
Some women run from the darkness.
Maeve was taught to.
Dress it in lace, smile through it, paint over it.
But she wasn't the type to stay hidden forever.
Behind every perfectly polite refusal was a woman whose thighs pressed together in curiosity. Whose hands lingered too long in a mirror. Whose breath hitched when told no.
Then came the invitation.
A folded card, pressed into her coat pocket at a gallery show. No name. Just a place. A time. A single word:
"Obey."
She should've torn it apart.
Instead, she wore her blackest dress and her reddest lips.
And what awaited her in that mansion — in the shadows, in the silence —
was not a man who demanded her body… but one who demanded her very will.
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