"I want them to see exactly what I own."
The words were not a dismissal. They were an inscription. They were etched into the silence of the gym, lingering in the heavy, sweat-thick air long after the lights had clicked off.
Yanna stood in the darkness for a long time. The medical kit was a heavy brick in her hand, the handle digging into her palm, grounding her. Her knees throbbed—a dull, rhythmic ache that synchronized with the erratic hammering of her heart. But it wasn't the pain in her legs that kept her rooted to the spot.
It was the thumb of her right hand.
She lifted it to her face, squinting in the gloom. She couldn't see the mark, but she could feel it. The skin was broken, just slightly. A crescent of raised flesh where Camille's incisor had sunk in. It pulsed. It was hot. It was a seal of possession that burned hotter than the debt, hotter than the contract.
You are the ice. You are the distraction.
Yanna let out a shuddering breath that sounded dangerously like a sob. She turned and fled.
Room 2
The silence of Room 2 was usually a comfort. Tonight, it was an interrogation cell.
Yanna sat on the edge of the immense white bed. She had showered—scrubbed her skin until it was raw, trying to wash away the smell of the gym, the smell of iron and expensive musk. But the scent was stubborn. It seemed to have seeped into her pores, colonized her senses. Every time she inhaled, she smelled Her.
She looked at her thumb again. Under the harsh light of the bedside lamp, the bite mark was a precise, angry purple bruise.
Analysis, her brain commanded. Dissect this. Use the tools. Weber. Foucault. Marx.
She tried to summon the voices of the theorists she had spent three years studying. She tried to frame this in the context of Biopower—the subjugation of the body for the utility of the sovereign. Camille was the Sovereign. Yanna was the Subject. The bite was merely a technique of disciplinary power, a way to inscribe the law onto the flesh.
It is a transaction, she told herself, rocking slightly. Labor for capital. My body is the machine. The service is the product.
But the theory crumbled. It fell apart because of the heat in her belly.
It wasn't fear. Fear was cold. Fear was the feeling of the invoice. This... this was a heavy, molten weight that settled low in her pelvis. It was a shameful, traitorous electricity that sparked every time she remembered the texture of Camille's tongue on her skin, the way Camille's head had fallen back, the sound of that low, animalistic moan.
I liked it.
The thought was a whisper, but it screamed in the quiet room.
Yanna squeezed her eyes shut, digging her nails into her thighs. She had been terrified, yes. She had been humiliated, yes. But beneath the terror, there had been a profound, narcotic sense of... safety.
When Camille's hand was on her throat, Yanna hadn't had to worry about the electric bill. When she was licking the sweat from Camille's abs, she hadn't had to worry about her sister's kidney function. The world had shrunk down to a single, absolute point of focus. There were no choices to make. There was no crushing weight of poverty. There was only the command, and the obedience.
It was freedom. It was the darkest, sickest kind of freedom.
I am not a scholar anymore, Yanna thought, lying back on the pristine sheets, clutching her marked hand to her chest. I am a resource. And tomorrow, I go to market.
The Next Day: 6:00 PM
The box arrived with the evening courier. It was black, matte, and tied with a silver ribbon. There was no note.
Yanna opened it on the dining table. The silence of the penthouse was oppressive, a physical weight. Camille had not been seen all day. The study doors had remained closed, though Yanna could hear the low, muffled cadence of conference calls—German, Mandarin, English. The voice of the Titan.
Yanna pulled the tissue paper aside.
It wasn't a dress. It was a weapon.
It was a slip dress of black silk, so fine it felt like water running through her fingers. The straps were non-existent—thin filaments of silver chain. The neckline was a cowl drape that plunged dangerously low. But it was the length that made Yanna's breath hitch.
She held it up against her body. The hem ended mid-thigh. If she walked, it would ride up. If she sat...
She looked at the bottom of the box. There was a pair of heels. Black stilettos. The heels were steel spikes, four inches high. And beside them, a small, velvet pouch.
Yanna opened the pouch. Inside was a necklace. A simple, silver chain, delicate and expensive. But there was no gemstone pendant. There was a small, silver bar, engraved with two letters.
CN.
Yanna stared at it. It looked like jewelry. It functioned like a dog tag.
