Previous Chapter || First Chapter
High Holborn was a river of grey sludge and hurried pedestrians. The drizzle wasn't heavy enough to warrant an umbrella but persistent enough to slick the pavement with a treacherous sheen. Anya moved through the lunchtime crowd with the precision of a shark, her black Louboutins clicking a sharp, rhythmic warning on the concrete: clack, clack, clack.
In her right ear, Stephen’s voice was a ceaseless stream of data, insulated from the city noise by her expensive noise-canceling earbud.
"The retention rate on the 'Silence in the Library' clip is hovering at ninety-four percent, Anya. That is statistically absurd. Usually, we see a drop-off at the three-minute mark, but they are staying for the duration. The comment section is practically demanding a tie-breaker. They want to see Amethyst and Jynx go head-to-head again, but this time with a third party to mediate. I’m thinking—"
"Stephen," Anya interrupted, sidestepping a puddle that reflected the steel-grey sky. "I’m walking. It’s loud."
"Just listen," he pressed, his voice crisp and relentless. "I’ve secured Claire. She’s agreed to play the CEO. Corporate Espionage theme. Boardroom setting. Restraints are standard cable ties and office chairs. It’s going to be—"
Anya adjusted the collar of her camel coat, her mind drifting. She was half-listening to the pitch, her eyes scanning the blurring faces of the crowd. She turned the corner sharply near the tube station, checking her reflection in a shop window.
"Anya? Are you still—"
"I'm here," she murmured, distracted by a taxi splashing water near the curb. She sidestepped left, a reflex honed by rush hour, jerking the suede bag away from the splash zone
She didn't see the wall of flannel until her nose collided with it.
Thump.
It wasn't a hard impact, but it was solid. It was like walking into a tree trunk. The sudden stop jarred her, tossing her equilibrium. Her hand flew out reflexively to catch herself, fingers scrabbling against rough cotton, but her grip on her phone slipped.
The device tumbled from her hand. It spun in the air, a slow-motion catastrophe, before hitting the wet pavement face-down with a sickening, wet thwack. It didn't bounce; it just stuck to the slick concrete, lying flat in a puddle.
"Oh, shit," the wall of flannel spoke. The voice was deep, warm, and distinctly un-corporate.
Anya blinked, shaking her head. She looked up.
He was tall—taller than Stephen. He wasn't wearing a tailored blazer or a cashmere turtleneck. He wore a faded red-and-black flannel shirt over a grey thermal, sleeves rolled up to the elbows despite the chill. His hair was a sandy, wind-blown mess, and his jaw was darkened by a day or two of stubble. He smelled of rain, pine sawdust, and damp earth.
"Sorry," he said, wincing slightly. "I turned like a bus. Didn't see you cutting inside."
Before Anya could react, he crouched down. His movements were fluid for someone of his size. He reached for the phone lying in the puddle.
Anya’s gaze locked onto his hand. It was large. The skin was tanned and weathered, the knuckles rough and dusted with what looked like dried plaster or clay. His fingernails were short and clean, but there was no manicure—just the honest wear of manual labor. It was a stark, brutal contrast to her own smooth, lotion-softened hands.
He picked up the phone and flipped it over, running a large thumb along the edge.
"Lucky break," he grinned, looking up at her. His eyes were a warm, crinkling hazel. "That raised bevel saved you about three hundred quid. The rubber bumper took the hit—glass didn't even touch the ground." He wiped the screen on the dry patch of his flannel shirt, inspecting it. "Not a scratch."
He stood up and handed it to her.
Anya took it, her manicured fingers brushing against his calloused palm. The sensation was gritty, warm, and shockingly real. His palm was like warm sandpaper; the calluses weren't just rough, they were ridges of hardened skin that caught against her smooth, lotioned fingertips, sparking a sudden friction that had nothing to do with static electricity. She was used to the scents of her own enclosed world: the dry, dusty smell of decaying paper in the university library and the lingering stale incense of her cramped shared house. Liam, however, smelled of the world outside—of forces she didn't have to contend with. He smelled of clean, resinous pine sawdust, the mineral tang of damp earth, and the simple, honest scent of rain on a cotton shirt.
"Anya? Anya, what happened?" Stephen’s tiny, tinny voice buzzed from the earbud she was still wearing. "Are you still there?"
Anya looked at the phone. Then she looked at the man in the flannel shirt, a walking embodiment of everything her secret world was not. He was looking at her with an open, apologetic smile.
She pulled the earbud out of her ear.
"I have to go, Stephen," she said into the receiver. "I'll call you later."
She thumbed the 'End Call' button with a decisive click. Silence—real, ambient silence—rushed back in.
"Thank you," she said to the stranger, slipping the phone into her pocket. She felt a sudden flush rise in her cheeks. She reached up, tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear, a nervous, human gesture she hadn't performed in weeks. "I wasn't looking. My fault entirely."
"Let's call it fifty-fifty," he laughed. The sound was rich and easy. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward a weathered pub sign swinging in the wind—The Lamb & Flag. "I was just heading in for a pint to wait out the rain. Since I nearly smashed your screen... can I buy you a drink? By way of an apology?"
Anya looked at the pub. It was dark, wood-paneled, and notoriously crowded. It was a place for students and laborers. It was exactly the kind of place Amethyst wouldn't be caught dead in.
She looked back at him. "I'm Anya."
"Liam," he smiled, extending that rough, warm hand again.
Anya hesitated for a heartbeat, then took it. "A drink sounds... wonderful, Liam."
The interior of The Lamb & Flag was a sensory assault, a jarring counterpoint to the sterile silence of the studio. It was dark, smelling of stale malt vinegar, damp wool, and the heavy, yeasty scent of old beer soaked deep into the floorboards. The noise wasn't just chatter; it was a low, rolling roar of conversation, layered with the sharp clink of heavy pint glasses being set on the bar, the satisfying thud of a dart hitting the board in the corner, and a deep, intermittent rumble that vibrated through the soles of Anya’s shoes—an Underground train passing somewhere beneath their feet.
Anya felt conspicuously overdressed. Her camel coat and the sleek line of her silhouette seemed sharp and out of place against the worn velvet and dark wood. The floor was tacky under her heels as she navigated the room with care, her red soles flashing like warning lights in the dim, amber glow.
They found a small, wobbly table near the back, wedged between a fireplace and a dartboard. Liam set the drinks down—a dark, foaming pint of Guinness for him, and a crisp Gin and Tonic for her.
"Cheers," Liam said, raising his glass. "To unbreakable screens."
"Cheers," Anya smiled, the ice clinking against the glass as she took a sip. The gin was cheap, sharp with lime, and bracing. It cut through the fog of the studio.
Liam leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his frame. He looked at her, really looked at her, not with the predatory assessment of a producer or the awed gaze of a fan, but with simple, uncomplicated interest.
"So, Anya," he said, wiping a fleck of foam from his lip. "You walk fast and you have very serious phone calls on a Tuesday afternoon. Corporate law? Or are you secretly running the city?"
Anya laughed, a genuine sound that surprised her. "Nothing so dramatic. I... I work in media. Production, mostly." It was the standard lie, smooth as oil.
"Media," Liam nodded, accepting it without probing. He gestured to his own attire—the flannel, the boots covered in dust. "I'd tell you I'm a banker, but the sawdust kind of gives it away. I'm finishing my Masters in Landscape Architecture. But mostly right now I'm just wrestling an ancient oak tree in a garden in Hampstead that refuses to die with dignity."
