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The dress is laid out like an offering across my bed, a black body-hugging thing with a sweetheart neckline that grazes the knees. I smooth my hands over the fabric, checking for wrinkles I know aren’t there. It’s the dress I’ve been saving, the one reserved for something important, something pivotal, and tonight it fulfills its purpose.

I slip it on carefully, the ritual precise: left arm, right arm, zipper drawn slowly, the click of teeth locking into place. I examine myself in the mirror, turning slightly to the left, slightly to the right, ensuring the dress falls just as it should. I take in the curve of my waist, the line of my shoulders, and whisper aloud, “Perfect,”

though I know I will check again in fifteen minutes.

I skip the flat iron this time, leaving my hair in its natural state—wild, spiraling, unpredictable. It feels wrong at first, the weight of the curls foreign against my face, but I tell myself it adds authenticity. I am not supposed to look too polished, I am supposed to look like a woman on the verge.

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The next task is: practicing my face. I sit before the mirror, testing expressions like an actress preparing for her role. Sad, but not desperate. Vulnerable, but not weak. My mouth curves downward

slightly, my eyes cast just enough to seem weighted with sorrow. I practice furrowing my brow, tilting my head. “Nathan,” I say

aloud, testing my tone. “I know we just met but I need help. I’m being evicted. I don’t know where else to turn.”

The words sound too dramatic, so I adjust. “Nathan, I don’t know how to say this, but I’m in a tight spot financially. It’s humiliating to even ask, but I thought maybe...”

My voice trails off, and I nod. That’s the one.

The preparation consumes me. My eyes flick to the clock every few minutes. Four hours until we meet. My hands itch for something to do, so I reapply my lipstick, blot, and reapply again. I rearrange the contents of my purse, ensuring everything has its place: wallet, phone, a compact for touch-ups, gum, a folded tissue for the tears I might summon if needed.

By the time I’m ready, the dress has been inspected ten times, the mirror rehearsals repeated until my expressions are muscle memory. I sit on the edge of my bed, rigid, knees together, hands folded neatly in my lap. I’ve allowed myself no room for error.

The hours crawl by, measured in small, compulsive tasks. I set an alarm for thirty minutes before I need to leave, then set a second alarm for ten minutes earlier, just in case. I refresh Nathan’s messages, though I know there’s nothing new. I rehearse my lines one more time, not because I’ve forgotten them but because I need to fill the silence.

By the time I finally step out the door, my mind is a well-oiled machine, every thought aligned in perfect sequence. My heels click on the pavement as I make my way to the car, the sound sharp, grounding. I’ve done everything I can to prepare, and yet a small, gnawing doubt lingers, whispering that it still might not be enough.

The restaurant stands in stark relief against the darkening sky, its signage orderly, illuminated in soft white. Gino’s.

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I park three spaces away, ensuring enough room to open my door fully without grazing the neighboring vehicle. My engine hums for an extra five seconds before I turn it off, giving me time to prepare mentally.

I glance at the clock on the dashboard. Six p.m. One hour early. I allow the minute to tick over to 6:01 before I exhale and settle back into the seat. My purse rests squarely on the passenger seat, the clasp aligned with the seam of the upholstery. I run through my checklist: lines memorized, appearance checked, arrival accounted for. Still, the anxiety simmers, so I rehearse again.

“Nathan, I need to talk to you about something.”

Too abrupt. I try again, softer this time: “Nathan, I’m in a difficult situation, and I don’t know who else to turn to.”

That feels closer, but I repeat it three more times to ensure it sticks.

My phone sits untouched for exactly four minutes before I pick it up, opening the sugar daddy app as a way to occupy the idle time. Notifications spill across the screen: messages from men I haven’t responded to, each one marked with a timestamp. I click into the first out of habit, scanning his profile for inconsistencies. He claims to own three properties in Dubai, but his photos look suspiciously like stock images. I delete the message without responding.

The next profile is more convincing. A CFO with a taste for fine art. I craft a response. playful but detached, careful not to betray any real interest.

