I woke up with the taste of panic in my mouth and one single thought screaming through my head: leave. Pack the bag, steal the keys if I had to, drive south until the snow turned to rain and this house was nothing but a nightmare in the rear-view mirror.

I was already yanking on jeans and a sweater when reality slapped me. No keys. Even if I found them, where would I go? Back to the apartment with the broken door? Back to the men who promised to come collect in pieces?

My hands shook so hard I could barely zip my boots.

I opened the bedroom door, fully prepared to sprint, and stopped dead.

Cassian was leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, coffee in one hand, looking like he’d been waiting for hours. He wore a black thermal that stretched across his chest and dark jeans that did criminal things to his thighs. His hair was still damp from a shower, and the faint scent of his soap drifted down the hallway and wrapped around me like smoke.

“Going somewhere, little girl?”

I hated how calm he sounded. Hated how my stomach flipped at the nickname.

“I can’t do this,” I said, voice cracking. “Whatever this is, whatever you’re doing with those women, I’m not part of it. I’m leaving.”

He didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Just took a slow sip of coffee.

“You leave, you have exactly six days until your deadline,” he said conversationally. “Those men don’t bluff, Ivy. They’ll start with the house. Then they’ll start with you. Broken fingers first, probably. Then they get creative. And trust me, what I have planned for you is a fucking vacation compared to that.”

My knees threatened to fold. I gripped the doorframe to stay upright.

He pushed off the wall and walked toward me, stopping just close enough that I had to tip my head back to hold his gaze.

“Sit down and eat breakfast,” he said softly. “Then we’ll talk.”

I wanted to fight. I wanted to scream. Instead I followed him downstairs like a sleepwalker, because he was right and we both knew it.

The dining table was set for two. Poached eggs, fresh berries, toast that smelled like it had been baked that morning. He pulled out my chair—the same chair I used to sit in when I was fourteen doing algebra homework while he cooked pancakes—and waited until I sat before taking the seat across from me.

I stared at my plate. My stomach was a knot, but I picked up the fork anyway.

He watched me take the first bite, then leaned back, completely at ease.

“You saw me working last night,” he said. Not a question.

Heat flooded my face. “I saw everything. It was disgusting.”

He laughed—low, genuine, the sound I remembered from years ago when I told him boys were stupid and he agreed. Only now it wasn’t funny.

“Disgusting,” he repeated, tasting the word. “That’s interesting. Because the woman on the grass last night begged me for two hours to let her come, and when I finally did she cried from how good it felt. She’ll be texting me before noon to schedule the next session.” He tilted his head. “How can you call it disgusting when other women line up for it?”

I set my fork down harder than I meant to. “Because I’m not them.”

His smile was slow, sharp, devastating.

“No,” he murmured. “You’re not.”

He let that sit between us for a moment, heavy and electric, then leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“Here’s the deal, Ivy. It’s simple. You’re going to be my assistant for the next seven days. You follow me everywhere. You hand me lenses, carry the light meter, adjust the backdrop, whatever I need. You watch. You learn. You stay quiet unless I speak to you. That’s it.”

I stared at him, waiting for the rest, the catch.

He lifted one brow. “You keep your clothes on the whole time. I won’t lay a finger on you unless you ask me to. No nudity. No ropes. No crawling across the floor on your knees.” His gaze dropped to my mouth and lingered. “Not yet.”

My breath stuttered.

“That’s… that’s all?” I managed.

“For now.” He picked up his coffee again. “I have shoots scheduled every day. Private clients. Very exclusive. Very well-paid. You’ll be in the room, but you’ll be invisible unless I need something. Easy work for a quarter million dollars, wouldn’t you say?”

I searched his face for the lie and found nothing but steady gray eyes and that maddening half-smile.

“Why me?” I whispered. “You could hire anyone.”

He set the cup down carefully.

“Because you need money,” he said simply. “And only I can help you, no but only I want to help you pay off all the debt with very easy conditions.”

My heart stopped, then slammed back to life twice as hard.

He stood, circled the table, and stopped beside my chair. He didn’t touch me, but he didn’t need to; the heat rolling off him was enough.

“Finish your breakfast,” he said quietly. “Then meet me in the studio downstairs. Ten minutes.”

He walked away, footsteps fading down the hall, leaving me shaking so hard the silverware rattled against the plate.

I stared at the empty doorway and realized the truth like a punch to the chest.

He wasn’t lying about keeping his hands off me.

He was counting on the fact that by the end of seven days, I’d be begging him not to.

And the worst part—the part that made me want to throw up and cry and scream all at once—was that some traitorous, twisted corner of my soul was already wondering how long I could hold out before I did exactly that.

I took the stairs down to the basement slowly, each step feeling like a countdown to something I wasn’t ready for. The studio door was cracked open, a slice of warm light spilling onto the dark wood floor. I pushed it wider and stopped dead on the threshold.

I had expected cameras and lights and maybe a backdrop. What I got was a full-blown erotic film set hidden under a billionaire’s lake house.