"Wrestling a tree?" Anya raised an eyebrow, leaning in.
"Oh yeah. It's a stubborn old thing. Roots digging into the foundation. The owners want it gone, I'm trying to convince them to let me build around it. It's a standoff. Me versus nature." He held up his hands.
Anya stared at them. The palms were wide, the fingers thick and capable. She saw a small, healing cut on his index finger and traces of dark soil ingrained in the lines of his skin
"They look like they've seen a lot of work," she said softly.
"They get the job done," Liam shrugged, turning his hands over. "Better than typing, I reckon. I like the feeling of dirt. It's... real. You know? You plant something, you prune it... you see the result. It’s not just data on a screen."
Real. The word hung in the air.
Anya looked at her own hands wrapped around the glass. Her nails were currently stripped of the deadly black acrylics, filed back to a sensible, "civilian" length, though the nail beds were still impeccably pink. She thought of the studio. The controlled lights. The scripts. The fabricated conflicts.
"I know what you mean," she said, her voice quiet. "Sometimes... sometimes my job feels like it isn't really happening. Like it's all just performance."
"Well," Liam grinned, leaning forward, his knee bumping hers under the small table. "This is real. Bad gin, sticky floor, and a guy who smells like pine needles. Doesn't get more grounded than this."
The contact of his knee against hers sent a jolt through her. It was warmth. Solid, heavy warmth. She didn't pull away.
She took another sip of her drink, letting the noise of the pub wash over her. For the first time in weeks, the buzzing in her head—the viewer counts, the comments, the performance—went silent.
She wasn't Amethyst. She was just a girl in a pub, listening to a man talk about trees. And god, it felt good.
---
The ice in Anya’s glass had melted, diluting the last dregs of gin into watery lime. The roar of the pub had become a comforting background hum, a white noise that insulated their small, wobbly table from the rest of London. They had spent the last hour trading stories—Liam describing the politics of community gardens with surprisingly fierce passion, and Anya carefully navigating anecdotes about "difficult clients" that were really about demanding subscribers.
She glanced at her phone. The time hit her like a cold bucket of water.
"Oh god," Anya said, sitting up straighter. "I’m going to be late. I have a lecture... a meeting. In twenty minutes."
"Back to the grind," Liam sighed, though he smiled. He drained the last of his Guinness and set the glass down with a heavy thud. "You media tycoons never stop."
He stood up first, the chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor. He offered a hand to help her up, not in a performative, courtly way, but with a casual sturdiness that she found herself leaning into. His grip was firm, warm, and brief.
They walked out into the cool grey afternoon. The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement glistening and the air smelling sharp and clean.
"Well," Liam said, turning to face her. He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans, rocking slightly on his heels. "Thanks for the company, Anya. Beats staring at a pint on my own."
"Thank you for the drink," Anya smoothed her coat, feeling the return of her armor but finding it lighter than usual. "And for saving my phone."
"Least I could do."
There was a pause. A beat of hesitation where the air shifted. Liam looked down at his boots, then back up at her, a slightly boyish hopefulness in his eyes.
"Listen," he started, scratching the back of his neck. "If you ever... you know... find yourself needing urgent advice on landscape architecture? Or if you just want another terrible gin and tonic?"
He pulled his phone from his back pocket.
"Can I grab your number?" he grinned, charmingly self-deprecating. "You know, strictly for professional networking. In case I need media consulting on my oak tree dispute."
Anya smiled. It wasn't the Amethyst smile—it wasn't practiced or enigmatic. It was soft. "I think that could be arranged."
She took his phone and typed her digits in. She handed it back.
"One sec," Liam murmured. He tapped the screen.
In Anya’s pocket, her phone buzzed and lit up. A new number.
"There," he said, pocketing his device like it was a prize. "Now you can't ignore me. You’ve got the direct line to the tree surgeon."
Anya saved the contact. Liam. Just Liam.
She checked her watch again. She really had to run. She took a step back, the adrenaline of the imminent departure mixing with the residual buzz of the gin. She wanted to say something witty. Something charming to close the interaction.
"I should go," she said, stepping away. She turned back, flashing a grin, waving her phone slightly. "I'll call you. You know... in case I ever have a bush that needs trimming."
The words hung in the air.
For a second, silence.
Then, Liam’s eyes widened. A laugh bubbled up out of him—loud, startled, and delighted. "I... wow. Okay. I’ll keep that in mind."
Anya froze. The blood drained from her face, then rushed back in a tidal wave of crimson heat. Her mouth opened, then closed. She realized exactly what she had said.
"I— I didn't mean—" she stammered, her hands flying up to cover her burning cheeks. "I meant a plant! Like a shrubbery! Oh my god."
"I am so sorry," she groaned, taking a step back, her face burning. She was torn between laughing at the absurdity and dying of mortification. "Please, just… forget I said that."
"Not a chance," Liam laughed, a rich, genuine sound, his shoulders shaking. "Don't you dare be sorry." He grinned, his eyes crinkling warmly. "You just made my entire week."
Seeing the wide, unabashed delight in his expression and realizing there was no erasing the moment, Anya simply gave up. With one last mortified groan that was half a laugh, she spun on her heel.
"I have to go!" she called over her shoulder, already walking away too fast, the frantic clicking of her heels echoing her racing heart.
"See ya, Anya!" he called after her, his voice still full of warmth and amusement. She didn't look back, but she could feel his charming, easy smile following her all the way to the corner.
She wasn't thinking about Jynx. She wasn't thinking about office chairs. She was thinking about flannel shirts and terrible jokes.
And she was smiling.
---
Saturday morning in the studio was a study in sterility. Stephen had completely gutted the warm, wood-paneled "Library" set and replaced it with a cold, terrifying vision of corporate hell.
A long, glass-topped table dominated the center of the room, reflecting the harsh, white banks of fluorescent lights overhead. The air didn't smell of sandalwood or books today; it smelled of anti-static spray and new carpet.
Anya—transformed once again into Amethyst—sat in a high-backed, black leather executive chair. She was dressed to kill in a charcoal pencil skirt that hugged her hips like a second skin and a crisp white blouse.
But her position was anything but commanding.
In front of her chair sat a low, heavy wooden bench, positioned perfectly under the harsh studio lights.
"Cable ties today," Stephen muttered, crouching at her feet with a bundle of thick, white plastic strips. "We need that cheap, makeshift kidnapping aesthetic. Like the security team just grabbed you and improvised."
He lifted Anya’s legs, resting her ankles on the bench. He didn't use padding. He threaded the heavy-duty plastic tie around her left ankle and under the wooden slat of the bench.
Zzzzt-krrrt.
The sound was sharp and final. The plastic bit into the skin, anchoring her ankle in a dead-lock. Her heel hung off the back edge, leaving her foot trapped in a vulnerable, vertical position. Her sole faced straight outward—a pale, unblemished wall of skin presented directly to the camera lens. He repeated the process with the right ankle.
"Tight," Stephen noted, testing the bond. "No wiggling today, Amethyst. You’re elevated and completely open."
She flexed her toes—size ten, red-tipped, and utterly helpless—against the cool air. Stretched out like this, with her feet raised to hip height, she felt dangerously accessible.
Across from her, Jynx was being secured in an identical fashion, her bare feet propped up on a matching bench, wiggling her toes and blowing a bubble of gum at Stephen.
