Gwendolyn twists the single curl against her cheek as Wynn stands behind her at the study desk, his deliberate voice announcing that the evening protocol begins now. The arrangement started as a legal necessity for cohabitation and the family estate, requiring documented submission to his strict daily rules. But each measured correction tightens the hold she cannot admit she craves, turning the required performance into the only place she feels safe enough to yield.
His palm rests steady at the small of her back, thick forearm anchoring her hand, while her anxious energy gives way to quiet obedience. The pretense grows thinner with every order. How long can she pretend these rules exist only for the court before she needs them to be the truth?