Sounds interesting. What kind of art do you collect?

I hit send and the regret is immediate, sharp, like the sting of a paper cut you don’t see coming. The question feels too much, too eager—a small betrayal of the indifference I was trying to cultivate. What does it matter what kind of art he collects? I don’t care. Not really. But now I’ve turned the conversation into something that feels open-ended, something that requires care.

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The phone is heavy in my hand, a tether to something I can’t name but can’t quite let go. I imagine his answer before it arrives, the familiar script. He’ll list the artists, the pieces, each name a carefully chosen testament to his taste. Maybe he’ll mention Rothko, because everyone knows Rothko, or some obscure name I won’t bother to Google, a flex wrapped in pretense.

And then, the inevitable softening: I really love supporting local artists, you know? There’s something special about discovering someone before they make it big. The sentence will be just the right mix of virtue and vulnerability, a self-portrait painted with words that say, Look at me. Aren’t I good? Aren’t I generous?

I imagine him curating this response, arranging it like an exhibition of himself, and something tightens in my chest. Not anger, not quite, but something adjacent—a bitterness, a knowing. Men like him don’t just collect art; they collect admiration. They want to be seen not for who they are but for what they gather; like a large collection of Funko Pops or a room full of old sports memorabilia actually means something. Though collecting art isn’t as egregious my thoughts still remain the same: Very cool dude, but that doesn’t mean you’re a good person.

The clock on my dashboard reads 6:15 PM. I’ve only killed fourteen minutes. I cycle through the app again, responding to three more messages, all variations on the same theme: polite, aloof, calculated. My interactions are clinical, a way to fill the time, though I know they’re ultimately meaningless. After tonight, I tell myself, I won’t need this app anymore. Nathan is different. Nathan is endgame.

At 6:35 PM, I glance up at the restaurant. Couples filter in and out with steady rhythm, the door swinging on well-oiled hinges. I imagine Nathan’s arrival: the sound of his shoes on the tile, the tilt of his head as he searches for me. My chest tightens.

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I check my makeup in the visor mirror, not because I suspect it’s flawed, but because I need to ensure it’s perfect. Lipstick, smooth. Foundation, even. I adjust the straps of my dress for the third time, though they haven’t moved. I’m stalling, I know, but the routine calms me.

At 6:50 PM, I take a final look at the clock, allowing a single deep breath before I step out of the car. My heels click against the pavement in even intervals, a rhythm that feels grounding. I push open the restaurant door and immediately all of my senses are pleased. It’s nothing like the trashy Italian bistro Kennedy and I go to, with its sticky vinyl seats, it’s loud pop-rock music always blaring over the speakers coupled with the back of the house kitchen screaming and cursing at each other.

Gino’s is dazzling, blurry, old Hollywood beautiful. It was a place where big deals were made, where political figures dined, all othem drunk on whiskey and laughing loud, it was a place where proposals were a show, they even made room for it— right in the middle of the restaurant where everyone can look on and clap and ooh and aww for the newly engaged couple. It was a place where groups of upperclass women who lied about how old they were turning gathered for birthdays, their pillowy lips blowing out bright, sparkly candles as they balanced giant garish tiaras on top of their heads. And it was precisely, the type of place, where older wealthy men took their sugar babies for dinner.

I take a moment to adjust to the dim light, the ambient hum of conversation and then I approach the hostess stand with faux confidence, his name already forming on my tongue. “Reservation for two, under Nathan.”

She smiles, checks her list, and gestures for me to follow. My heart pounds in steady beats as she leads me to the table. The symmetry of the dining room, the soft clink of cutlery, the orderliness of it should soothe me, but it doesn’t. My chest feels

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tight, my thoughts spiraling into contingencies I haven’t accounted for.

I lower myself into the chair, smoothing my dress as I sit. I glance at my phone, refreshing Nathan’s last message even though I’ve already memorized it. My hands rest neatly on the table, fingers interlaced. I tell myself I’m ready, but the voice in my head whispers otherwise.

