by Shandi Boyes
My eyes widen. Clearly, she’s been watching me longer than I realized.
“I guess I should be flattered?” I reply, my tone confident.
Delilah peers into my eyes, her confusion evident.
"I'm so deeply embedded in your skin, you can't help but keep tabs on me," I inform her baffled expression. "Stalking is below you, Delilah. You should stick to fabricated stories on rock stars attending rehab."
Delilah scoffs as her expression turns from confused to enraged. “Shut your mouth, you stupid little twit. I’m not here for you. I’m here to do the job you failed to do. I am here to unearth the owner of Chains.” She skims her eyes over the crowd as if she is seeking Marcus amongst them.
Although her comment makes my spine bristle with annoyance, my desire to protect Marcus outweighs my need to retaliate against her name-calling. "This is a fundraising event, Delilah. Not a BDSM party. Whomever you're looking for is not here."
Her eyes missile to mine. The fury in them is so white-hot, the beading of sweat on my forehead sizzles. "What's the annual fee to be a member of Chains?" she questions with her brow arched high.
"One point two five million dollars," I reply, not needing time to deliberate. Unlike Delilah, I did my job as per Mr. Carson's specifications. I researched Chains so thoroughly, I know every detail of its business operations, which means I'm privy enough to know its clientele doesn't deserve Global Ten Media's callous investigation.
"And the current member figures stood at 241 clients last month," Delilah informs me, displaying she has increased her research the past two weeks. "That's over 300 million dollars annually just in membership fees. Then there is the entrance fee for each party, and goodness knows what else once they enter. That easily makes Chains a billion-dollar entity."
She drifts her eyes over the mass congregation of people mingling in the opulent ballroom. Her gaze lingers longer on people wearing chokers similar to mine. Although they are not quite as elaborate as mine, they do very much look like collars acceptable for subs to wear to this type of function.
“When there is an opportunity for money to be flaunted, men intimidated by real women come out in droves. I know he is here.” She returns her eyes to me. “I just need you to make a mistake so I can discover who he is.”
“That's never going to happen, Delilah,” I reply, crossing my arms over my chest.
She smirks a vicious smile. “It will happen, Cleo. It's not a matter of if. It's a matter of when.” Her tone is confident, like she has no doubt I am moments away from making a stupid mistake.
The angry glint in her eyes softens as she mutters, “It doesn’t matter how strong-willed you are, deceit cuts deep. Will you be strong enough to ignore it when it happens to you?”
“Who says that's going to happen to me?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Delilah looks down at me, her eyes full of pity. “While monogamy still has a place in the BDSM lifestyle, casual play and polyamory are the most readily acceptable and available options. BDSM players are known for compartmentalization to ensure their BDSM lifestyle doesn’t mix with their general lives,” she quotes, reciting some notes I took down early in my investigation.
“Men cheat. That's not a theory or an insinuation. They cheat. The only difference between normal men and men in the BDSM lifestyle is those connected with kink don’t need to seek permission to do it. It is ‘acceptable and readily available’ because women like you fail to see their self-worth.”
If she hadn’t sneered her words so viciously, I could have taken the last half of her statement as a compliment.
“Women in BDSM aren’t worthless, Delilah.”
“No? Then why do they sign a contract?” she interrupts, her tone firm yet piqued with interest.
“A Dom/sub contract is nothing more than a way of laying down a set of boundaries both parties agree to,” I quote, reciting what Marcus said in his kitchen weeks ago when he was trying to coerce me to be his sub.
I take a step back as my stomach swishes violently. My swirling insides have nothing to do with Delilah’s wrathful glare and everything to do with me recalling the last half of his statement. "It's a smart thing to do at the beginning of any relationship, as it means there will be less chance of disappointment when it ends."
When it ends. Ouch, that was a brutal fall back to reality I wasn’t expecting tonight.
“And the penny finally drops,” Delilah mockingly whispers.
