part of me wanting to be seen, truly seen, for the first time in years.

Me: I want to not think. Not plan. Not worry about doing the wrong thing or saying the wrong thing. I want someone else to decide for me.

The truth spills out easier than it should. Maybe because he's faceless, nameless, just a letter on a screen. Maybe because Victor's dismissal tonight proved that being careful, being appropriate, gets me nowhere.

V: You want to surrender.

Me: Yes.

V: I can give you that. But we do this my way, with my rules. Three of them. Non-negotiable.

I pull my knees to my chest, the rejected Gucci box still mocking me from my nightstand. Outside my window, the city glitters with Christmas lights and other people's happiness.

Me: Tell me.

V: Rule One: We never meet in person. This stays in the digital realm. Fantasy only.

Relief and disappointment war in my chest. Part of me had wondered, hoped, feared what it would be like to actually submit to someone. But anonymity feels safer. No judgment. No consequences.

Me: Agreed.

V: Rule Two: I will not show my face during our sessions. You may see my body, hear my voice, but my identity remains mine.

Me: What about me?

V: You'll show me everything. That's how this works. I see you. You trust me.

My breath catches. The inequality of it should bother me, but instead it sends liquid heat pooling low in my belly. The idea of being watched, studied, while he remains hidden—it's exactly the kind of surrender I crave.

Me: And Rule Three?

V: No personal information. No details that could identify either of us in the real world. What happens here stays here. Our real lives don't touch.

I think of Victor, of his cold grey eyes and colder dismissal. Of how desperately I've wanted him to notice me, to want me, to see past the efficient secretary to the woman underneath. This stranger—V—is offering me something Victor never will.

Me: I agree to all three rules.

V: Say it properly.

Me: I agree to all three rules, Sir.

The word feels foreign on my fingertips, but right. So achingly right.

V: Perfect. You're going to be such a good little submissive for me, aren't you, Amelia?

Me: Yes, Sir.

V: Then let's begin your training. Tomorrow, you'll go to work without underwear. No bra. No panties. Nothing between you and your clothes.

My heart slams against my ribs. Tomorrow is Monday. I have back-to-back meetings. I'll be standing beside Victor's desk, taking notes, fetching coffee, close enough to smell his cologne and remember his rejection.

Me: I don't know if I can—

V: You can. You will. This is what you asked for, isn't it? To not think, to just obey?

Me: Yes, but—

V: No buts. Just yes or no. Will you obey me?

I close my eyes, imagining it. Walking into the office, sitting at my desk, crossing my legs during the morning briefing while Victor drones on about Q4 projections. The constant awareness of my body, of my nakedness beneath professional wool and silk. The fear of being discovered mixed with the thrill of my secret.

Me: Yes, Sir. I'll obey.

V: Good girl. Send me a photo when you're dressed tomorrow morning. Before you leave for work. I want to see what you're wearing, knowing what you're not wearing underneath.

Me: What if someone notices?

V: No one will notice unless you let them.

I think of Victor's eyes on me, really on me, for once. Not looking through me like I'm transparent. The fantasy sends heat spiraling through my core.

V: You're touching yourself right now, aren't you?

Me: No.

V: Don't lie to your Dom. I can tell. Your responses are getting slower, more scattered. Your mind is wandering to what tomorrow will feel like.

He's right. My free hand has drifted to my thigh, fingers tracing patterns on bare skin.

Me: Maybe.

V: Stop.

My hand freezes.

V: You don't get to come tonight. You'll go to bed wanting, needing, desperate.

It's cruel. I'm already wound tight from Victor's rejection, from the ache of wanting someone who doesn't want me back. Now this stranger is denying me even the release of my own touch.

Me: That's not fair.

V: Fair? Oh, sweet Amelia. This isn't about fair. This is about teaching you that your pleasure belongs to me now. You come when I say you can come. Not before.

The authority in his words, even through text, makes my core clench with need.

Me: Yes, Sir.

V: Sleep well, my good girl. Dream of me. And tomorrow, remember—every step you take, every move you make, you're doing it for me. You're mine now.