The restaurant hums with a steady rhythm: forks tapping porcelain, muffled laughter, the rise and fall of voices. I scan the room, cataloging every detail as if I’ll need to reconstruct it later. An elderly couple at the next table shares a dessert, their spoons clinking together lovingly. Across the room, a sweaty man who reminds me of the Pillsbury doughboy leans too far over his plate, his tie dangling dangerously close to a pool of marinara. His date, who looks fabulous in a emerald green dress doesn’t look impressed by him and I wonder for a second if we are kindred spirits.

My phone buzzes, jolting me. I look down and see Nathan’s message:

Hey, I’m here. Are you inside already?

The words are casual, unassuming, but they send a ripple through my chest. I type back quickly:

Yes I’m at the table near the back

No punctuation—it feels too stiff, too formal. I hit send, my thumb hovering for a split second longer than necessary, and then I set the phone down carefully, aligning it with the edge of the table.

I reach for my water glass, the condensation cooling my fingers. I take a sip, then another, spacing out the motions as if I can drink away the seconds. Two minutes pass, though it feels stretched thin, elastic and brittle. Then I see him.

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Nathan steps into the room, his eyes scanning the space with quiet purpose. He wears a crisp white shirt under a charcoal blazer, tailored just enough to suggest care without effort. His hair is freshly cut—short and neat, with the slightest hint of product that catches the light. The sides look sharper, newer, and I imagine him in the barber’s chair, leaning forward just slightly as someone

sculpted his edges. It’s the kind of detail that most people wouldn’t notice, but I do.

He spots me, and I feel it immediately—the tension in my shoulders, the way my stomach tightens as though bracing for impact. I place the glass back on the table, centering it exactly where it was before, as if this small act will heal me.

When he reaches the table, he smiles, his teeth slightly uneven in a way that feels disarming. “You look great, Gia,”

he says, his voice warm but quiet, the compliment landing between us like something private.

“Thank you,”

I say, my tone steady, rehearsed. “You, too.”

He sits down, adjusting the blazer as he does, and I notice the way his watch glints under the light. My eyes flicker to his hands—strong, capable, but not overly manicured. Everything about him feels curated, yet effortlessly so.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,”

he says, leaning back slightly in his chair.

“No, not at all,”

I say. The hour I spent in my car suddenly feels distant, irrelevant.

The waiter appears dropping off two menus and Nathan orders a glass of bourbon whiskey. I decline a drink, sticking to water. I never drink. Alcohol feels too risky—too unpredictable. It also reminds me of my father.

“So,”

he says, leaning forward now, his arms resting on the table. “How’s your day been?”

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The question is simple, but it catches me off guard. For a moment, I forget the lines I’ve rehearsed.

“Good,”

I say, my voice steady. “Productive.”

He nods, waiting for me to elaborate, but I don’t. Instead, I let the silence settle between us, watching him as he studies me. I wonder what he sees—if he notices the tension in my shoulders, the way my fingers rest too precisely on the edge of the table.

“Are you always this reserved? Always this...I don’t know how to explain it,”

He waves his hands in the air like he’s casting a spell. “Stiff?”

he finally lands on, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I feel my cheeks flush, and I let out a soft laugh. “Sometimes.”

That’s not true. I’m always like this, but it’s an answer that satisfies him. He chuckles, and the sound makes me jump. For a moment, I forget why I’m here, why I’m doing this.

“So,”

he sighs, leaning back slightly, his arms crossing over his chest in a way that seems relaxed but reads as controlled. His eyes search mine, and I know what’s coming before he even says it. “You said you needed help. I’m assuming this is about money?”

My stomach flips, and I feel heat creep up my neck, but I nod, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. The moment feels suspended, stretched taut, like the seconds before a rubber band snaps.

“Yes,”

I say, the word crisp and singular, leaving no room for ambiguity. My voice is steady, but my fingers twitch under the table, itching to trace the grain of the wood or the edge of my napkin.