The scent of her perfume lingers into my nose when she attempts to clasp my diamond choker in her hand. Since its hold on my throat is so firm, she can only run the tips of her fingers over it. When Cartier did the same thing, my body barely registered her touch. But since this is Delilah, my body reacts—and no, it isn’t in the way you're thinking. I’ve never had the urge to jump into a shower and scrub my skin. I do now.
"You see this as a collar of commitment. Everyone else sees it as a sentence. Depending on how well you behave, you might get two months, or you might get six, but eventually, your term will expire, and you'll be left hunting for the next man to collar you."
Stealing my chance to reply, Delilah leans in for a quick embrace like we are lifelong friends before she saunters back in the direction she came from, soon becoming lost in a sea of black tuxedos.
26
Tired of holding the satin train of my dress off the floor, I stand from my coward's post in the women's restroom stall and gather my purse off the waist-height countertop. This bathroom is so opulent, every stall is the size of a real-life bathroom. Black speckled counters glittered with gold flecks take up an entire wall; a large artisan sink floats in the middle of the wall, and the standard paper towels have been replaced with cloth ones.
I'd like to say its pleasant surroundings are why I've spent the last twenty minutes hiding out in the restroom, but unfortunately, it isn't. I'm spinelessly hiding, giving my brain a chance to break down my conversation with Delilah. Although from experience, I know I shouldn’t pay any attention to a single word Delilah utters, part of me can't help but absorb little snippets of it.
I researched the BDSM lifestyle for weeks. I know what she said is accurate, as I wrote it. That's the main reason I was adamant I'd never be a part of the lifestyle. I don't want an agreed amount of time stipulated in a contract or a set of rules to follow. I just want Marcus. But is that something I can have without the rest? His involvement in the BDSM lifestyle isn't just a slight interest. He is the very essence of BDSM. He has the respect, the wealth, and probably a long list of women vying to be his sub. Can I genuinely compete with that?
After washing my hands, I head to the black frosted glass door. My hand freezes halfway to the latch when the sound of high-pitched laughter rings through my ears. Although I don’t recognize the woman’s voice, her sneered comment in concert with her hearty laughter has piqued my interest.
"Did you see the size of her choker? She probably sees it as a grand gesture of his dedication, whereas we're all seeing it as a massive beacon for other Doms."
I remove my hand from the latch and take a step backward so my feet can't be seen under the door. Although I know better than to snoop, curiosity killed the cat.
Peering through the small crack in the door, I spot two females standing near a full-length mirror at the entrance of the restroom. Just like me, they are both collared.
"Do you think he'd share her?" the blonde with shoulder-length hair asks.
The redhead snaps her neck to the side so fast, I'm confident she's going to have whiplash. "Why? Are you failing in your duties so badly that your Master needs to seek other subs?"
The blonde runs her hand down the mid-length flare of her skirt. “No. It's just uncommon for Master Chains to share, so your assumption shocked me.”
The redhead stops applying a new sheen of lipstick to her lips so she can glare at the blonde. Her mouth gapes as her eyes bug. She isn't the only one stumped. I can barely inhale an entire breath.
The chance
of filling my lungs with air becomes a dream when the redhead snarls, “Master Chains may not share, but you know as well as I do, commitment is not his forte. That was the reason we chose our Doms. We want a long-term commitment.”
“No,” the blonde objects, shaking her head. “You want to get pregnant to force a wealthy man to marry you. I want. . .” She stops talking as the expression on her face turns neutral.
The redhead pegs her cylinder of lipstick at the blonde's head. "If you want love, you're in the wrong place. That ship sailed a long time ago."
“That’s not true. Jeremy is kind and understanding. He worships me,” the blonde endorses, her tone firm.
"Until your contract expires. Then you will be replaced with a new, more improved version of yourself. Live in denial all you want, but it won't change the facts. Before we know it, we are going to be Cartier, using the tricks we learned in this lifestyle to puff our pockets with money their subs aren't privileged enough to know about."
My stomach swirls when the blonde doesn’t attempt to rebut her statement.