She dressed in the bathroom of Room 2. The silk slid over her skin like a second layer of nerves. It was cold, clinging to every curve, highlighting the slight sharpness of her hipbones—the mark of a diet of instant noodles and stress. The shoes were a torture device. When she stepped into them, her center of gravity shifted, forcing her arch to curve, her calves to flex. She was instantly taller, more precarious. She couldn't run in these. She could barely walk. She could only pose.
She clasped the necklace around her neck. The cool metal settled in the hollow of her throat.
She looked in the mirror. The girl staring back was beautiful. She was terrified. She was property.
The door to the room opened.
Yanna spun around, nearly twisting her ankle.
Camille stood in the doorway.
She was dressed for war. She wore a tuxedo—not a woman's cut, but a severe, sharp-shouldered men's cut in midnight blue velvet. The lapels were black satin. She wore no shirt underneath, just the jacket buttoned low, exposing the stark, tattooed landscape of her chest. The dragon peered out from the velvet, a silent guardian. Her hair was slicked back, wet-look, severe, exposing the predatory angles of her face.
Her hands were gloved. Black leather driving gloves, tight as skin, concealing the ruined knuckles.
Camille didn't speak. She walked into the room, the sound of her loafers swallowed by the rug. She circled Yanna slowly. It was an inspection. A buyer checking the merchandise for defects.
She stopped behind Yanna. She looked at their reflection in the mirror. The contrast was striking—Camille, the dark, armored prince; Yanna, the fragile, exposed offering.
"Too much makeup," Camille murmured.
She reached out. With a gloved thumb, she wiped the blush from Yanna's cheek. The leather was cool and smooth. The friction was rough.
"I want them to see the blood," Camille said softly. "I want them to see the flush when you are nervous. Don't hide it."
She lowered her hand to Yanna's neck. She fingered the silver bar of the necklace.
"Do you know who we are meeting tonight?"
"The Board," Yanna whispered.
"The Board," Camille corrected, "is a collection of fossils. Men who believe that biology dictates destiny. Men who believe that a woman without a husband is a company without a rudder. They are meeting us to assess my stability. They want to know if I am... manageable."
Camille's eyes met Yanna's in the glass. A dark, cruel smile played on her lips.
"They think I am bringing a girlfriend. A partner. Someone to soften my edges."
She leaned in, her breath hot on Yanna's ear.
"Show them that I don't have partners, Yanna. Show them that I have subjects."
The car was a sensory deprivation tank on wheels. It was a Rolls Royce Phantom, the interior a womb of black leather and silence. The windows were tinted so dark that the city outside—the Manila Yanna knew, the Manila of heat and noise—was reduced to abstract streaks of light.
They sat across from each other. Camille had her laptop open on her knees, the blue light illuminating her face, turning her into a cyborg. She typed with her gloved hands, efficient and silent.
Yanna sat with her knees pressed together, her hands folded in her lap. The dress had ridden up, exposing her thighs to the cool air of the cabin. She tried to pull it down, but the fabric was unforgiving.
Camille didn't look up, but she spoke.
"Stop fidgeting."
"It's... short," Yanna murmured.
"It is designed to be short," Camille said, hitting a key with finality. "It is designed to restrict your movement. It forces you to be conscious of your body every single second. Just like the beans. Just like the massage."
She closed the laptop. She looked at Yanna's legs.
"The bruise is fading," she noted, pointing to Yanna's knee.
Yanna looked down. The mottled purple from the munggo beans had turned a sickly yellow-green.
"Yes, Ma'am."
"We will have to refresh it," Camille said casually, as if discussing the floral arrangements. "Pain creates memory. If the mark fades, the lesson fades."
The car turned smoothly, the suspension absorbing the imperfections of the road. Yanna felt a wave of nausea.
"Where are we going?"
"The Vault," Camille said. "It is a private dining club in Makati. Subterranean. No windows. No signal. It is where the old money eats the new money."
The car slowed. The partition between them and the driver remained up, a black wall of discretion.
"Rules for the evening," Camille recited. "One: You do not speak unless spoken to. Two: You do not eat unless I put food on your plate. Three: You do not drink more than one glass of wine. I need you lucid."
She leaned forward, closing the distance between their knees.