He tilts his head, studying me, and I feel like a specimen pinned under glass. His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, not quite a frown. “Okay,”

he says, drawing the word out. “How much are we talking?”

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I swallow, my throat dry despite the water I’ve been nursing. I’ve rehearsed this moment countless times, running through every possible reaction he might have, every tone he might use. “I’m behind on rent,”

I say, voice steady. “A couple of days late. It’s twelve hundred dollars.”

Nathan’s brow furrows, his lips pressing together just slightly. His fingers tap the table once, a single, controlled motion. It’s not nothing. I watch him closely, cataloging every movement, every micro expression, like data in an experiment I don’t fully understand.

“And what happens after that?” he asks.

It’s not the response I expected. “What do you mean?”

“What happens next month? Or the month after that?”

he says, his voice is the tone of someone accustomed to having the upper hand. “Do you plan to come to me every time you’re short?”

The words hit like a flat stone in my chest, sinking with no ripple. I hadn’t thought that far ahead—or I had, but I told myself not to; let future me worry about it.

“I’ll figure something out,”

I say too quickly, the words tumbling over themselves. They sound hollow, even to me. “This is just... a rough patch.”

I consider telling him about the job interview, about the sliver of hope I’ve carved out for myself, but I keep it to myself. It feels too small to offer him, too flimsy to count as proof of anything.

He exhales through his nose and it sounds like a deflating ballon. He leans forward, his elbows on the table, closing the space between us, making me smaller by comparison. “Look,”

he says, “like I said the other day, I don’t mind helping. But this”—he gestures between us, a vague motion that somehow includes the table, the space, the silence—“has to be clear. If this is about money, just say that. If it’s something else, I need to know that too.”

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“It’s about money,”

I say, sharper this time. The words feel stark, naked on the table between us.

He nods, a slow, purposeful motion, like he’s weighing their truth. I feel a flicker of relief.

“Alright,”

he says, finally. “We’ll figure something out. But I have something to show you before I decide to move forward with you.”

The sentence is a puzzle, heavy with implications I can’t yet name. I want to ask why he’s even on a sugar dating site if he doesn’t want things to be about money. The question hangs in my throat, thick and bitter, but I swallow it down, smoothing the napkin on my lap like a balm.

Instead, I ask: “So, what do you do?”

The question is light, casual on the surface, but I mean it with weight. I need specifics, a foothold in this uneven terrain. His profile says finance, but that could mean anything: investment banking, accounting, even one of those cryptocurrency schemes. I need details. Specifics. My fingers twitch under the table, wanting to write down his answer, to catalog it, analyze it later.

He hesitates, the smallest flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “I work with portfolios,”

he says, each word neat but deliberately vague. “Helping clients manage their investments.”

It’s nothing, a placeholder answer that leaves no room for real understanding. It irritates me in a way I didn’t expect, makes me want to press harder, but before I can, the waitress interrupts with a smile that feels pasted on.

“Have you two decided?”

she asks, pen poised.

“Two spaghetti Bolognese,”

Nathan says, his voice quick, authoritative, as if he’s a judge who slammed his gavel down to declare our meal. “And a bottle of red.”

I blink, caught off guard. He ordered for me. My brain stumbles over this, the presumption of it. I don’t even like Bolognese. I’ve already imagined the acidic sauce staining my lips, the mess of it

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lingering too long. It feels too uncouth for sugar dating. I wanted oysters or crab cakes, something sexy. Spaghetti bolognese were for couples on the brink of divorce.

“Thank you,”

I say to the waitress reflexively. She widens her eyes at me. Get a load of this guy. I smile and cartoonishly widen my eyes back at her before she leaves the table. I love how we can telepathically converse like that. It was one of the only things women had that men couldn’t take away.

“You like Bolognese, right?”

Nathan asks, a faint curve of amusement at the edge of his mouth.

“Sure,”

I lie. The word feels sour in my mouth.

I sip my water again, this time more slowly. I’m holding it too tightly, I realize, my fingers tense around the rim. I set it down carefully before I break the glass.