“Until then, we continue following the rules,” the redhead continues, her tone not as chirpy as it was when she entered the washroom.
The swirling of my stomach ramps up a notch when the redhead bobs down to gather her lipstick off the ground and spots my feet just back from the stall door. “Oh my god, are you eavesdropping on our private conversation? Or doing a business transaction not acceptable in public?” The last half of her sentence comes out muffled with laughter.
I roll my eyes at their childish chuckles. They sound like two roosters waking a farmer at the crack of dawn.
Their girlish giggles continue until they have prepped their faces and exit the bathroom. I wait another two to three minutes before following suit. It was a pointless effort when the first faces my eyes lock in on as I exit the washroom is the unnamed redhead and blonde.
The glee lining their bright eyes grows when it dawns on them who was eavesdropping on their conversation.
“Oh my god, do you think she heard what we said?”
The redhead locks her eyes with mine. They are a beautiful aquamarine color I've never seen before. "I hope so. It may be the only way she will learn this lifestyle isn't glamorous. It's gritty and raw."
Deciding I need some fresh air before I create a scene, I graciously smile at the unknown women gawking at me. I make a beeline for the fire door Emily, Jenni and Nicole exited over thirty minutes ago, my steps hurried. When I open the heavily weighted door, I spot Brodie halfway down the hallway on my right. He has his cell phone attached to his ear. Not wanting to disturb his conversation, I veer to the left.
As I weave through the narrow halls in the heart of the elegant hotel, my agitation eases. This may be wrong of me to say, but I feel more at home here than I do in the ballroom. Although the hotel staff give me curious glances when I saunter by, they are void of the scorn the benefactors of the fundraiser had.
Needing a pick-me-up, I yank my cell phone out of my purse and text the one person always known to help me back on my feet.
Me: Send help, the fire-breathing dragons are out in force tonight.
Lexi’s reply is almost immediate:
Lexi: Names, Cleo. I need names. It's a little hard to kill a person if I don’t know their name.
My laughter shrills down the hallway as I type a reply.
By the time ten minutes pass, my breathing has returned to a regular pattern, and the hackles bristling my spine have sheathed. Lexi has rejuvenated me so well, I'm primed and ready for round two.
Me: It's time to slay the dragons once again. Wish me luck, Lexi the Leech.
Lexi: You won’t need it, Cleo the Creep, but I’ll give it to you anyway. Good luck xx
I send Lexi a goodbye text before housing my cracked cell into my purse. This is the exact phone I pegged at Marcus's head Monday morning—minus the tracking device. Marcus offered to purchase me a new one, but other than a massive crack rippled across the screen, this phone is still in perfect working order, so why do I need another? I also know this one is void of any bugging device, as it hasn't left my sight since it was returned to me in pieces Tuesday afternoon.
As I slowly mosey down the numerous corridors in the belly of the hotel, the sounds of people mingling grow louder, as does the beat of my heart. Unlike when I entered the hallway, the quickening of my pulse isn’t a consequence of rattled nerves, it's my body’s intuition that Marcus is close.
Allowing my body to guide my steps, I enter a door marked “restricted.” Panels upon panels of computer boards and electrical instruments greet me. It appears to be the hub of the hotel's security and network center. Ignoring my rational thinking head requesting for me to leave before I get in trouble, my body's awareness of Marcus continues leading me further into the room.
As I walk down a long gangway illuminated by strips of rope lighting, the sound of people conversing jingles into my ears. One voice I immediately recognize; his smooth, velvety timbre is unmissable even when it's forced through the blood roaring in my ears. The female voice I'm confident I've heard before, but I can't pinpoint exactly where.
My shaking steps end when I reach the room from which the sounds are projecting. After a nerve-clearing breath, I peer into the room.
My body’s intuition about Marcus’s nearness was right. He is standing in the room caressing a blonde female in a long, elegantly flowing velvet dress. His arms are banded around her waist, and her head is resting on his chest. Although their exchange could be viewed as friendly, sick, vehement jealousy taints my blood, hating that the opportunity to sneak away for a quick cuddle wasn’t awarded to me.