Jynx looked fantastic in a "trashy temp" ensemble: a skirt that was technically a belt, a leopard-print blouse unbuttoned one too low, and her hair in a messy, calculated bun. She was watching Stephen work with a bored, hooded expression.
Standing at the head of the table was Mistress Claire. She was the apex predator of the room, wearing a black Yves Saint Laurent power suit and rectangular, rimless glasses that made her look like she fired people for sport.
"Lighting check," Stephen called, stepping back to fiddle with a softbox. "Amethyst, chin up. You look... distracted."
Anya blinked, shaking her head slightly. "Sorry. Just thinking."
She wasn't thinking about the script. She wasn't thinking about the inevitable tickle-torture interrogation scene where Claire—The CEO—would break them both to find the leak.
She was thinking about a text she had received ten minutes ago.
Liam: Found a particularly stubborn Shrub this morning. Thought of you. Hope the ‘media consulting’ is going well.
A small, private smile touched her lips, softening the severe "Executive" makeup. She tried to suppress it, biting the inside of her cheek, but the warmth lingered in her eyes.
"Oi," a voice cut through the silence.
Anya looked up. Jynx was staring at her from across the table. Her ankles were already zip-tied, but her hands were free for the moment. She pointed a pink-tipped acrylic nail at Anya.
"I know that look," Jynx drawled, popping her gum. "That’s not a 'I'm focusing on my character' look. That's a 'boy' look."
Anya flushed. "I don't know what you mean."
"Oh, please," Claire interjected, leaning against the glass table with the grace of a panther. "You’re practically glowing, darling. It’s disgusting. Who is he?"
Stephen was busy adjusting a boom mic, muttering to himself about audio levels. The girls had a thirty-second window of privacy.
"He's..." Anya hesitated, then looked at Jynx’s smirk and Claire’s expectant arched eyebrow. She couldn't help it. The bubble burst. "He's a landscape gardener. I met him on Tuesday. I literally ran into him."
"A gardener?" Jynx cackled softly, popping her gum. "Bit rough for you, innit? I thought you’d go for a professor or something boring."
"He's nice," Anya defended, wiggling her restrained feet unconsciously. "He's... real. He pushes up the sleeves of these plaid shirts he wears, and his forearms..." She trailed off, a slight flush rising in her cheeks. "They're just... really solid. And tanned. You can tell he actually lifts heavy things for a living."
"Ooh-ho," Jynx let out a low, appreciative whistle. "Forearms are a criminally underrated asset. I love a bloke who looks like he could build a shed."
"Strong hands are good, but capable arms are better," Claire nodded approvingly, adjusting her glasses with a smirk. "Very useful for lifting you... among other things.
"Okay, spill it," Claire leaned in closer, dropping her voice. "You’ve been grinning like the Cheshire Cat. What happened?"
"Nothing happened," Anya deflected, though she couldn't stop her toes from curling helplessly. "We just... had a drink. A quick one."
"Hold on," Jynx interrupted, leaning forward as much as her bound ankles allowed. "Paint the picture. What was our Ms. High-and-Mighty wearing for this little lunchtime rendezvous?"
Anya glanced down at her current severe corporate attire. "My camel coat and the black Louboutins."
"Red-bottoms to a daytime drink?" Jynx snorted. "Honey, you weren't having 'a quick one,' you were hunting. Did he buy it?"
"He insisted," Anya admitted, lowering her voice as she glanced at Stephen’s back. "He’s... different. He smells like pine and actual dirt. Not cologne. We sat in this sticky pub, The Lamb & Flag, and for forty-five minutes, I wasn't Amethyst. I was just Anya."
"That sounds dangerously quaint," Claire murmured, raising an amused eyebrow. "A civilian, then? No idea about the..." She gestured elegantly to the studio lights. "The Empire?"
"None," Anya whispered, a genuine thrill running through her. "He thinks I'm a media consultant."
"Classic," Jynx nodded knowingly. "I told my last boyfriend I worked in a call center. He never questioned why I came home smelling of baby oil. So the cover story is solid. But you said it was electric... until you opened your mouth. Give us the cringe."
Claire nodded enthusiastically, leaning in expectantly.
Anya covered her face with her hands, though the smile was still visible. "It was awful. We were saying goodbye. He made a joke about professional consulting. And I told him..." She paused, giggling helplessly. "I told him I'd call if I had a bush that needed trimming."
Silence.
Jynx froze, her gum halfway to a pop. Claire’s jaw actually dropped.
Then, the room exploded.
Jynx threw her head back, letting out a loud, honking laugh. "NO! You didn't! The Head Girl? Miss 'Silence in the Library'? You said THAT?"
"I meant a shrubbery!" Anya wheezed, laughing so hard her stomach hurt. "I panicked!"
"Oh, that is magnificent," Claire purred, wiping a tear of mirth from behind her glasses. "Accidental smut is the best kind. Did he die?"
"He laughed for five minutes straight," Anya admitted.
"He's a keeper," Jynx declared, banging her hand on the table. "If he didn't run away after that, you marry him."
"Alright, settle down," Stephen called out, emerging from behind the lights. He looked confused at the energy in the room. "Why are the prisoners laughing? You two are supposed to be terrified of the CEO."
The three women froze. Jynx was still shaking with silent laughter, and Anya was trying to hide her crimson face. A wicked, brilliant idea flashed in Claire’s eyes. Her professional mask didn’t just snap back on—it twisted into something cunning.
Without missing a beat, her hands darted down. She flicked the sharp, manicured nail of her right index finger across Anya’s sensitive arch and her left across Jynx’s. The touch was lightning-fast and startlingly ticklish.
"Eeep!" Anya squeaked, her body jolting.
"Gah!" Jynx yelped, trying to pull her foot back.
Claire leaned back, a picture of innocence, and called out coolly to Stephen. "Just running a quick sensitivity calibration, darling! Making sure the mics can pick up the higher frequencies." She then lowered her gaze to the two girls, who were now wide-eyed and silent. Her expression was no longer amused. It was a razor-sharp command: The fun is over.
They both swallowed hard and straightened up, their faces immediately adopting the required look of terror.
Only then did Claire turn her full attention back to the scene. "We were just discussing... sticking to the script," she said, her voice now a blade of pure ice.
She leaned down to Anya's ear, her voice a low, terrifying whisper that the camera wouldn't catch.
"Hold onto that happy thought, Amethyst. Because I'm about to go to town on those feet, and I plan to make you regret every single shrubbery joke."
Anya shivered, the cold reality of the room rushing back in. But as Stephen moved to zip-tie her wrists to the chair arms, the warmth of the secret kept her grounded.
"Ok and... ready?" Stephen asked.
"Ready," the three women said in unison.
"Action," Stephen said softly.
The mood in the studio shifted instantaneously. The warmth of the gossip evaporated, replaced by the sterile, high-tension hum of the fluorescent lights.
Anya—Amethyst—sat rigidly in the executive chair. Her wrists were zipped tight to the armrests, the plastic biting into her skin. Her legs were extended and locked to the bench, creating a long, unbroken line of vulnerability that ended in her perfectly polished, size ten feet. Next to her, Jynx chewed her gum defiantly, though her toes were already curling in anticipation.
Mistress Claire—The CEO—paced slowly behind them. The click-click-click of her heels on the fake vinyl floor sounded like a countdown.
"Data breach," Claire said. Her voice was calm, conversational, and chilling. "Someone in this office has been selling our proprietary sensitivity algorithms to the competition. And security traces the leak to this department."
She stopped between the two chairs, resting her hands lightly on the backs of their necks. Anya flinched. Jynx stopped chewing.