The chat goes dark as he logs off, leaving me alone with my racing heart and denied need. I set my phone down with shaking hands and stare at the ceiling.

What have I just agreed to?

Tomorrow, I'll walk into Victor's office, sit across from him during meetings, lean over his desk to hand him documents—and I'll be bare beneath my clothes, wet and wanting, thinking of a str

anger's commands instead of my boss's indifference.

I should be terrified.

Instead, I'm counting the hours until morning.

Exposed

The silk of my blouse is a betrayal.

Every breath sends the fabric sliding against my nipples, already tight and sensitive from the morning air and anticipation. I'd stood in front of my mirror for twenty minutes, watching myself follow V's command—professional pencil skirt, cream silk blouse, tailored blazer—and absolutely nothing underneath.

I'd sent him the photo. His response had been immediate: Perfect. Now go make me proud.

Now, sitting at my desk outside Victor's office, I'm hyperaware of everything. The cool leather of my chair against the back of my thighs. The slight dampness already gathering between my legs. The way my breasts shift when I reach for files, unrestrained, the movement visible if anyone bothers to look closely enough.

No one has. Yet.

"Amelia." Victor's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "Coffee. Now."

I stand too quickly, and the motion sends my skirt sliding against bare skin. A jolt of sensation shoots through me, and I have to grip my desk to steady myself.

"Of course, Mr. Ashford."

The walk to the break room feels like miles. Each step is a reminder of my nakedness, the friction between my thighs building with every movement. I'm already wet, already aching, and it's barely nine AM.

You're doing this for me, V's words echo in my mind. Every step. Every move.

I make Victor's coffee exactly how he likes it—black, two sugars, despite his claims he takes it straight. I've watched him add sugar when he thinks no one's looking. Small rebellions against his own rigid control.

When I return to his office, he's standing by the window, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in clipped tones about the merger. I set the cup on his desk and turn to leave.

"Wait."

I freeze, heart hammering. Has he noticed? Can he somehow tell?

He ends the call and turns to face me, those grey eyes sweeping over me with the same cold assessment as always. But then—his gaze catches. Holds. Drops to my chest for just a fraction of a second before snapping back up.

"You're needed in the morning briefing." His voice is rough, strained. "Conference room. Five minutes."

"Yes, sir."

The word slips out, the same one I'd used with V last night, and Victor's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

I practically flee.

The conference room is already full when I arrive—department heads, senior managers, Victor at the head of the table. I take my usual seat at the back, tablet ready for notes, and pray no one notices the flush creeping up my neck.

Victor starts the presentation. Market analysis. Projected growth. Due diligence timelines. I should be taking notes, but all I can focus on is the constant, maddening stimulation of fabric against sensitized skin.

I shift in my seat, trying to find relief, and the motion sends a wave of sensation through me so intense I have to bite my lip to keep from gasping.

Victor's eyes find mine across the room. He stops mid-sentence.

"Amelia, are you alright?"

Every head turns toward me. Heat floods my face.

"Fine, Mr. Ashford. Just—" I gesture vaguely at my tablet. "Technical issue."

His gaze lingers, suspicious, before returning to his presentation. But I catch him glancing my way twice more during the meeting, his attention divided in a way that's completely unlike him.

The hours crawl by in exquisite torture. Every movement is an exercise in restraint—bending to retrieve dropped pens, reaching for files on high shelves, crossing and uncrossing my legs. By lunch, I'm wound so tight I'm trembling.

I escape to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall, and pull out my phone with shaking hands.

Me: I can't take this anymore. I'm dying.

V: Good. That means you're learning. How does it feel?

Me: Like I'm going to combust. Like everyone can see right through my clothes.

V: Can they?

Me: No. Maybe. I don't know. My boss looked at me strangely during the meeting.

V: Your boss? Tell me about him.

The question catches me off guard. We're not supposed to share personal details. But Victor feels safe to mention—he's just my boss, nothing more. Especially after Friday night.

Me: Cold. Untouchable. Barely acknowledges I exist.

V:  Are you imagining what your cold, untouchable boss would do if he knew your secret?

Me: NO.