Black walls absorbed every sound. A massive seamless white paper roll swept from ceiling to floor like an endless canvas. Overhead, a grid of steel beams held softboxes, strobes, and enough cables to rig a rock concert. One corner was pure luxury: velvet chaise, silk sheets, a crystal chandelier that looked like dripping ice. Another corner was pure dungeon: a padded leather bench with restraints bolted to the floor, a St. Andrew’s cross leaning against the wall, coils of red and black rope hanging from hooks like sleeping snakes. A tall cabinet stood open, shelves lined with toys I didn’t even have names for—gleaming metal, glossy silicone, things that looked expensive and painful and terrifyingly beautiful.

My pulse thudded so loud I was sure he could hear it across the room.

Cassian stood in the center, phone to his ear, gesturing with one hand while he spoke in rapid, low French. He wore black from head to toe, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and faint silver scars I didn’t remember from when I was a kid. The camera I’d seen last night now rested on a tripod, lens pointed at the white seamless like it was waiting for its next victim.

He ended the call with a clipped au revoir and turned to me, expression unreadable.

“Close the door.”

I did, because arguing felt pointless.

He crossed the room in three strides, stopping just outside my personal space.

“First rule,” he said quietly. “When we’re in here, you speak only when I ask you a direct question. You move only when I tell you to move. You watch, you learn, you stay out of the frame unless I put you in it. Understood?”

I swallowed. “Yes.”

His eyebrow lifted.

“Yes, Sir,” I corrected, hating how small my voice sounded.

A flicker of approval crossed his face, gone as fast as it came.

“Good. Your job is simple. You hand me what I ask for, you adjust lights when I tell you, you keep water and towels ready. Nothing else.” He glanced at his watch. “Client’s early. She’ll be here any second.”

As if he’d summoned her, the door opened without a knock.

She walked in like she owned the place.

Early twenties, maybe twenty-three, all long legs and confidence wrapped in a cream cashmere coat that probably cost more than my car. Blonde hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders. She had the kind of face that made people stop mid-sentence on the street—high cheekbones, full mouth painted red, eyes the color of expensive champagne.

She dropped a designer tote by the door and crossed straight to Cassian, arms sliding around his neck like they’d done this a thousand times. He let her, one hand settling low on her waist while she pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Cassian, darling,” she purred, accent British and posh. “I’ve been dying for this shoot all week.”

He smiled down at her, the same easy smile he used to give Mom when she danced around the kitchen in her apron, and my stomach twisted so hard I almost gagged.

Then she turned to me, smile still in place but sharper now, assessing.

“And who’s this?”

Cassian’s hand left her waist. He gestured toward me like he was presenting a new appliance.

“Sarah, meet Ivy. Ivy’s my assistant for the week.” A pause, deliberate and cruel. “My stepdaughter.”

The word hit me like a slap. I stared at him, disgust boiling up so hot I could taste it.

Stepdaughter.

After everything Mom had told me, after the cheating, the lies, the way he’d vanished the day the divorce was final, he still used that word like it belonged to him. Like I belonged to him.

Sarah’s perfectly groomed brows lifted. She looked me up and down—boots, jeans, plain sweater, messy ponytail—and her smile turned pitying.

“Oh, how adorable,” she said, voice dripping honey over broken glass. “Family helping family. How sweet.”

I wanted to scream that I wasn’t here by choice, that I was being blackmailed with my dead mother’s debt, that the man she was kissing had bought my life for seven nights. Instead I stood there mute, fists clenched at my sides, hating them both.

Cassian’s gaze flicked to me, something dark and knowing flashing behind his eyes.

“Sarah’s one of my best clients,” he said casually. “We’ve been working together for two years. Today’s theme is surrender in silk. Very tasteful. Very expensive.”

Sarah laughed and shrugged off her coat, letting it pool on the floor. Underneath she wore nothing but a black silk robe so thin it was practically transparent. Her body was flawless, toned and tanned and shameless. She stepped out of her heels, rolled her shoulders, and the robe slipped lower, revealing the curve of one breast.

I looked away, cheeks burning.

Cassian didn’t. He watched her the way a wolf watches something it’s already decided to devour.

“Ivy,” he said without taking his eyes off Sarah, “hang Sarah’s coat and bring the silk restraints from the cabinet. The crimson ones.”

My feet felt glued to the floor.

Sarah tilted her head, smile turning wicked. “Don’t be shy, darling. Cassian’s very gentle the first time.”

Cassian’s lips curved, but his voice stayed level. “Now, Ivy.”

I forced myself forward, picked up the coat, hung it on the rack by the door. Every step toward the cabinet felt like walking deeper into quicksand. The crimson ropes were soft as butter in my hands, heavier than they looked. I carried them back and held them out to him like an offering.

He took them without touching my fingers.

Sarah watched the exchange, eyes glittering with amusement.

Cassian looped the rope once around his fist, testing the weight, then looked straight at me.

“Today you just watch,” he said softly. “Tomorrow we’ll see how good you are at following directions when the camera’s pointed at someone who actually wants to be here.”

Sarah laughed again, low and delighted, and stepped onto the seamless paper, letting the robe slide off her shoulders completely.