"Now," Claire continued, walking around the table to face them. She leaned back against the glass edge, crossing her arms. "I don't have time for HR protocols. I need a confession. And I need it now."
"Wasn't me," Jynx scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I'm just the temp. I don't even have the WiFi password."
"And you, Amethyst?" Claire turned her gaze to Anya. "The ambitious Junior Executive. Always staying late. Always... quiet."
"I’m loyal to the company," Anya said, her voice steady but her chest rising and falling rapidly. She flexed her feet in the restraints, the cable ties digging in. "I have nothing to hide."
"We'll see," Claire murmured.
She pushed off the desk. She didn't reach for a tool. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, metallic jar.
"This," Claire said, unscrewing the lid, "Is our newest prototype product. 'Conductive Gel.' It's designed to eliminate friction entirely, allowing for maximum surface contact."
She scooped out a dollop of clear, slick oil-based gel. She walked to Jynx first.
"Let's prep the canvas."
Claire applied the gel to Jynx’s soles. Jynx flinched immediately as the cold, viscous substance coated her warm skin.
"Ooh! That's slimy!" Jynx yelped, trying to pull her foot back, but the zip-ties held firm.
Claire moved to Anya. She grabbed Anya’s ankles firmly. She smoothed the heavy gel over Anya’s soles, working it into the arches, coating the balls of her feet, and slicking it generously between her toes.
It was heavy. The gel didn't just sit on the skin; it seemed to seal the pores. When she wiggled her toes, they didn't brush against each other—they slid, hydroplaning in the viscous muck. It felt suffocatingly intimate
"Slippery," Claire noted with a cruel smile, wiping her hands on a cloth. She picked up a simple, plastic stylus—the kind used for tablets. It had a hard, round rubber tip.
"Who wants to go first?" Claire asked, her voice dangerously soft.
"Yeah whatever," Jynx scoffed, rolling her eyes and wiggling her gel-coated toes. "I ain't got nothing to tell you. Do your worst, boss."
A small, predatory smile touched Claire's lips. "As you wish."
She didn't scribble. She was a surgeon. She used the gel's slickness not for speed, but for precision, sliding the stylus tip across Jynx's arch until she found the exact center—the taught band of the plantar fascia that Claire knew was her primary weakness.
Then, she pressed. Hard. She drove the rubber tip deep into the soft, yielding flesh, pinning the nerve against the bone. She didn't move the stylus; she simply vibrated her hand, sending a low, intense hum directly into the core of the foot.
"GYA-HH-AAA! JESUS! Hhh-uh-ha-ha!"
Jynx exploded. The reaction was not a light giggle but a deep, guttural sound, forced up from her diaphragm. The targeted, aching pressure was a sensation she couldn't fight with bravado. Her body bucked against the restraints, her back arching.
"IT’S TOO DEEP! Khh-hah! IT ACHES! NO-H-HO! Gah-ha-ha! GET IT OUT!"
"Name!" Claire shouted, holding the intense pressure steady.
"NO ONE! Hhh-ah-ha! I SWEAR! Eeee-heee-h-haaa!"
Claire stopped abruptly. Jynx slumped back, panting, blowing a stray hair out of her face.
Claire turned slowly to Anya.
"Well," Claire smiled, tapping the stylus against her palm. "A deep nerve attack for the one who fights with noise. But for you, Amethyst… the quiet one… let's try pure, unpredictable chaos."
Anya watched the stylus. Her feet were glistening under the studio lights, the gel turning her soles into a frictionless playground.
"I didn't do it," Anya whispered, her breath hitching.
"Then you won't mind a little audit."
Claire stepped in. For Anya, she didn't aim. She simply attacked. The stylus tip hit the gel-coated sole, and the lack of friction turned it into a puck on ice. Claire began a frantic, high-speed scribble, her hand a blur as the stylus skated over every inch of Anya's sole—from the heel, up the arch, across the ball, and back again.
"Hhh-kkk… nnnng!"
Anya threw her head back, her teeth clenching. The sensation was pure, unbuffered chaos. There was no rhythm to anticipate, no single point to brace against. It was a thousand tiny, lightning-fast tickles at once, amplified by the slick gel. Her toes splayed wide, sliding against each other in the slick mess as she tried to hold onto her 'Executive' mask.
"Oh, stoic," Claire observed. "Let's see if we can find a knot in this architecture."
She increased the speed, her hand a blur. The sound of the gel squelching—Schhh-luck—added a wet, humiliating texture to the torture.
"AH! N-NO! D-DON'T! Hhh-uh-ha!"
The dam broke. The sheer overwhelming speed of the surface stimulation shattered her composure.
"HAAA-HA-HA-HUH! OKAY! OKAY! Khhh! IT’S TOO FAST! Gah-hah-ha!"
"Who is the leak?" Claire demanded, moving the stylus to the sensitive skin under the toes, still scribbling wildly.
"I DON'T KNOW! NO-HHH-HA! PLEASE! MISS! AH-HA-HA-HA!"
"Liar," Claire hissed. She dropped the stylus and used her fingernails. She clawed at the gel-slicked soles, raking her nails from heel to toe in long, devastating strokes.
"SCREEEE! N-NOOO! HAAAA-HA-HA-HA! CLAAAAIRE! I MEAN MAAAA'AAAM! Hhh-ah-ha-ha!"
Anya thrashed against the zip-ties, the plastic cutting into her ankles within the tolerance of the bond, but the pain was distant compared to the overwhelming, burning tickle of the gel. She was laughing so hard she was drooling, her dignity shattering under the boardroom lights.
"DOUBLE AUDIT!" Claire shouted.
She grabbed Jynx’s foot with her left hand and Anya’s with her right. She began to tickle them both simultaneously, digging her thumbs into their arches.
The room dissolved into a cacophony of shrieks—Jynx’s loud, braying laughter clashing with Anya’s breathless, high-pitched squeals.
"NONONO! GYA-H-HA-HA!"
"MAKE IT STOP! EEEEE-HEE-H-HA-HA!"
"TELL ME!" Claire roared, enjoying herself immensely.
"IT WAS LINDA IN ACCOUNTING!" Jynx screamed. "IT WAS LINDA! SHE MADE ME DO IT! Hhh-ha-ha!"
"Amethyst?" Claire turned her focus to Anya, digging deeper.
"YES! YES! LINDA! Khh-hah! IT WAS LINDA! HAAAA-HA-HA-HUH! PLEASE STOP! I’M BEGGING YOU!"
"Cut!" Stephen shouted.
Claire released them instantly, stepping back and smoothing her blazer. "Linda in Accounting," she chuckled, shaking her head. "Classic scapegoat."
Anya slumped in the chair, her chest heaving, tears streaming down her face. Her feet were glowing red, pulsing with the aftershocks of the gel. She looked over at Jynx, who was gasping for air and wiping her nose on her shoulder.
"We... hah... we sold Linda down the river," Jynx wheezed.
"She deserved it," Anya gasped, a hysterical giggle escaping her lips. "That bitch steals my yogurt."
Stephen walked over with the snips to cut the cable ties.
"Brilliant," he said, beaming. "Absolutely brilliant. The gel reaction was gold. Cleanup in five, ladies. Then let's get you paid."
As the plastic tie snapped, freeing her ankle, Anya wiggled her toes, the cool air hitting the sensitized skin. She felt exhausted, drained, and incredibly light.
She thought of the shrubbery. She thought of Liam. And she smiled.
