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But I don’t.
Because the truth is, my body likes belonging to him. The same body that used to flinch at every demand now aches when he walks away. The same mind that was once so sure of its own independence now finds a strange safety in the structure of his control.
And maybe that terrifies me most of all.
Still, I lift my chin. “I wear this dress, this collar… it doesn’t mean I’ve submitted.”
“No,” he says, stepping closer. “But it means you’re choosing not to fight me. At least not today.”
And that is fucking that. Because he’s right. Again.
He helps me dress. No words. Just fingers zipping silk, smoothing fabric, adjusting my hair so the collar is clearly visible. Every brush of his touch is a quiet reminder:I’m watching. I see you.
When I finally meet my reflection again, I don’t see a thief.
I see something darker. Something bolder.
Someone who might be falling.
He offers his hand. “Shall we, little thief?”
I hesitate. Terrified. Because that sounds less of an accusation and more of a caress. A fond endearment.
Then I slip my fingers into his.
Dante
She walksone step behind me.
Just like I told her to. Just like she agreed to, with a flash of defiance and a husky “Yes, Sir.”
The collar is gold against her throat, glittering in the late morning sun like a promise. Or a warning. The silk dress I picked clings to her curves in all the right places, swaying with each hesitant step. She’s trying to look casual, to keep her eyes up, shoulders straight.
But I can see it.
The flush on her cheeks. The tension in her neck. The way her thighs brush together like she’s hyper-aware of what’snotbeneath the dress.
No bra. No panties.
Just my rules. My cum still lingering in her mouth from the shower. Her cum still lingering inside her from her surrender.
Mine.
We stroll into the glass-and-steel lobby of a private art gallery I own under a shell company. It’s closed for the weekend, save for the two security guards I instructed to disappear before we arrived.
I like my toys like I live my life. Private.
But I want her seen. Her fire is too beautiful to hide under the bushel of my sins.
She walks beside me now, eyes scanning the walls, drinking in the paintings, the sculptures, the obscene wealth it all represents.
I built this place as a front, but also a distraction. A curated illusion of taste and control.
Today, she is the only masterpiece I care about.
“I can feel you watching me,” she murmurs, not quite meeting my gaze.  I smile. Stunned when my face doesn’t crack into a thousand pieces. “Good. Because I am.”
Her dark blue eyes flick toward me, a challenge beneath the nerves. Her lips are still kiss-swollen. Her scent—clean skin, arousal, something I’m starting to crave like fucking oxygen—lingers in the air between us.