(Milo’s Pov)

I showed up fifteen minutes early.

Which, for me, was basically a spiritual experience. I wasn’t early for anything — not classes, not rent, not dates (the few tragic ones I’d actually had).

But something about the name Elias Vale didn’t just scare me.

It commanded.

I tugged at the collar of my too-small button-up. The only one I owned that didn’t scream help I live off microwave food and anxiety. The receptionist didn’t look up as she buzzed me through. I took the elevator alone this time, heart thudding like it owed someone rent.

When the doors opened to the 81st floor, the silence hit me like a wall.

Not the quiet kind — the expensive kind. The kind made of glass, shadows, and tastefully cold furniture. Like even the walls were judging me.

Then I saw him.

Elias Vale stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, back turned, dressed in black again. Not even trying to be subtle about his villain arc. His reflection caught mine in the glass.

He turned slowly. “You’re early.”

“I can leave and come back if it ruins the vibe,” I said, attempting confidence. What came out was… nervous sarcasm in a half-buttoned shirt.

One brow lifted. “Sit.”

I did.

Not because he said it — okay, because he said it — but also because my knees were lowkey weak.

Elias moved like his body was under constant discipline. Not a single twitch or wasted motion. He sat across from me and steepled his fingers, like he was about to conduct a boardroom execution.

I waited.

He said nothing.

The silence stretched. Long enough for me to count the number of veins in my hand and wonder if he could hear my stomach growling.

Then finally—

“Are you easily broken?”

I blinked. “Is that… a trick question?”

“I don’t ask trick questions.”

“Okay, then… depends on the context. Mentally? Physically? Spiritually? Emotionally? Existentially?”

He didn’t even blink.

“Do you know how to obey?”

“What the hell kind of corporate psych test is this?”

“No test,” he said calmly. “I’m just interested in you.”

My stomach did the traitorous little backflip again. “Okay, Mr. Vale, uh… I’m flattered, I guess? But I don’t—look, I came here to clear up whatever awkward elevator moment we had. Maybe apologize for my… tendency to word-vomit under pressure. Not audition for a James Bond villain sidekick role.”

He slid a folder across the table.

Black. Unlabeled.

I stared at it like it might bite.

“…Is that a résumé?” I joked weakly.

“Open it.”

I did.

Then immediately wished I hadn’t.

Inside was a contract.

No company letterhead. No job title. No salary range.

Just bolded terms: Dominant. Submissive. Consent. Boundaries. Safe words. Obedience. Correction.

My eyes skimmed the next few pages. Rules. Rituals. Conditions.

My name — Milo Hart — already filled in at the top of page one.

I looked up slowly.

Elias’s expression hadn’t changed.

“This isn’t a joke,” he said. “I don’t do jokes. And I don’t do kindness. What I offer isn’t romance. It isn’t softness. It’s structure. It’s control. And it’s… very real.”

I closed the folder, my palms sweaty.

“Is this some kind of rich-people kink scouting program? Do I get a toaster if I say yes?”

“You’re free to walk away,” he said, voice flat. “You have no obligation. But you intrigued me. You still do.”

I stood. Abruptly. Nearly knocking the chair back.

“This is—insane,” I said. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.”

That was the problem.

See, I stood up and left.

I didn’t look back.

Not when the elevator doors closed. Not when the receptionist gave me a weird glance. Not even when I reached the street and realized I was still clutching the black folder like some cursed artifact from a gothic novel.

My legs carried me two blocks before my brain caught up.

What the actual hell just happened?

I ducked into the nearest bus shelter and dropped the folder on the bench beside me like it might catch fire.

That man — Elias Vale — just handed me a contract that looked like it belonged in some underground dungeon society. Not a job offer. Not an NDA. But a freaking invitation to become his personal submissive.

My mouth was dry. I didn’t even realize I was breathing hard until a woman across the bench gave me a weird look and clutched her purse.

I stared down at the folder again.

My name.

Already typed in.

Like I’d been expected. Like this wasn’t impulsive — it was planned.

What did he say?

"You intrigued me. You still do."

I let out a strangled laugh and buried my face in my hands.

This couldn’t be real. People like Elias didn’t look twice at guys like me. Not unless it was to call security. I was broke, barely holding my life together with duct tape and sarcasm. And him? He walked like sin dressed in Armani and spoke like every word was a promise you couldn’t survive.

This whole thing screamed predator vibes… but there was something else too.

Something scarier.

Something quieter.

Want.

It wasn’t about money. Or the power imbalance. It wasn’t even the weirdly clinical contract.

It was how I felt in that room.

Seen.

Chosen.

---

By the time I got home, the sun had dipped behind smog and concrete. My shared apartment smelled like takeout and regret. I threw my keys on the counter and dropped onto the couch with a groan.

And of course, the folder came with me.

I didn’t even mean to bring it. I just… hadn’t let go.

Now it sat on my lap like it was waiting.

I stared at it for a full ten minutes before cracking it open again.

Pages of structure. Safeguards. Consent clauses. A column for personal hard limits. No contact during non-negotiated hours. A safe word — already written in bold red:

EMBER

Beneath that, another line:

Obedience is not about weakness.

It’s about choice.

I swallowed.

My heart thudded again.

This wasn’t about sex. Or at least, not just sex. Elias wasn’t asking for a hookup. He wasn’t even asking for love. He was offering something else.

A place to go.

A set of rules.

A way to be held together when everything else was falling apart.

I didn’t want it.

God, I shouldn’t want it.

But still, I didn’t throw the folder away.

And when I turned off the light that night, it sat on my nightstand like a ghost with my name on its lips.

To be clear, I didn't think Elias is gay.