High Holborn was a river of grey sludge and hurried pedestrians. The drizzle wasn't heavy enough to warrant an umbrella but persistent enough to slick the pavement with a treacherous sheen. Anya moved through the lunchtime crowd with the precision of a shark, her black Louboutins clicking a sharp, rhythmic warning on the concrete: clack, clack, clack.
In her right ear, Stephen’s voice was a ceaseless stream of data, insulated from the city noise by her expensive noise-canceling earbud.
"The retention rate on the 'Silence in the Library' clip is hovering at ninety-four percent, Anya. That is statistically absurd. Usually, we see a drop-off at the three-minute mark, but they are staying for the duration. The comment section is practically demanding a tie-breaker. They want to see Amethyst and Jynx go head-to-head again, but this time with a third party to mediate. I’m thinking—"
"Stephen," Anya interrupted, sidestepping a puddle that reflected the steel-grey sky. "I’m walking. It’s loud."
"Just listen," he pressed, his voice crisp and relentless. "I’ve secured Claire. She’s agreed to play the CEO. Corporate Espionage theme. Boardroom setting. Restraints are standard cable ties and office chairs. It’s going to be—"
Anya adjusted the collar of her camel coat, her mind drifting. She was half-listening to the pitch, her eyes scanning the blurring faces of the crowd. She turned the corner sharply near the tube station, checking her reflection in a shop window.
"Anya? Are you still—"
"I'm here," she murmured, distracted by a taxi splashing water near the curb. She sidestepped left, a reflex honed by rush hour, jerking the suede bag away from the splash zone
She didn't see the wall of flannel until her nose collided with it.
Thump.
It wasn't a hard impact, but it was solid. It was like walking into a tree trunk. The sudden stop jarred her, tossing her equilibrium. Her hand flew out reflexively to catch herself, fingers scrabbling against rough cotton, but her grip on her phone slipped.
The device tumbled from her hand. It spun in the air, a slow-motion catastrophe, before hitting the wet pavement face-down with a sickening, wet thwack. It didn't bounce; it just stuck to the slick concrete, lying flat in a puddle.
"Oh, shit," the wall of flannel spoke. The voice was deep, warm, and distinctly un-corporate.
Anya blinked, shaking her head. She looked up.
He was tall—taller than Stephen. He wasn't wearing a tailored blazer or a cashmere turtleneck. He wore a faded red-and-black flannel shirt over a grey thermal, sleeves rolled up to the elbows despite the chill. His hair was a sandy, wind-blown mess, and his jaw was darkened by a day or two of stubble. He smelled of rain, pine sawdust, and damp earth.
"Sorry," he said, wincing slightly. "I turned like a bus. Didn't see you cutting inside."
Before Anya could react, he crouched down. His movements were fluid for someone of his size. He reached for the phone lying in the puddle.
Anya’s gaze locked onto his hand. It was large. The skin was tanned and weathered, the knuckles rough and dusted with what looked like dried plaster or clay. His fingernails were short and clean, but there was no manicure—just the honest wear of manual labor. It was a stark, brutal contrast to her own smooth, lotion-softened hands.
He picked up the phone and flipped it over, running a large thumb along the edge.
"Lucky break," he grinned, looking up at her. His eyes were a warm, crinkling hazel. "That raised bevel saved you about three hundred quid. The rubber bumper took the hit—glass didn't even touch the ground." He wiped the screen on the dry patch of his flannel shirt, inspecting it. "Not a scratch."
He stood up and handed it to her.
Anya took it, her manicured fingers brushing against his calloused palm. The sensation was gritty, warm, and shockingly real. His palm was like warm sandpaper; the calluses weren't just rough, they were ridges of hardened skin that caught against her smooth, lotioned fingertips, sparking a sudden friction that had nothing to do with static electricity. She was used to the scents of her own enclosed world: the dry, dusty smell of decaying paper in the university library and the lingering stale incense of her cramped shared house. Liam, however, smelled of the world outside—of forces she didn't have to contend with. He smelled of clean, resinous pine sawdust, the mineral tang of damp earth, and the simple, honest scent of rain on a cotton shirt.
"Anya? Anya, what happened?" Stephen’s tiny, tinny voice buzzed from the earbud she was still wearing. "Are you still there?"
Anya looked at the phone. Then she looked at the man in the flannel shirt, a walking embodiment of everything her secret world was not. He was looking at her with an open, apologetic smile.
She pulled the earbud out of her ear.
"I have to go, Stephen," she said into the receiver. "I'll call you later."
She thumbed the 'End Call' button with a decisive click. Silence—real, ambient silence—rushed back in.
"Thank you," she said to the stranger, slipping the phone into her pocket. She felt a sudden flush rise in her cheeks. She reached up, tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear, a nervous, human gesture she hadn't performed in weeks. "I wasn't looking. My fault entirely."
"Let's call it fifty-fifty," he laughed. The sound was rich and easy. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward a weathered pub sign swinging in the wind—The Lamb & Flag. "I was just heading in for a pint to wait out the rain. Since I nearly smashed your screen... can I buy you a drink? By way of an apology?"
Anya looked at the pub. It was dark, wood-paneled, and notoriously crowded. It was a place for students and laborers. It was exactly the kind of place Amethyst wouldn't be caught dead in.
She looked back at him. "I'm Anya."
"Liam," he smiled, extending that rough, warm hand again.
Anya hesitated for a heartbeat, then took it. "A drink sounds... wonderful, Liam."
The interior of The Lamb & Flag was a sensory assault, a jarring counterpoint to the sterile silence of the studio. It was dark, smelling of stale malt vinegar, damp wool, and the heavy, yeasty scent of old beer soaked deep into the floorboards. The noise wasn't just chatter; it was a low, rolling roar of conversation, layered with the sharp clink of heavy pint glasses being set on the bar, the satisfying thud of a dart hitting the board in the corner, and a deep, intermittent rumble that vibrated through the soles of Anya’s shoes—an Underground train passing somewhere beneath their feet.
Anya felt conspicuously overdressed. Her camel coat and the sleek line of her silhouette seemed sharp and out of place against the worn velvet and dark wood. The floor was tacky under her heels as she navigated the room with care, her red soles flashing like warning lights in the dim, amber glow.
They found a small, wobbly table near the back, wedged between a fireplace and a dartboard. Liam set the drinks down—a dark, foaming pint of Guinness for him, and a crisp Gin and Tonic for her.
"Cheers," Liam said, raising his glass. "To unbreakable screens."
"Cheers," Anya smiled, the ice clinking against the glass as she took a sip. The gin was cheap, sharp with lime, and bracing. It cut through the fog of the studio.
Liam leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his frame. He looked at her, really looked at her, not with the predatory assessment of a producer or the awed gaze of a fan, but with simple, uncomplicated interest.
"So, Anya," he said, wiping a fleck of foam from his lip. "You walk fast and you have very serious phone calls on a Tuesday afternoon. Corporate law? Or are you secretly running the city?"
Anya laughed, a genuine sound that surprised her. "Nothing so dramatic. I... I work in media. Production, mostly." It was the standard lie, smooth as oil.
"Media," Liam nodded, accepting it without probing. He gestured to his own attire—the flannel, the boots covered in dust. "I'd tell you I'm a banker, but the sawdust kind of gives it away. I'm finishing my Masters in Landscape Architecture. But mostly right now I'm just wrestling an ancient oak tree in a garden in Hampstead that refuses to die with dignity."