I give myself a mental pep talk, reminding myself that I am a confident, beautiful, independent woman who can view the facts in front of her without any outside influence. Just because the two unnamed women in the restroom and Delilah don't believe in monogamy, doesn't mean Marcus agrees with their logic. Our relationship is different. We're building something unique—unlike anything anyone in this lifestyle has seen. Right?
Right. Then why am I finding it so hard to give them the privacy their little rendezvous deserves?
Pushing aside the horrid unease twisting my esophagus, I pivot on my heels to leave. My footing stumbles halfway around when the blonde suddenly lifts her head off Marcus’s chest. I pant, panicked she has noticed my presence. My anxiety shifts to wariness when I recognize the face of the woman Marcus is caressing in a hidden nook. It's Keira: the same woman Mr. Carson was comforting in his office mere days ago.
With my heart twisted with suspicion, I watch their exchange for the next several minutes. I take in every little detail as sick jealousy makes it hard for me to breathe. Keira’s stance, the way she keeps her eyes lowered, and the fact she never speaks unless asked a question confirms what my violent jealousy is already telling me. She is a submissive. And from the way she is glancing up at Marcus with nothing but admiration adorning her face, I’m confident she either wants to be Marcus’s sub or she already is his sub.
The margaritas I downed earlier threaten to resurface when Keira’s toss of her perfectly straight locks exposes even more travesty. She is a wearing a collar. Not just any collar—one with a chain link nestled in the center.
Oh, god. I’m going to be sick.
Bile scorches the back of my throat when Marcus runs the back of his fingers over the chain link pendant on her collar. His lips move, but I can’t hear a word he is speaking over my pulse thumping my eardrums. Unable to leash my curiosity, I take a step into the room. The instant my heel clicks on the tiled floor, my cover is blown.
My pupils dilate to the size of saucers when Marcus slings his head to the side, his eyes locking immediately with mine. The guilt in his eyes cripples me.
“Cleo. . .” he growls out in warning, like I’m the one who just got busted schmoozing with another person in a hidden room, much less another sub.
"Umm. . . Sorry? Wrong room."
I cringe at my pathetic reply before pivoting on my heels and exiting the electrical hub of the hotel. As I clumsily pace down the hallway, my ear pricks, expecting to hear the tap of Marcus’s feet scuttling across the tiled floor at any moment. All I hear is silence.
Silence is not my friend. It allows my thoughts to run wild—to run reckless. If he wasn’t doing anything wrong, why wouldn’t he follow after me to assure me of that?
Although my steps are shaky, they are surprisingly quick, having me reach Brodie in less than a minute.
“Cleo?” he queries, shocked by my gaunt expression. “Are you okay?”
I clutch at my throat as I struggle to secure a full breath. My fingertips brushing the choker curled around my neck makes my endeavor to breathe ten times harder.
“Can you remove this?” I ask Brodie, dragging my hair to the side to expose the fastener at the back of my collar. “Please, I can barely breathe.”
Brodie jumps into action, removing the choker in a record-setting pace. I keep my back facing him as I tug off the nipple clamps fastened on my engorged nipples. My teeth grit, incapable of ignoring the sensation of my blood flooding back into the numb buds. It's a beautifully cruel reminder of how I felt when Marcus gifted me this collar. I thought my choker was a representation of our union, much like a wedding band. It's round because it goes on forever. Clearly, I was wrong.
When I pivot around to face Brodie, his eyes dance between mine. "Did you see Marcus?" He keeps his tone low, acting like he is unaware of Marcus's whereabouts. It's a pity his eyes don’t convey the same confidence his tone holds.
“No,” I lie with a curt shake of my head.
Brodie releases a deep exhalation of air. It's quickly redrawn when I ask, “But if I did, what would I have seen?”
Brodie balks as he strangles out a bunch of “Ahs” and “Umms.” The guilt in his eyes matches the guilt I saw in Marcus’s eyes.