Yes. God, yes. The fantasy has been playing on loop all morning—Victor's eyes darkening with desire instead of dismissal, his controlled facade cracking, his hands on me, finally, finally touching me the way I've dreamed about for three years.

V: That's what I thought. Use it, Amelia. Channel that want. Let it make you bold.

I return to my desk just as Victor calls me into his office. He's standing behind his desk, loosening his tie—a rare crack in his impeccable armor.

"We're working late tonight." It's not a question. "The Blackstone merger documents need review before tomorrow's board meeting."

"Of course."

I lean over his desk to retrieve the file he's indicating, and my blouse gapes open. For a heartbeat, everything stills. Victor's eyes drop to the exposed curve of my breast, the obvious lack of a bra, and something flashes across his face—shock, hunger, something dark and raw before his mask slams back into place.

"That will be all," he says, voice strained. "For now."

I straighten, pulse racing, and return to my desk. The email arrives an hour later:

We'll review the documents at 6 PM. Don't leave early.

But when I open the attached file, my blood turns cold. The timestamp reads 10 AM. This morning. Hours ago.

He could have sent this anytime. He didn't need to wait until the end of the day.

My phone buzzes, and my hands shake as I unlock it.

V: Still at the office?

Me: Yes. Working late.

V: Perfect. Then you're ready for your second task.

Me: What is it?

The three dots pulse. My breath catches. Around me, the office is emptying, colleagues calling out goodbyes, elevators dinging. Soon it will just be me and Victor, separated by a single wall.

The message comes through, and my world tilts.

V: Masturbate in your office. Right now. And send me proof.

The Breaking Point

I'm going to Hell, and I'm going there wet.

My office door is unlocked. Victor is fifteen feet away, separated by a single wall. The overhead lights are still on, fluorescent and unforgiving. And V wants proof.

My hand slides beneath my skirt before rational thought can intervene.

The first touch against my bare, slick flesh makes me bite down on my fist to keep from crying out. I'm already so sensitive, so primed from hours of denial, that the lightest pressure sends sparks shooting through my nerve endings.

Send me proof.”

I prop my phone against a stack of files with trembling hands, angle it downward, and hit record. The red dot blinks like an accusation. Like permission.

My fingers circle my clit, and my hips jerk involuntarily. Too loud. The chair creaks beneath me. I freeze, listening for any sound from Victor's office, but there's only silence and the thundering of my own heartbeat.

I try again, slower this time, applying steady pressure. Heat builds in waves, each one cresting higher than the last. My free hand clutches the armrest, knuckles white, as I fight to stay quiet.

But then Victor's face surfaces in my mind—not dismissive, not cold, but hungry. The way his eyes had dropped to my exposed breast this afternoon, that flash of raw want before he'd locked it away. I imagine those grey eyes darkening as he watches me touch myself. Imagine his hand replacing mine, his control replacing my frantic desperation.

Except it's not just Victor anymore. The fantasy shifts, blurs. V's commanding texts overlay Victor's sharp voice. Good girl. Victor's hands become V's hands, and suddenly I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

The taboo of it—masturbating in my office, imagining my boss while obeying another man's orders—crashes over me like a tidal wave.

I come hard and fast, biting my lip until I taste copper, my body convulsing as I struggle to stay silent. The orgasm tears through me, relentless, leaving me gasping and boneless in my chair.

For a moment, I can't move. Can't think. My thighs are trembling, my heart racing, my entire body singing with aftershocks.

Then reality slams back.

I just masturbated. In my office. On camera. While Victor worked twenty feet away.

I stop the recording with shaking hands and watch it back in horror and arousal. The angle shows everything—my hand disappearing beneath my hiked skirt, the arch of my neck, the moment my mouth opens in a silent scream of release.

I send it before I can overthink.

Me: Are you satisfied?

V: Very. You're beautiful when you come undone. Tell me—who were you thinking about?

My fingers hover over the keyboard. The truth is too dangerous, too revealing. But lying feels impossible after what I just did.

Me: I don't—

A knock at my door makes my blood turn to ice.

"Amelia?" Victor's voice, muffled through wood. "Are you ready to review the documents?"