"Wrestling a tree?" Anya raised an eyebrow, leaning in.
"Oh yeah. It's a stubborn old thing. Roots digging into the foundation. The owners want it gone, I'm trying to convince them to let me build around it. It's a standoff. Me versus nature." He held up his hands.
Anya stared at them. The palms were wide, the fingers thick and capable. She saw a small, healing cut on his index finger and traces of dark soil ingrained in the lines of his skin
"They look like they've seen a lot of work," she said softly.
"They get the job done," Liam shrugged, turning his hands over. "Better than typing, I reckon. I like the feeling of dirt. It's... real. You know? You plant something, you prune it... you see the result. It’s not just data on a screen."
Real. The word hung in the air.
Anya looked at her own hands wrapped around the glass. Her nails were currently stripped of the deadly black acrylics, filed back to a sensible, "civilian" length, though the nail beds were still impeccably pink. She thought of the studio. The controlled lights. The scripts. The fabricated conflicts.
"I know what you mean," she said, her voice quiet. "Sometimes... sometimes my job feels like it isn't really happening. Like it's all just performance."
"Well," Liam grinned, leaning forward, his knee bumping hers under the small table. "This is real. Bad gin, sticky floor, and a guy who smells like pine needles. Doesn't get more grounded than this."
The contact of his knee against hers sent a jolt through her. It was warmth. Solid, heavy warmth. She didn't pull away.
She took another sip of her drink, letting the noise of the pub wash over her. For the first time in weeks, the buzzing in her head—the viewer counts, the comments, the performance—went silent.
She wasn't Amethyst. She was just a girl in a pub, listening to a man talk about trees. And god, it felt good.
---
The ice in Anya’s glass had melted, diluting the last dregs of gin into watery lime. The roar of the pub had become a comforting background hum, a white noise that insulated their small, wobbly table from the rest of London. They had spent the last hour trading stories—Liam describing the politics of community gardens with surprisingly fierce passion, and Anya carefully navigating anecdotes about "difficult clients" that were really about demanding subscribers.
She glanced at her phone. The time hit her like a cold bucket of water.
"Oh god," Anya said, sitting up straighter. "I’m going to be late. I have a lecture... a meeting. In twenty minutes."
"Back to the grind," Liam sighed, though he smiled. He drained the last of his Guinness and set the glass down with a heavy thud. "You media tycoons never stop."
He stood up first, the chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor. He offered a hand to help her up, not in a performative, courtly way, but with a casual sturdiness that she found herself leaning into. His grip was firm, warm, and brief.
They walked out into the cool grey afternoon. The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement glistening and the air smelling sharp and clean.
"Well," Liam said, turning to face her. He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans, rocking slightly on his heels. "Thanks for the company, Anya. Beats staring at a pint on my own."
"Thank you for the drink," Anya smoothed her coat, feeling the return of her armor but finding it lighter than usual. "And for saving my phone."
"Least I could do."
There was a pause. A beat of hesitation where the air shifted. Liam looked down at his boots, then back up at her, a slightly boyish hopefulness in his eyes.
"Listen," he started, scratching the back of his neck. "If you ever... you know... find yourself needing urgent advice on landscape architecture? Or if you just want another terrible gin and tonic?"
He pulled his phone from his back pocket.
"Can I grab your number?" he grinned, charmingly self-deprecating. "You know, strictly for professional networking. In case I need media consulting on my oak tree dispute."
Anya smiled. It wasn't the Amethyst smile—it wasn't practiced or enigmatic. It was soft. "I think that could be arranged."
She took his phone and typed her digits in. She handed it back.
"One sec," Liam murmured. He tapped the screen.
In Anya’s pocket, her phone buzzed and lit up. A new number.
"There," he said, pocketing his device like it was a prize. "Now you can't ignore me. You’ve got the direct line to the tree surgeon."
Anya saved the contact. Liam. Just Liam.
She checked her watch again. She really had to run. She took a step back, the adrenaline of the imminent departure mixing with the residual buzz of the gin. She wanted to say something witty. Something charming to close the interaction.
"I should go," she said, stepping away. She turned back, flashing a grin, waving her phone slightly. "I'll call you. You know... in case I ever have a bush that needs trimming."
The words hung in the air.
For a second, silence.
Then, Liam’s eyes widened. A laugh bubbled up out of him—loud, startled, and delighted. "I... wow. Okay. I’ll keep that in mind."
Anya froze. The blood drained from her face, then rushed back in a tidal wave of crimson heat. Her mouth opened, then closed. She realized exactly what she had said.
"I— I didn't mean—" she stammered, her hands flying up to cover her burning cheeks. "I meant a plant! Like a shrubbery! Oh my god."
"I am so sorry," she groaned, taking a step back, her face burning. She was torn between laughing at the absurdity and dying of mortification. "Please, just… forget I said that."
"Not a chance," Liam laughed, a rich, genuine sound, his shoulders shaking. "Don't you dare be sorry." He grinned, his eyes crinkling warmly. "You just made my entire week."
Seeing the wide, unabashed delight in his expression and realizing there was no erasing the moment, Anya simply gave up. With one last mortified groan that was half a laugh, she spun on her heel.
"I have to go!" she called over her shoulder, already walking away too fast, the frantic clicking of her heels echoing her racing heart.
"See ya, Anya!" he called after her, his voice still full of warmth and amusement. She didn't look back, but she could feel his charming, easy smile following her all the way to the corner.
She wasn't thinking about Jynx. She wasn't thinking about office chairs. She was thinking about flannel shirts and terrible jokes.
And she was smiling.
---
Saturday morning in the studio was a study in sterility. Stephen had completely gutted the warm, wood-paneled "Library" set and replaced it with a cold, terrifying vision of corporate hell.
A long, glass-topped table dominated the center of the room, reflecting the harsh, white banks of fluorescent lights overhead. The air didn't smell of sandalwood or books today; it smelled of anti-static spray and new carpet.
Anya—transformed once again into Amethyst—sat in a high-backed, black leather executive chair. She was dressed to kill in a charcoal pencil skirt that hugged her hips like a second skin and a crisp white blouse.
But her position was anything but commanding.
In front of her chair sat a low, heavy wooden bench, positioned perfectly under the harsh studio lights.
"Cable ties today," Stephen muttered, crouching at her feet with a bundle of thick, white plastic strips. "We need that cheap, makeshift kidnapping aesthetic. Like the security team just grabbed you and improvised."
He lifted Anya’s legs, resting her ankles on the bench. He didn't use padding. He threaded the heavy-duty plastic tie around her left ankle and under the wooden slat of the bench.
Zzzzt-krrrt.
The sound was sharp and final. The plastic bit into the skin, anchoring her ankle in a dead-lock. Her heel hung off the back edge, leaving her foot trapped in a vulnerable, vertical position. Her sole faced straight outward—a pale, unblemished wall of skin presented directly to the camera lens. He repeated the process with the right ankle.
"Tight," Stephen noted, testing the bond. "No wiggling today, Amethyst. You’re elevated and completely open."
She flexed her toes—size ten, red-tipped, and utterly helpless—against the cool air. Stretched out like this, with her feet raised to hip height, she felt dangerously accessible.
Across from her, Jynx was being secured in an identical fashion, her bare feet propped up on a matching bench, wiggling her toes and blowing a bubble of gum at Stephen.
Jynx looked fantastic in a "trashy temp" ensemble: a skirt that was technically a belt, a leopard-print blouse unbuttoned one too low, and her hair in a messy, calculated bun. She was watching Stephen work with a bored, hooded expression.