"And Four," she whispered. "Whatever I do... whatever I say... you take it. You smile. You look at me with absolute adoration. Because if you crack—if you show even one second of defiance—those men will see weakness. And if they see weakness in me, they will attack. And if they attack me..."
She let the sentence hang. She didn't need to finish it. If I fall, the hospital bills stop. If I fall, Maya dies.
"I understand," Yanna said.
"Good." Camille sat back. "Put your hand out."
Yanna extended her right hand. Camille took it. She inspected the bite mark on the thumb. She ran her gloved thumb over it, pressing down. It hurt.
"My mark," Camille said, satisfied. "Let's go."
The Arena
The Vault lived up to its name. To enter, they had to take an elevator down three floors beneath a skyscraper. The doors opened into a space that smelled of money—a scent Yanna was learning to identify. It was a mix of truffles, aged mahogany, cigar smoke, and conditioned air kept at a precise sixty-eight degrees.
The lighting was dim, amber and gold. The walls were lined with wine lockers that held bottles worth more than Yanna's entire education.
The Maître D' bowed so low he nearly folded in half. "Ms. Navarro. Your guests are waiting in the Churchill Room."
Camille didn't look at him. She simply walked, her hand finding the small of Yanna's back. Her touch was possessive, guiding Yanna through the maze of tables. She steered her like a vehicle.
The Churchill Room was a glass-walled cube at the back of the restaurant. Inside, seated around a circular table of black marble, were four men.
They were the board. They were the teeth.
There was Mr. Tan, a corpulent man with a face like a bulldog, smoking a cigar that was technically illegal indoors. There was Mr. Co, thin and skeletal, tapping a gold pen on the table. There was Mr. Ayala, younger, slicker, watching them with the eyes of a reptile. And at the head, an empty chair.
Camille strode in. The men stood up—slowly, grudgingly.
"Gentlemen," Camille said. Her voice was different here. It was lighter, brighter. It was the voice of the charming heiress. "Apologies for the delay. Traffic in BGC is a tragedy."
"Camille," Mr. Tan grunted, his eyes sliding immediately to Yanna. He looked her up and down, lingering on the exposed skin of her thighs, the fragile line of her neck. It was a look of consumption. "And who is this?"
Camille pulled out a chair. "Sit, darling."
Yanna sat. The dress rode up. She felt the cold leather of the chair against her skin. She kept her knees locked together.
Camille stood behind her for a moment, her hands resting on Yanna's bare shoulders. She squeezed.
"This," Camille announced to the room, "is Yanna. My... companion."
The word hung in the air. Companion. Not girlfriend. Not partner. It was a word that implied service.
"She's young," Mr. Co observed, his voice dry as paper. "Very young."
"She is nineteen," Camille said, taking the seat next to Yanna. "She is a scholar. Political Science. A brilliant mind."
She said it like she was describing a racehorse she had just bought.
"A student?" Mr. Ayala smirked. "I didn't know you had a taste for... tuition, Camille."
The table chuckled. It was a low, ugly sound.
Yanna felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She stared at the tablecloth, counting the threads. Rational-legal authority. Traditional authority. Charismatic authority.
"I have a taste for potential," Camille said coolly, signaling the waiter. "Wine. The '82 Petrus."
The dinner began.
It was a grueling marathon of high finance. They spoke in a language of mergers, acquisitions, hostile takeovers, and poison pills. They discussed the dismantling of companies, the firing of thousands of workers, with the same casual tone one might use to discuss the weather.
Yanna sat in silence. She was a statue.
But under the table, a different conversation was happening.
Ten minutes in, Camille's hand dropped from the table. It landed on Yanna's thigh.
Yanna jumped, a microscopic flinch. Camille's fingers dug in, sharp and warning.
Stay.
The hand began to move.
It was the gloved hand. The leather was cool against Yanna's feverish skin. Camille traced the muscle of the quadriceps. She rubbed her thumb in slow, concentric circles, mimicking the massage from the gym.
Above the table, Camille was a shark.
"The valuation of the logistics arm is inflated, Tan," Camille said, taking a sip of wine. "You're counting assets that are depreciating. The fleet is old."
"The fleet is operational," Tan argued, slamming his hand on the table.