I yank my skirt down and smooth my hair, my heart threatening to burst from my chest. My face is flushed, my pupils dilated, my lips swollen from biting them. There's no way I look normal. No way he won't know.

"Just a moment!"

I splash water on my face from the bottle on my desk, dab away the evidence of tears and arousal, and take three deep breaths that do nothing to calm my racing pulse.

When I open the door, Victor is standing there with his jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking rumpled and impossibly attractive in a way that makes my freshly satisfied body stir with want again.

His eyes scan my face, missing nothing. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." My voice comes out too high. "Just needed a minute."

He steps into my office, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of the space—my chair still warm from my body, the faint scent of arousal in the air, my phone face-down on the desk with V's message still unanswered.

"You seem flushed." He's closer now, close enough that I can smell his cologne—cedar and something darker, more intoxicating. "If you're not feeling well—"

"I'm fine, Mr. Ashford." I move past him toward his office, needing distance, needing air. "Let's review those documents."

But as I brush by him, his hand catches my elbow, stopping me. The touch is electric, sending heat spiraling through my already sensitized body.

"Amelia." His voice is lower, rougher than I've ever heard it. "You're shaking."

I am. My entire body is trembling from the aftershocks of orgasm, from his proximity, from the surreal impossibility of this moment.

"I'm just—" I search for words that aren't a confession. "It's been a long day."

His thumb traces a circle on my inner elbow, the touch gentle but possessive, and something in his expression shifts. Those grey eyes darken, and for a heartbeat, I swear I see hunger there—raw and barely contained.

Then he releases me, stepping back, his mask sliding firmly into place.

"Let's make this quick, then. I'm sure you're eager to get home."

I follow him into his office on unsteady legs, hyperaware of the dampness between my thighs, the ache that's already building again despite my recent release. We sit across from each other at his desk, and he spreads the merger documents between us.

But I can barely focus on the words. My phone burns in my pocket, V's unanswered question haunting me.

Who were you thinking about?

Victor's pen scratches across paper. His brow furrows in concentration. He's all business now, completely unaware that ten minutes ago I was coming apart in the next room, imagining his hands on me.

Or is he?

My phone buzzes. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.

Victor's eyes lift to mine, one eyebrow raised. "Do you need to get that?"

"No." But my hand moves to my pocket anyway, treasonous and desperate. "It can wait."

"Answer it." There's something commanding in his tone, something that makes my core clench. "If it's urgent."

I pull out my phone, angling it away from his view.

V: You didn't answer my question. Who were you thinking about when you came?

V: Was it me? Or was it someone else?

V: Tell me the truth, Amelia. Was it your cold, untouchable boss?

My breath catches audibly. Victor's gaze sharpens.

"Problem?"

"No." I type quickly, frantically. "Just—"

The knock on Victor's office door interrupts me, and I've never been more grateful for a distraction in my life.

But as I look up, phone clutched in my guilty hands, Victor's eyes meet mine with an intensity that steals my breath.

And for one impossible, terrifying moment, I wonder if he knows.

If he's always known.

The Ride Home

Victor's hand is on my thigh, and I'm going to die.

"You're distracted." His voice cuts through the leather-scented darkness of his car, clinical and cold despite the intimacy of the enclosed space. "You've been distracted all day."

I force myself to meet his eyes, praying he can't see how my pupils are blown wide with want, how my skin is still flushed from what I did in my office an hour ago. "I'm fine, Mr. Ashford."

"You're not." He shifts gears, and his hand moves higher on my thigh—accidentally, professionally, steadying me as the car accelerates. But my body doesn't care about intent. It only knows his touch, his heat, the way my core clenches in response. "If you're not feeling well, you should have taken the day off instead of forcing yourself to come in and affecting work progress."

Shame floods through me, mixing dangerously with arousal. He thinks I'm sick. Incompetent. When really I'm just drowning in wanting him while being controlled by someone else.

"I'm sorry." The words come out breathless. "It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't." But his tone softens fractionally. "I'll drive you home. You need rest."

I should refuse. Should insist I can take the subway like always. But the thought of his continued proximity, of sitting in this dark, intimate space where his cologne fills my lungs and his hand is inches from where I'm already wet again—

"Thank you," I whisper.