Standing at the head of the table was Mistress Claire. She was the apex predator of the room, wearing a black Yves Saint Laurent power suit and rectangular, rimless glasses that made her look like she fired people for sport.
"Lighting check," Stephen called, stepping back to fiddle with a softbox. "Amethyst, chin up. You look... distracted."
Anya blinked, shaking her head slightly. "Sorry. Just thinking."
She wasn't thinking about the script. She wasn't thinking about the inevitable tickle-torture interrogation scene where Claire—The CEO—would break them both to find the leak.
She was thinking about a text she had received ten minutes ago.
Liam: Found a particularly stubborn Shrub this morning. Thought of you. Hope the ‘media consulting’ is going well.
A small, private smile touched her lips, softening the severe "Executive" makeup. She tried to suppress it, biting the inside of her cheek, but the warmth lingered in her eyes.
"Oi," a voice cut through the silence.
Anya looked up. Jynx was staring at her from across the table. Her ankles were already zip-tied, but her hands were free for the moment. She pointed a pink-tipped acrylic nail at Anya.
"I know that look," Jynx drawled, popping her gum. "That’s not a 'I'm focusing on my character' look. That's a 'boy' look."
Anya flushed. "I don't know what you mean."
"Oh, please," Claire interjected, leaning against the glass table with the grace of a panther. "You’re practically glowing, darling. It’s disgusting. Who is he?"
Stephen was busy adjusting a boom mic, muttering to himself about audio levels. The girls had a thirty-second window of privacy.
"He's..." Anya hesitated, then looked at Jynx’s smirk and Claire’s expectant arched eyebrow. She couldn't help it. The bubble burst. "He's a landscape gardener. I met him on Tuesday. I literally ran into him."
"A gardener?" Jynx cackled softly, popping her gum. "Bit rough for you, innit? I thought you’d go for a professor or something boring."
"He's nice," Anya defended, wiggling her restrained feet unconsciously. "He's... real. He pushes up the sleeves of these plaid shirts he wears, and his forearms..." She trailed off, a slight flush rising in her cheeks. "They're just... really solid. And tanned. You can tell he actually lifts heavy things for a living."
"Ooh-ho," Jynx let out a low, appreciative whistle. "Forearms are a criminally underrated asset. I love a bloke who looks like he could build a shed."
"Strong hands are good, but capable arms are better," Claire nodded approvingly, adjusting her glasses with a smirk. "Very useful for lifting you... among other things.
"Okay, spill it," Claire leaned in closer, dropping her voice. "You’ve been grinning like the Cheshire Cat. What happened?"
"Nothing happened," Anya deflected, though she couldn't stop her toes from curling helplessly. "We just... had a drink. A quick one."
"Hold on," Jynx interrupted, leaning forward as much as her bound ankles allowed. "Paint the picture. What was our Ms. High-and-Mighty wearing for this little lunchtime rendezvous?"
Anya glanced down at her current severe corporate attire. "My camel coat and the black Louboutins."
"Red-bottoms to a daytime drink?" Jynx snorted. "Honey, you weren't having 'a quick one,' you were hunting. Did he buy it?"
"He insisted," Anya admitted, lowering her voice as she glanced at Stephen’s back. "He’s... different. He smells like pine and actual dirt. Not cologne. We sat in this sticky pub, The Lamb & Flag, and for forty-five minutes, I wasn't Amethyst. I was just Anya."
"That sounds dangerously quaint," Claire murmured, raising an amused eyebrow. "A civilian, then? No idea about the..." She gestured elegantly to the studio lights. "The Empire?"
"None," Anya whispered, a genuine thrill running through her. "He thinks I'm a media consultant."
"Classic," Jynx nodded knowingly. "I told my last boyfriend I worked in a call center. He never questioned why I came home smelling of baby oil. So the cover story is solid. But you said it was electric... until you opened your mouth. Give us the cringe."
Claire nodded enthusiastically, leaning in expectantly.
Anya covered her face with her hands, though the smile was still visible. "It was awful. We were saying goodbye. He made a joke about professional consulting. And I told him..." She paused, giggling helplessly. "I told him I'd call if I had a bush that needed trimming."
Silence.
Jynx froze, her gum halfway to a pop. Claire’s jaw actually dropped.
Then, the room exploded.
Jynx threw her head back, letting out a loud, honking laugh. "NO! You didn't! The Head Girl? Miss 'Silence in the Library'? You said THAT?"
"I meant a shrubbery!" Anya wheezed, laughing so hard her stomach hurt. "I panicked!"
"Oh, that is magnificent," Claire purred, wiping a tear of mirth from behind her glasses. "Accidental smut is the best kind. Did he die?"
"He laughed for five minutes straight," Anya admitted.
"He's a keeper," Jynx declared, banging her hand on the table. "If he didn't run away after that, you marry him."
"Alright, settle down," Stephen called out, emerging from behind the lights. He looked confused at the energy in the room. "Why are the prisoners laughing? You two are supposed to be terrified of the CEO."
The three women froze. Jynx was still shaking with silent laughter, and Anya was trying to hide her crimson face. A wicked, brilliant idea flashed in Claire’s eyes. Her professional mask didn’t just snap back on—it twisted into something cunning.
Without missing a beat, her hands darted down. She flicked the sharp, manicured nail of her right index finger across Anya’s sensitive arch and her left across Jynx’s. The touch was lightning-fast and startlingly ticklish.
"Eeep!" Anya squeaked, her body jolting.
"Gah!" Jynx yelped, trying to pull her foot back.
Claire leaned back, a picture of innocence, and called out coolly to Stephen. "Just running a quick sensitivity calibration, darling! Making sure the mics can pick up the higher frequencies." She then lowered her gaze to the two girls, who were now wide-eyed and silent. Her expression was no longer amused. It was a razor-sharp command: The fun is over.
They both swallowed hard and straightened up, their faces immediately adopting the required look of terror.
Only then did Claire turn her full attention back to the scene. "We were just discussing... sticking to the script," she said, her voice now a blade of pure ice.
She leaned down to Anya's ear, her voice a low, terrifying whisper that the camera wouldn't catch.
"Hold onto that happy thought, Amethyst. Because I'm about to go to town on those feet, and I plan to make you regret every single shrubbery joke."
Anya shivered, the cold reality of the room rushing back in. But as Stephen moved to zip-tie her wrists to the chair arms, the warmth of the secret kept her grounded.
"Ok and... ready?" Stephen asked.
"Ready," the three women said in unison.
"Action," Stephen said softly.
The mood in the studio shifted instantaneously. The warmth of the gossip evaporated, replaced by the sterile, high-tension hum of the fluorescent lights.
Anya—Amethyst—sat rigidly in the executive chair. Her wrists were zipped tight to the armrests, the plastic biting into her skin. Her legs were extended and locked to the bench, creating a long, unbroken line of vulnerability that ended in her perfectly polished, size ten feet. Next to her, Jynx chewed her gum defiantly, though her toes were already curling in anticipation.
Mistress Claire—The CEO—paced slowly behind them. The click-click-click of her heels on the fake vinyl floor sounded like a countdown.
"Data breach," Claire said. Her voice was calm, conversational, and chilling. "Someone in this office has been selling our proprietary sensitivity algorithms to the competition. And security traces the leak to this department."
She stopped between the two chairs, resting her hands lightly on the backs of their necks. Anya flinched. Jynx stopped chewing.