I stood there holding my breath, ropes still warm from his hand, while the first flash went off and the studio filled with the sound of silk hitting the floor.

And somewhere inside my chest, something cracked wide open—rage, shame, and something darker I didn’t have a name for yet.

Because the worst part wasn’t that he was about to photograph a naked woman while I stood three feet away.

The worst part was the tiny, treacherous pulse between my thighs that wondered what it would feel like when he finally decided tomorrow had come.

The studio lights were merciless. They turned Sarah’s skin to warm gold and made every bead of sweat on her collarbone glisten like a jewel. Cassian moved around her in slow, predatory circles, camera clicking in short, controlled bursts. Each flash froze her in a different stage of surrender: wrists crossed above her head, crimson rope looped in perfect diamonds across her ribs, back arched so sharply I thought her spine might snap.

“Open your knees wider,” he said, voice low and steady. “Let me see how much you want this.”

Sarah obeyed instantly, thighs parting, breath hitching on a soft moan that echoed off the black walls. The rope framed her like a gift. She looked ruined and radiant at the same time.

I stood three feet away holding a silver reflector, arms aching, cheeks burning so hot I was sure the heat would melt the foil. Every order he gave her slid under my skin and twisted.

Look at me, Sarah.

Good girl.

Hold it right there—don’t move until I say.

That’s it, breathe for me.

I had watched p**n before (quietly, guiltily, on my laptop with headphones), but this was different. This was live. This was real breath and real goosebumps and the real scent of arousal thick in the air. And I was part of the production: adjusting a light here, handing him a longer rope there, wiping condensation off a lens when he asked. My hands shook every time our fingers brushed.

I hated that my body was reacting. Hated the slick throb between my legs, the way my nipples tightened against my bra, the way I had to press my thighs together when he murmured perfect right before the shutter snapped.

Sarah was lost in it, eyes glassy, lips parted, trembling on the edge he refused to let her fall over. Cassian crouched low, camera angled up between her legs, and said, almost tenderly, “You’re dripping for me, sweetheart. The lens can see everything.”

She whimpered.

I nearly dropped the reflector.

Cassian’s head turned a fraction. He didn’t stop shooting, but I felt the weight of his attention shift to me like a physical touch. He saw the flush on my neck, the way I couldn’t stand still, the way my chest rose too fast.

“Break,” he said suddenly, lowering the camera.

Sarah let out a frustrated little whine, but he was already on his feet, tossing a black silk robe toward her. She caught it, pouting, and slipped it on without bothering to tie the belt. The fabric gaped open, revealing everything the ropes had framed minutes ago.

Cassian crossed the studio in four long strides and stopped in front of me. Too close. His chest nearly brushed mine. The heat rolling off him carried the faint scent of darkroom chemicals and warm skin.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly, so only I could hear. “Talk to me.”

I stared at the center of his throat because I couldn’t look him in the eye. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” His voice dropped even lower. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Everything. Nothing. The way you say good girl like it’s a drug. The way she looks at you like you’re a god. The way my body is screaming for something I swore I’d never want from you.

I shook my head, lips pressed tight.

He studied me for a long second, then reached out and took the reflector from my numb fingers. When his knuckles grazed mine, electricity shot straight to my core and I jerked back a step.

“I need air,” I whispered. “I just— I need to get out of this room.”

His eyes narrowed, not angry, calculating. Like he could see the pulse hammering at the base of my throat and knew exactly what it meant.

“Ivy—”

“Please.” My voice cracked on the word.

He didn’t move, didn’t let me pass. The air between us felt thick enough to choke on. Sarah watched from the chaise, sipping water, legs crossed like a queen waiting for the next act.

Cassian leaned in until his lips almost brushed my ear. His breath was warm, deliberate.

“You’re soaked, aren’t you?” he murmured, so low I barely heard it. “I can smell it on you. You’re standing here pretending to be disgusted, but your little body is begging for the exact same thing she’s getting.”

I flinched so hard my shoulder hit the wall.

He straightened, expression unreadable again, and stepped aside—just enough for me to escape.

“Go,” he said, soft but final. “Take five. Cool off. But don’t think for a second this conversation is over.”

I bolted.

I didn’t stop until I reached the hallway upstairs, slamming the bathroom door behind me and locking it with shaking fingers. I braced both hands on the marble counter, staring at my reflection: pupils blown wide, lips swollen like I’d been kissing someone, cheeks scarlet.

Between my legs I was drenched. My panties clung to me, useless. I could feel how swollen I was, how empty, how one accidental brush of my own fingers might send me over the edge I’d been teetering on for the last hour.

I turned the cold tap on full and splashed water on my face, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. Because he was right.

And when I closed my eyes I could still hear his voice telling Sarah to open wider, still see the way her body obeyed before her mind even caught up.

I pressed my thighs together and hated myself for the moan that slipped out.

Downstairs, the shoot would start again any minute.

He was waiting for me to come back.

And God forgive me, some desperate, broken part of me already wanted to run straight into the fire just to know how much it would burn.