The city blurs past in streaks of light. Victor drives with the same controlled precision he applies to everything else, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift dangerously close to my leg. Every turn presses me against the door, the seatbelt cutting between my breasts, and I'm acutely aware that I'm still bare beneath my clothes, still vulnerable, still his even if he doesn't know it.

"Amelia." His voice is quieter now, almost gentle. "Do you feel a lot of pressure working with me?"

The question catches me off guard. "No, I—"

"Because if you can't handle it, you can apply for a transfer." He glances at me, and something flickers in those grey eyes. "I wouldn't hold it against you. The work is demanding. I'm demanding."

Panic seizes my chest. "No! I don't want a transfer. Please, Mr. Ashford, I love working for you. I just—" I just spent the day following another man's orders while fantasizing about you. "Today was unusual. It won't happen again."

"You said that already." But there's something almost like concern in his expression now, buried beneath his typical reserve. "You're sure you're alright?"

I nod, not trusting my voice. Because I'm not alright. I'm spiraling, caught between two men—one who ignores me in daylight and one who commands me in darkness—and I can't tell anymore which one I want more.

Or if they're somehow, impossibly, bleeding together in my mind.

Victor pulls up to my building, and the loss of motion makes everything suddenly, unbearably still. We sit in the quiet hum of the engine, and I should get out. Should thank him and leave. But I'm frozen, hyperaware of how close we are, how his hand is still resting near my thigh, how easy it would be to—

"Amelia." His voice is rough. "Whatever's going on with you, whatever's making you distracted—deal with it. I need you focused."

I need you.

The words shouldn't affect me the way they do, but they burrow under my skin, making my breath hitch.

"Yes, sir." It slips out automatically, the words I've been saying to V all day, and Victor's jaw tightens.

"Go inside. Rest. I'll see you tomorrow."

It's a dismissal, but I hear something else underneath it—something strained and uncertain, as if he's not entirely sure he wants me to leave.

I stumble out of the car, my legs shaky, and don't look back as I walk to my building. But I feel his eyes on me the entire way, burning into my back, and when I finally glance over my shoulder, he's still there, watching.

He doesn't drive away until I'm safely inside.

I lean against my apartment door, heart racing, and pull out my phone with trembling hands.

V: You still haven't answered my question.

Me: I don't know how to answer it.

V: The truth is always a good start.

Me: The truth is complicated.

V: Try me.

I close my eyes, Victor's scent still clinging to my clothes, his hand on my thigh still burning my skin.

Me: I was thinking about you. But also about someone else. They've started to blur together in my head, and I don't know how to separate them anymore.

The three dots pulse for what feels like an eternity.

V: Your boss.

It's not a question.

Me: Yes.

V: And if I told you that was exactly what I wanted? That I've been deliberately pushing you toward him in your mind?

My breath catches. What is he saying? That this was planned? That he's been orchestrating my descent into this twisted fantasy where Victor and V merge into one impossible desire?

Me: Why would you do that?

V: Because I know what you need, Amelia. Even better than you know yourself. You don't just want to submit. You want to submit to someone who makes you feel alive. Someone who challenges you. Someone who, in your real life, seems completely unattainable.

Me: That's cruel.

V: That's honest. And you're going to thank me for it.

V: Now, about your performance today—you exceeded my expectations. You deserve a reward.

My pulse quickens despite my confusion, despite the strange tension coiling in my gut.

Me: What kind of reward?

V: The best kind. I'm sending you a gift. It should arrive in three days. And when it does, I'll give you your third task.

Me: What is it?

V: Patience, my good girl. All will be revealed in time. For now, rest. Dream of me. Dream of him. Dream of everything you're too afraid to ask for.

The chat goes dark, leaving me alone with too many questions and a body that's still humming with unspent need.

I drag myself to the shower, let scalding water wash away the day's sin and sweat, but it can't touch what's happening inside me—the way V's words have lodged themselves in my chest, the way Victor's unexpected gentleness has cracked something open.

Three days until the gift arrives.

Three days to wonder what fresh hell V has planned for me.

Three days to pretend I'm not already desperate to obey.