"Now," Claire continued, walking around the table to face them. She leaned back against the glass edge, crossing her arms. "I don't have time for HR protocols. I need a confession. And I need it now."
"Wasn't me," Jynx scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I'm just the temp. I don't even have the WiFi password."
"And you, Amethyst?" Claire turned her gaze to Anya. "The ambitious Junior Executive. Always staying late. Always... quiet."
"I’m loyal to the company," Anya said, her voice steady but her chest rising and falling rapidly. She flexed her feet in the restraints, the cable ties digging in. "I have nothing to hide."
"We'll see," Claire murmured.
She pushed off the desk. She didn't reach for a tool. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, metallic jar.
"This," Claire said, unscrewing the lid, "Is our newest prototype product. 'Conductive Gel.' It's designed to eliminate friction entirely, allowing for maximum surface contact."
She scooped out a dollop of clear, slick oil-based gel. She walked to Jynx first.
"Let's prep the canvas."
Claire applied the gel to Jynx’s soles. Jynx flinched immediately as the cold, viscous substance coated her warm skin.
"Ooh! That's slimy!" Jynx yelped, trying to pull her foot back, but the zip-ties held firm.
Claire moved to Anya. She grabbed Anya’s ankles firmly. She smoothed the heavy gel over Anya’s soles, working it into the arches, coating the balls of her feet, and slicking it generously between her toes.
It was heavy. The gel didn't just sit on the skin; it seemed to seal the pores. When she wiggled her toes, they didn't brush against each other—they slid, hydroplaning in the viscous muck. It felt suffocatingly intimate
"Slippery," Claire noted with a cruel smile, wiping her hands on a cloth. She picked up a simple, plastic stylus—the kind used for tablets. It had a hard, round rubber tip.
"Who wants to go first?" Claire asked, her voice dangerously soft.
"Yeah whatever," Jynx scoffed, rolling her eyes and wiggling her gel-coated toes. "I ain't got nothing to tell you. Do your worst, boss."
A small, predatory smile touched Claire's lips. "As you wish."
She didn't scribble. She was a surgeon. She used the gel's slickness not for speed, but for precision, sliding the stylus tip across Jynx's arch until she found the exact center—the taught band of the plantar fascia that Claire knew was her primary weakness.
Then, she pressed. Hard. She drove the rubber tip deep into the soft, yielding flesh, pinning the nerve against the bone. She didn't move the stylus; she simply vibrated her hand, sending a low, intense hum directly into the core of the foot.
"GYA-HH-AAA! JESUS! Hhh-uh-ha-ha!"
Jynx exploded. The reaction was not a light giggle but a deep, guttural sound, forced up from her diaphragm. The targeted, aching pressure was a sensation she couldn't fight with bravado. Her body bucked against the restraints, her back arching.
"IT’S TOO DEEP! Khh-hah! IT ACHES! NO-H-HO! Gah-ha-ha! GET IT OUT!"
"Name!" Claire shouted, holding the intense pressure steady.
"NO ONE! Hhh-ah-ha! I SWEAR! Eeee-heee-h-haaa!"
Claire stopped abruptly. Jynx slumped back, panting, blowing a stray hair out of her face.
Claire turned slowly to Anya.
"Well," Claire smiled, tapping the stylus against her palm. "A deep nerve attack for the one who fights with noise. But for you, Amethyst… the quiet one… let's try pure, unpredictable chaos."
Anya watched the stylus. Her feet were glistening under the studio lights, the gel turning her soles into a frictionless playground.
"I didn't do it," Anya whispered, her breath hitching.
"Then you won't mind a little audit."
Claire stepped in. For Anya, she didn't aim. She simply attacked. The stylus tip hit the gel-coated sole, and the lack of friction turned it into a puck on ice. Claire began a frantic, high-speed scribble, her hand a blur as the stylus skated over every inch of Anya's sole—from the heel, up the arch, across the ball, and back again.
"Hhh-kkk… nnnng!"
Anya threw her head back, her teeth clenching. The sensation was pure, unbuffered chaos. There was no rhythm to anticipate, no single point to brace against. It was a thousand tiny, lightning-fast tickles at once, amplified by the slick gel. Her toes splayed wide, sliding against each other in the slick mess as she tried to hold onto her 'Executive' mask.
"Oh, stoic," Claire observed. "Let's see if we can find a knot in this architecture."
She increased the speed, her hand a blur. The sound of the gel squelching—Schhh-luck—added a wet, humiliating texture to the torture.
"AH! N-NO! D-DON'T! Hhh-uh-ha!"
The dam broke. The sheer overwhelming speed of the surface stimulation shattered her composure.
"HAAA-HA-HA-HUH! OKAY! OKAY! Khhh! IT’S TOO FAST! Gah-hah-ha!"
"Who is the leak?" Claire demanded, moving the stylus to the sensitive skin under the toes, still scribbling wildly.
"I DON'T KNOW! NO-HHH-HA! PLEASE! MISS! AH-HA-HA-HA!"
"Liar," Claire hissed. She dropped the stylus and used her fingernails. She clawed at the gel-slicked soles, raking her nails from heel to toe in long, devastating strokes.
"SCREEEE! N-NOOO! HAAAA-HA-HA-HA! CLAAAAIRE! I MEAN MAAAA'AAAM! Hhh-ah-ha-ha!"
Anya thrashed against the zip-ties, the plastic cutting into her ankles within the tolerance of the bond, but the pain was distant compared to the overwhelming, burning tickle of the gel. She was laughing so hard she was drooling, her dignity shattering under the boardroom lights.
"DOUBLE AUDIT!" Claire shouted.
She grabbed Jynx’s foot with her left hand and Anya’s with her right. She began to tickle them both simultaneously, digging her thumbs into their arches.
The room dissolved into a cacophony of shrieks—Jynx’s loud, braying laughter clashing with Anya’s breathless, high-pitched squeals.
"NONONO! GYA-H-HA-HA!"
"MAKE IT STOP! EEEEE-HEE-H-HA-HA!"
"TELL ME!" Claire roared, enjoying herself immensely.
"IT WAS LINDA IN ACCOUNTING!" Jynx screamed. "IT WAS LINDA! SHE MADE ME DO IT! Hhh-ha-ha!"
"Amethyst?" Claire turned her focus to Anya, digging deeper.
"YES! YES! LINDA! Khh-hah! IT WAS LINDA! HAAAA-HA-HA-HUH! PLEASE STOP! I’M BEGGING YOU!"
"Cut!" Stephen shouted.
Claire released them instantly, stepping back and smoothing her blazer. "Linda in Accounting," she chuckled, shaking her head. "Classic scapegoat."
Anya slumped in the chair, her chest heaving, tears streaming down her face. Her feet were glowing red, pulsing with the aftershocks of the gel. She looked over at Jynx, who was gasping for air and wiping her nose on her shoulder.
"We... hah... we sold Linda down the river," Jynx wheezed.
"She deserved it," Anya gasped, a hysterical giggle escaping her lips. "That bitch steals my yogurt."
Stephen walked over with the snips to cut the cable ties.
"Brilliant," he said, beaming. "Absolutely brilliant. The gel reaction was gold. Cleanup in five, ladies. Then let's get you paid."
As the plastic tie snapped, freeing her ankle, Anya wiggled her toes, the cool air hitting the sensitized skin. She felt exhausted, drained, and incredibly light.
She thought of the shrubbery. She thought of Liam. And she smiled.