“Have you always been in finance?”

I ask, redirecting the conversation into safer waters, though my pulse quickens at the thought of him dodging again. I want something real from him, something I can pick apart later.

I wanted an arrangement for money, but even in that, I still want to know with who. I still want to look across the table and see a person instead of an outline, to hear something real in the spaces between the practiced lines. Men can sleep with anyone without knowing their name, their favorite color, what keeps them awake at night. They can touch a body without wondering about the life that inhabits it.

But women—women require more. Not much more, not always, but enough to tether the act to something tangible. It’s not just the mechanics of connection; it’s the context, the shape of the person behind the hands. Who are you when you’re not here, sitting across from me? What’s your damage, your desire, your history? What do you see when you close your eyes at night? I’m not asking for love or even for vulnerability. Just something sharp enough to make the

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moment stick. Something to make me feel like I’m not vanishing into nothingness the second this ends.

Because that’s what it feels like, being here with him. He is a smoothed-over surface, glossy and opaque, withholding just enough to keep me at bay. And I hate how much I care. How much I want to peel him apart, layer by layer, until I can see the raw, messy thing underneath. It’s not romance—it’s curiosity. It’s wanting to know who I will be giving myself to.

He nods, but his answer is noncommittal, the details slipping away like sand through my fingers. I hate the slipperiness of it, the way he refuses to let me pin him down.

The pasta arrives, steaming and rich, and I force myself to smile, to mirror his calm. But my mind spins, replaying his words, dissecting his gestures, the uneven power of this arrangement laid bare between us.

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The restaurant hums with a quiet, mechanical efficiency, the kind that smooths over the chaos of human presence. Forks scraping against porcelain. Laughter muffled by the low hum of ambient jazz. Voices rise and fall like waves, colliding, dissipating, and disappearing into the fabric of the space. I keep my gaze fixed on my plate, my fork absently tracing the edges of the pasta I’ve barely touched. Nathan doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t ask if I enjoyed the meal or why I’ve basically left it untouched, only taking a few small bites. He just signals for the check, and when it comes, he throws down a stack of money like it’s nothing.

“Ready?”

he asks, shrugging his blazer back into place as he stands. I nod, my throat too tight to form words.

Outside, the air bites at my cheeks, crisp and sharp in a way that feels violent. “Follow me in your car?”

he says, gesturing toward the sleek black sedan waiting for him at the curb, the valet holding the door open like a scene from a movie.

I nod again, my head bobbing mechanically. My legs carry me toward my car, each step feeling heavier than the last. Inside, I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles pale. What does he want to show me? Is this some kind of test? A game? My chest tightens at the thought, and for a moment, I consider turning around, driving home, erasing the night from memory. But then the image of the eviction notice flashes in my mind and something in me pulls tight. I put the car into gear and follow him.

The city falls away quickly, the bright lights and crowded streets replaced by wide, tree-lined avenues and the quiet, measured order of suburban wealth and then eventually, the middle of nowhere. Each turn feels like a step deeper into something I don’t

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understand, a path I can’t retrace. I count them anyway—right, left, left again—committing the route to memory, a lifeline I might need later.

Twenty minutes pass, and then we’re pulling into the driveway of a secluded house that doesn’t look real. It’s too big, too polished, its windows glowing softly against the darkening sky. I park behind him, my breath catching as I step out of the car.

“This way,”

he says, his tone light, casual, like he’s not subjecting me to whatever this is. I follow him up the path, my heels clicking against the stone, the sound unnervingly loud in the silence.

Inside, the house is immaculate, every detail curated to within an inch of its life. Clean lines, muted tones, furniture that looks like it’s never been touched. It smells faintly of cedar and something sharper, like a strong cleaning solution. It doesn’t feel like a home. It feels like a set.

He leads me to a room at the back of the house, flicking on the light. The space is small, intimate. A study or an office, though the desk is too pristine, the bookshelves too perfectly arranged. There are two lounge chairs, black leather, their surfaces gleaming under the soft overhead light. He gestures for me to sit in the one by the window. I hesitate, my gaze drawn to the far corner of the room. That’s when I see the cage.

