The satellite phone didn’t ring exactly at midnight.

It rang at 12:01 AM.

The single, sharp, synthesized chime tore through the apartment’s silence at 12:01 AM, echoing Adrian’s arrogant certainty. He waited sixty seconds past his deadline, not out of mercy, but to claim my anticipation. I know you are waiting. I own your anticipation, too.

I was curled under a blanket on the sofa, staring at the black device. Cleo was asleep, oblivious. My hand twitched. The phone went silent after one ring.

He knew I was there, paralyzed, obedient to the object he had left. The true test wasn’t answering; it was waiting for it. And I had waited, confirming his note: No capacity for choice; only capacity for response. The silence filled the room with the crushing weight of my failure to resist.

I didn’t sleep, watching the pre-dawn light. Every noise made my body tense. The satellite phone was in my backpack, a constant, physical reminder of the leash around my neck.

The next morning felt thick and unreal. I performed my routine mechanically. My first class was mandatory—a small seminar on Legal History, located in the Olin Hall. Olin Hall was the epicenter of the university’s disciplinary administration. Adrian Lewis was absolutely forbidden to enter here, a violation of a court-mandated decree after the Red Room scandal.

Walking toward Olin Hall was an act of deliberate defiance. He won’t risk it. Violating the exclusion order meant serious legal trouble. Yet, the air felt charged with impending danger.

I climbed the sweeping, grey marble steps. The architecture was imposing, full of columns and vaulted ceilings. I located the seminar room on the third floor. The narrow hallway was lined with dusty portraits of long-dead deans. I paused outside the door, gathering courage.

I was three steps from the door, reaching for the brass handle, when the silence broke.

“Good morning, Cinderella.”

The voice was low, resonant, and the sound of my undoing.

I froze, my world tilted. Panic and sickening excitement collided. Adrian Lewis was leaning against the wall ten feet behind me.

He was a masterpiece of casual violation. Dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, he was effortlessly perfect, wearing an expression of detached amusement. He looked less like a trespasser and more like the building’s owner.

His eyes, a cold, striking amber, swept over me slowly. He was savoring the moment.

“You look well, Sophie,” he murmured, pushing off the wall. “The defiance suits you.”

My voice caught. “You shouldn’t be here. You are not allowed here.”

He took a slow, predatory step forward. “If you had responded last night, this inconvenience would have been unnecessary. Chasing a runaway submissive on hallowed ground is beneath me, yet here I am.”

“I don’t owe you a response,” I managed, my voice trembling.

He stopped, just two feet away. The proximity was a complete psychological assault. Every muscle in my body screamed to run, but Adrian’s gaze held me captive.

“Ah, the illusion of agency,” he sighed. “Did you truly believe that not picking up the phone was a victory, little one? It was simply a refusal of one path, forcing me to choose the next.” He glanced up the hallway. “Which, in this case, involves risking an arrest to have an illicit chat.”

He reached out, his long fingers trailing a line of fire across my wrist. I involuntarily leaned in, drawn by the painful familiarity.

“The white roses,” I whispered.

He smiled, a terrifying, proprietary curve. “You found them. Good. They represented the quiet surveillance. The fact that I was in your life, and you failed to notice.”

“And the red?”

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