Below the table, Camille's hand slid higher.
It moved past the knee. It moved up the inner thigh.
Yanna stopped breathing. Her hands gripped the napkin in her lap until her knuckles turned white. She stared straight ahead, a fixed, plastic smile plastered on her face.
The sensation was maddening. The leather glove provided friction. Camille's fingers were strong, exploring the softness of Yanna's inner thigh with a proprietary arrogance. She wasn't trying to be subtle. She was claiming space.
"Operational isn't efficient," Camille countered, her voice smooth. She squeezed Yanna's thigh hard, right near the hem of the dress. "I want efficiency. I want a streamlined operation. Cut the fat."
Cut the fat. She squeezed the soft flesh of Yanna's leg as she said it.
Yanna let out a small, sharp intake of breath.
Mr. Ayala looked at her. "Something wrong, Miss Yanna?"
Camille turned to her. Her eyes were amber ice. "Is something wrong, darling?"
Under the table, her hand moved dangerously close to the apex of Yanna's thighs. It was a threat. Answer correctly, or I go further.
"No," Yanna whispered, her voice trembling. "No. The... the wine. It's excellent."
"It should be," Camille said, turning back to the men. "It costs more than your car, Ayala."
The tension ratcheted up. The men were aggressive. They were trying to bully Camille, trying to force her into a merger she didn't want. They used their voices, their bulk, their age.
Camille used Yanna.
Every time the negotiation got heated, Camille took it out on Yanna's leg. She pinched. She scratched with her fingernails through the glove. She treated Yanna's body like a stress ball.
It was humiliating. It was degrading.
And Yanna was wet.
The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow. The fear, the adrenaline, the public risk—it was all mixing into a potent, toxic cocktail of arousal. Every time Camille touched her, a jolt of electricity shot straight to her core. She was responding to the ownership. She was responding to being used.
Camille knew.
She had to know. Her hand paused on Yanna's inner thigh. She could feel the heat radiating from Yanna's body. She could feel the tension in the muscles.
Camille smiled. It was a small, private smile, directed only at her wine glass.
"I think," Camille said, her voice dropping an octave, "that we are done with the logistics discussion. Let's talk about control."
Mr. Tan leaned back, wiping grease from his lip. He looked at Yanna again. This time, his gaze was blatant. He looked at her chest. He looked at her bare legs.
"You talk a lot about control, Camille," Tan grunted. "But a woman needs... guidance. Look at this one. Pretty thing. Quiet. Does she do anything other than sit there and look expensive?"
He reached out.
It happened in slow motion. Mr. Tan's thick, hairy hand reached across the space between them. He was aiming for Yanna's arm. He wanted to touch. He wanted to sample the merchandise.
"Maybe she'd be happier with a man who knows how to—"
Thunk.
The sound was loud and sudden.
Camille had moved. In a blur of velvet and violence, she had snatched a steak knife from the table and stabbed it into the wood, millimeters from Mr. Tan's outstretched fingers.
The vibration of the handle hummed in the silence.
The room froze. Mr. Tan recoiled, his face draining of color.
Camille didn't stand up. She didn't raise her voice. She kept her left hand—the one under the table—firmly clamped on Yanna's thigh. With her right hand, she held the knife handle.
"Mr. Tan," Camille said. Her voice was a whisper, but it carried the weight of a guillotine. "I believe you have mistaken the nature of this dinner."
She turned the knife slightly, the blade grinding into the expensive mahogany.
"You are here to negotiate a merger with Navarro Corp," Camille continued. "You are not here to touch my assets. You are not here to speak to my assets. You are not here to look at my assets."
She leaned forward, her amber eyes burning with a cold, blue flame.
"If you touch her," Camille said, "I will not sue you. I will not board-block you. I will buy your debt. I will buy your mortgage. I will buy the hospital where your wife is receiving her treatments. And I will turn off the lights."
Silence. Absolute, terrified silence.
Yanna stopped breathing. She looked at Camille. For the first time, she didn't see a monster. She saw a wall. A high, black wall standing between her and the world.
Camille released the knife. She sat back. She picked up her napkin and dabbed her mouth.
"I believe we are finished," Camille said. "The offer stands as written. You have twenty-four hours."