It is big, larger than any I’ve seen before, with thick metal bars painted a dull black. My eyes fixate on it immediately, and my mind starts cataloging the details: the latches on the door, the way it sits perfectly parallel to the wall, the faint sheen on the surface that suggests it’s been recently cleaned.

“Do you have a dog?”

I ask. I don’t particularly like dogs—their unpredictability, the mess they bring. If we were to end up in a long-term arrangement, this is something I would need to adjust to.

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I make a mental note: Research dog breeds, behavioral traits, nearby dog parks. Find ways to tolerate them.

He smiles faintly, shaking his head. “No, no. I don’t have a dog.”

His answer should be comforting, but it isn’t. The absence of a dog doesn’t explain the cage, its size, its strange placement in the corner of an otherwise meticulously curated room. I force myself not to stare at it for too long, but my eyes keep drifting back, tracing the clean lines of its frame, the way it commands the space without being intrusive.

“Oh,”

I say simply. I don’t ask any follow-up questions, though the urge to know—to understand—is nearly overwhelming. I make another mental note: Don’t press. Let it go.

But I can’t let it go, not entirely. The cage looms in the corner of my vision, a quiet enigma. I tell myself there must be a practical explanation. Storage, perhaps, or something left behind by a previous tenant. My mind begins constructing scenarios, each one more plausible than the last.

He watches me closely, his gaze steady but unreadable, as though he’s waiting for me to ask something more. But I don’t. Instead, I force a small smile and fold my hands neatly in front of me, fingers laced tightly together, as though holding them still will keep my thoughts from spiraling.

He sits across from me, his eyes fixed on mine, glinting faintly in the dim light of the room. The silence between us stretches, each second marked like the tick of a clock. I feel the weight of his gaze, steady and unblinking, and my hands curl tightly in my lap, fingers pressing into my palms in rhythmic beats to ground myself.

Finally, he rises, his movements calm, calculated. He crosses the room with purpose, the sound of his shoes soft against the hardwood floor.

My eyes follow him as he reaches for something hung up behind the door, something I cannot see at first. My

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breath catches as he turns, and for a moment, the edges of the object blur in the low light before coming into sharp focus.

A collar. Black leather, gleaming with silver studs.

He approaches me slowly, holding it in both hands as though it’s something precious, sacred. My pulse quickens, each beat overwhelming, as I try to process what I’m seeing.

“Stand up,”

he says gently, his voice low and calm, the kind of tone one might use to soothe a child or an animal.

I hesitate, my mind racing through possibilities, none of them clear. But my body responds before my brain can catch up, and I rise to my feet. The chair scrapes softly against the floor, and I flinch at the sound.

He steps closer, and I can feel the heat of his presence. He moves behind me, his hand brushing against my hair as he gently pulls it to one side. The action is intimate, and my breath catches in my throat. I hear the faint click of the clasp as he secures the collar around my neck. It’s snug but not tight, resting against my skin like an unfamiliar weight.

He steps back in front of me. His eyes are low now, his gaze heavy. I recognize the look immediately, though I have little experience with men like him. It’s primal, hungry, and unmistakable. Every woman knows that look.

“You look amazing with that on,”

he says in a voice that’s barely above a whisper, deep and smooth like a blade slicing through the air.

My hand rises automatically, fingers brushing against the leather. It’s cool to the touch. “What—what is this?”

I ask, my voice unsteady, almost inaudible.

He stares at me, the faint glimmer of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. But his expression shifts, darkening, his features hardening into something sharper, more sinister. My

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stomach tightens, and my fingers curl around the edge of the collar, the smooth leather suddenly feeling oppressive.

“This,”

he says, pausing as if savoring the moment, “is your audition,”

the words hang in the air, heavy and sharp. I blink, my thoughts spiraling, searching for meaning. “Get on your hands and knees,”

he says, his tone still calm, almost coaxing. “And bark like a dog.”

I stare at him, the words not registering at first, my brain stalling as it tries to catch up. My breathing quickens, my chest tightening with confusion and disbelief.

This is what he wants. This is what he’s into. The realization lands heavily, the puzzle pieces clicking into place.

I don’t move. I can’t. I stand there, frozen, my thoughts spiraling into a loop of questions I can’t answer, possibilities I can’t predict. The weight of his request settling over me like a thick fog and my mind spirals, calculating every angle, every consequence. Do it, don’t do it, what happens if I refuse, what happens if I don’t? The questions loop endlessly, each one louder than the last.

His gaze doesn’t waver, it is calm and steady, as though he already knows what I’ll choose. I inhale deeply, the leather of the collar pressing lightly against my throat. Slowly, I lower myself to the ground. My knees press against the hardwood floor, my hands following, palms flat against the cool surface. I feel absurd. My hair falls into my face as I glance down, my fingers trembling slightly. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a relentless rhythm that matches the tempo of my spiraling thoughts.

“Good,”

he says softly, his voice low and approving.

I take another breath, deep and steady, and then I do it. A soft, tentative bark escapes my lips, barely audible at first. It feels strange, surreal, and my cheeks flush with heat as the sound hangs in the air. “Louder,”

he says, and there’s something almost gentle in his tone, as though he’s coaxing me forward.

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I try again, the bark louder this time, the sound bouncing off the walls of the small room. I feel silly, exposed, but I force myself to stay in place.

When I finally rise to my feet, brushing my hands against my dress to steady myself, I look up and see him smiling. It’s not the faint, polite smile I’ve seen before. It is wide, genuine, and warm, the kind of smile that transforms his face, making him seem less calculated, less controlled.

“You did great Gia,”

he says, his tone lighter now, almost playful.

I swallow hard, the heat still lingering on my cheeks, but his approval feels like a small victory, an odd sense of relief blooming in my chest. He liked it. That much is clear.

I touch the collar lightly, my fingers tracing the studs as I force myself to meet his gaze. “That’s what you wanted, right?”

I ask, reveling in the validation. My voice is steadier now, though the words feel surreal even as I speak them.

“Yes,”

he says simply, his smile never wavering. “Exactly what I wanted.”

For a moment, the tension in the room shifts, the air feeling less heavy. I stand there, back straight, my hands clasped together in front of me, the spiraling questions in my mind momentarily quiet. “As you can see, I have a very interesting sort of fetish,”

he says slowly.

“I do see,”

I say, my voice sounding faraway; detached.

He nods, his gaze never leaving mine. “I’m looking for someone to be my dog,”

he continues, pausing as if to let the words settle. “For eight hours everyday.”

The sentence lands heavily, each word clear and sharp, and my mind begins spiraling immediately, dissecting his tone, his posture, the exact phrasing he used.

Eight hours. Every day. Dog.

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The words loop in my head, a strange, rhythmic pulse I can’t shake. “Eight hours?”

I repeat, as though clarifying the logistics will make the concept more digestible. “That’s...a full workday.”

He chuckles softly, a sound that feels too light for the weight of the conversation. “Exactly. I believe in treating it like a job—because it is. A role with expectations, structure, and, of course, compensation.”

The word compensation pulls me back into focus. I nod slowly, processing, calculating. My hands fidget against the fabric of my dress, the leather collar still pressing lightly against my skin. “And what, exactly, does being your dog entail?”

His smile widens slightly, and he takes a step closer, his presence filling the small space between us. “It’s simple. You’ll wear the collar, spend the day as my pet. No talking, no standing on two legs, no human behavior unless I explicitly allow it.”

I swallow hard, my throat tightening around the collar. My mind floods with questions, each one branching into another. How would this work? What are the boundaries?

But one question was the most important.

“And the pay?”

I ask, my voice low, controlled, though my pulse is quickening.

“Generous,”

he says, his tone almost playful. “Enough to cover your rent—and then some. I am willing to pay off all your debt.”