She stood up. She pulled Yanna up with her.
"Come, Yanna."
They walked out. Camille's hand was on the small of Yanna's back, burning like a brand. They walked past the frozen waiters, past the wine lockers, and into the elevator.
The ride up was silent. The ride to the car was silent.
The valet opened the door of the Rolls Royce. Camille shoved Yanna inside.
The door slammed shut. The lock clicked. The privacy partition was already up. They were alone in the leather box.
The change was instantaneous.
Camille didn't sit. She lunged.
She practically tackled Yanna, pinning her into the corner of the leather seat. The cool composure of the boardroom vanished, replaced by the starving frenzy of the gym.
"Did you see them?" Camille hissed, her face inches from Yanna's. "Did you see how they looked at you?"
"I—"
Camille didn't let her speak. She crushed her mouth against Yanna's.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a collision. It was violent and messy and desperate. Camille tasted of red wine and rage. She bit Yanna's lower lip, hard, drawing a fresh drop of blood to match the thumb.
Yanna gasped, her mouth opening, and Camille invaded. Her tongue swept through Yanna's mouth, claiming it, silencing it.
Camille's hands were everywhere. She ripped the gloves off with her teeth, tossing them onto the floor. She needed skin. She needed contact.
"You are mine," Camille growled against Yanna's mouth. "Not theirs. Mine. Say it."
"Yours," Yanna sobbed, clutching at Camille's velvet jacket. "I'm yours."
"Show me."
Camille grabbed the hem of the black silk dress. She shoved it up. It pooled around Yanna's waist, leaving her exposed in the dim light of the car.
Yanna wasn't wearing stockings. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. That had been part of the costume. Part of the instruction.
Camille looked down. Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving against her tuxedo shirt. She looked at Yanna's bare legs, at the yellowing bruise on the knee, at the terrifying vulnerability of her center.
"Beautiful," Camille whispered. It sounded like a curse.
She didn't touch Yanna gently. She gripped Yanna's thighs, her fingers—the ones with the battered, scabbing knuckles—digging into the soft flesh. The pain was sharp, grounding.
"Open," Camille commanded.
Yanna opened her legs. There was no room for shame in this car. The air was too thick with power.
Camille lowered her head. She buried her face in the curve of Yanna's neck, inhaling deeply, smelling the fear and the arousal.
"You liked it," Camille accused, her hand sliding up Yanna's inner thigh, finding the wetness there. "You liked me defending you. You liked being the object on the table."
"Yes," Yanna whispered, the truth tearing out of her throat. "God, yes."
Camille laughed. It was a dark, victorious sound against Yanna's skin.
"Good girl," Camille murmured. "Then let's see how well you take your reward."
She kissed Yanna again, deeper this time, slower. Her hand moved between Yanna's legs, not with the clinical detachment of the dinner, but with a rhythmic, possessive intent.
Yanna arched her back, her head hitting the leather seat. The city lights flashed by outside—streaks of neon in the darkness—but inside the car, the world was ending.
Camille's touch was relentless. She played Yanna like she played the board—finding the weakness, exploiting the leverage, pushing until she got exactly the reaction she wanted.
"Camille," Yanna gasped, her hands tangling in Camille's platinum hair. "Please."
"Please what?" Camille whispered, biting Yanna's jawline. "Please stop? Or please break you?"
"Break me," Yanna begged. "Just break me."
Camille stopped.
Her hand stilled. She pulled back, her face flushed, her eyes glittering in the semi-darkness. She looked at Yanna—disheveled, dress hiked up, lips swollen, thoroughly ruined.
She smiled. It was the smile of the owner surveying the estate.
"We're almost home," Camille said, her voice suddenly calm, terrifyingly composed. She pulled Yanna's dress down, smoothing the silk with a firm hand.
She sat back on her side of the car, fixing her velvet jacket.
Yanna lay there, panting, bereft, her body screaming for a release that had been snatched away.
"W-what?" Yanna stammered. "Why?"
The car slowed. They were turning into the driveway of the Navarro Tower.
Camille looked at her.
"Because the car is too easy," Camille said. "And because tonight..."
She leaned forward, opening the door as the valet approached. She looked back at Yanna one last time.
"Tonight, you sleep in my bed."