I take a step back, needing space, needing air. My fingers brush against the edge of the desk behind me, grounding me.

“I thought you said you didn’t want anything transactional?”

He smiles again. “That was a test,”

he steps closer to me. “And besides, it’s not really transactional. I get more satisfaction from a beloved Girl Pet more than anything.”

His words settle heavy in my chest until I feel like I can’t breathe and the room is spinning. “I’ll... need to think about it,” I hear

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myself say as I look around the room. Anywhere but directly at him.

“Of course,”

he replies smoothly, as though he expected nothing less. “But I’ll need your answer soon. This kind of opportunity doesn’t come around often.”

His words hang in the air, a mix of promise and pressure. I nod again, my thoughts spiraling, unable to focus on anything but the weight of the collar around my neck and the faint glint in his eyes as he watches me.

“Well,”

he says, his voice light and steady, as if this conversation hasn’t been anything but extraordinary. “Since you need time to think about it, I’ll bid you adieu, my lady. Shall I walk you out?”

The casualness of his tone catches me off guard. My mind latches onto it, dissecting every word, every inflection, as though it might reveal some hidden meaning. I have so many questions—too many to organize neatly in my head. But I don’t ask any of them. Instead, I nod, my body responding automatically even as my mind spirals. He steps behind me and unbuckles the collar around my neck and then he leads me back through the house, his pace measured, his posture unhurried. The sound of his shoes tapping against the floor is sharp, rhythmic, each step an echo that feels oddly final. I count them instinctively—ten to the hallway, thirteen to the door.

When we get outside, I reach for my car handle, eager to leave, to escape the overwhelming weight of everything that has just happened. But before I can open the door, I feel his hand on my shoulder.

His grip is firm, not forceful, but enough to make my heart hitch forward, a beat out of sync. He turns me around, and for a moment, I can’t meet his eyes. I focus instead on the sharp line of his blazer, the faint glint of his watch, before I feel him press something into my hand.

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It’s heavy, firm. I look down, my mind already categorizing the texture and size before I fully process what it is. A roll of cash, thick and tightly bound.

“Twelve hundred,”

he says, his tone even, almost clinical. “Enough to pay your rent this month.”

I stare at him, my thoughts scrambling to connect the dots, to make sense of the gesture. The sheer physicality of the cash feels jarring, real in a way that the rest of this evening hasn’t.

“There’s more where that came from,”

he continues, his voice steady, calculated. “You’ll be getting double that. Every week.”

The words reverberate in my head, repeating in perfect loops. Double. Every week. I feel the edges of the bills pressing into my palm, grounding me even as my thoughts spiral.

I manage a nod, though it feels mechanical, disconnected from the storm inside my head. “Thank you,”

I say, the words soft and automatic, devoid of meaning but necessary to fill the silence.

He steps back, his hand falling away from my shoulder, and I turn quickly, sliding into the driver’s seat of my car. The door closes with a satisfying click, and I immediately lock it, pressing the button twice to ensure it is secure.

I start the engine and pull out of the driveway.

The drive home is silent, the roads dark and empty. My mind loops through the same thoughts, dissecting every moment, every word, every action. $1,200. Enough to pay rent. $2,400 every week after that. And he’s willing to pay off all my debt, whatever that means. The numbers click into place like puzzle pieces, the logic undeniable. That kind of money—it changes everything.

But then the other details intrude: the collar, the cage, the absurdity of barking, crawling, submitting to his strange requests. My chest tightens, and I grip the steering wheel harder, counting the ridges beneath my fingers as a way to steady myself.

Can I do this? Eight hours a day, every day, acting like a dog?

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The thought circles endlessly, intersecting with images of overdue bills, eviction notices, and Nathan’s steady, confident gaze.

I pull into my driveway, aligning my car perfectly with the curb. I sit for a moment, staring at the roll of cash before finally picking it up.

My fingers run over the smooth edges of the bills, the weight of them both reassuring and overwhelming.