Marts
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Oct 16, 2004
- Messages
- 179
- Points
- 43
Previous Chapter || First Chapter
The lecture hall emptied with the chaotic, shuffling roar of two hundred students simultaneously deciding they had better places to be. The air was thick with the plastic tang of overheating laptops, stale coffee, and the damp wool of winter coats.
Anya took her time packing her bag, sliding her notebook in with deliberate, calming movements. She could feel the gaze before she saw him. It was a weight on the back of her neck, a pricking heat that she had learned to identify with the precision of a radar operator.
She zipped her bag—a sharp zzt—and turned.
Jake was standing at the end of the row. He wasn’t blocking the exit, but he was hovering in that ambiguous space that demanded interaction. He looked different today. The awe she had seen previously had hardened into something more transactional. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot, hands deep in the pockets of his parka.
"Anya," he said. He didn't wait for a greeting. He stepped into the row, closing the distance. "I was thinking about what you said. About your... heavy workload."
Anya slung her bag over her shoulder, her expression neutral. "I'm afraid the schedule hasn't cleared up, Jake."
"I'm not talking about the studio," he said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. He glanced around to ensure the professor was distracted at the podium. "I'm talking about private work. Off the books. No Stephen. No cameras."
He pulled a hand from his pocket. He wasn't holding a weapon, but the roll of cash he flashed briefly in his palm felt just as aggressive.
"I’ve got five hundred," he pressed, his eyes darting to her face, searching for a crack in the armor. "Just for an hour. My place is ten minutes away. I just want to... I want to try the brush. I want to see if I can make you break like that guy did in 'The Burglar'."
Anya went still. The air in the lecture hall seemed to drop ten degrees. It was the request she had dreaded—the moment the digital fantasy tried to claw its way into her physical reality.
She looked at the cash, then up at his hopeful, hungry eyes. A month ago, she might have calculated the hourly rate. She might have weighed the risk against the rent. But today, a different image superimposed itself over Jake's face: Liam, staring at the screen in her apartment, his hand resting protectively on her thigh.
"Put that away," she said. Her voice was ice, quiet and absolute.
Jake blinked, startled by the tone. "It's good money, Anya. I promise I'm safe."
"It's not about the money, and it's not about safety," she said, taking a step closer, forcing him to give ground. "I am a performer, Jake. What happens in that studio is a job. It stays behind the glass."
She adjusted the strap of her bag, her posture straightening into the regal bearing of Amethyst.
"Besides," she added, her voice softening just a fraction, though the steel remained. "My boyfriend is currently coming to terms with the fact that thousands of people see my feet on the internet every week. I think if I told him I was doing private, undocumented house calls... that would be the end of the truce. And I value that truce more than your five hundred pounds."
Jake stood there for a moment, mouth slightly open. The mention of a 'boyfriend' seemed to shatter the fantasy more effectively than any professional rejection could. The 'Amethyst' he watched was accessible, a digital object. 'Anya' belonged to someone else.
"Right," he mumbled, shoving his hand back into his pocket, his face flushing a dull red. "Right. Sorry. I just... thought I'd ask."
"Now you know," she said. "See you next week."
She walked past him without looking back, the click of her heels on the linoleum—clack, clack, clack—each step sounding like gavel strikes.
She made it to the heavy double doors of the building before her phone buzzed against her hip bzzzzzzzt. The vibration was long, insistent. She pulled it out.
Liam Calling.
She exhaled, the tension in her shoulders dropping instantly. She swiped the green icon.
"Hey," she answered, stepping out into the raw, damp wind of the London afternoon.
"Tell me you're done with the books for the day," Liam’s voice crackled through the speaker. There was background noise—the clinking of glasses, a low roar of laughter.
"Just finished," Anya said, turning her collar up against the chill. "Why? What's going on?"
"I'm at The Nag's Head in Islington," he said. "The job finished early. The massive oak finally conceded defeat." He laughed, a warm sound that warmed her despite the wind. "Gary and the boys are here. I was thinking... maybe you should come down. Have a pint. Meet the crew."
Anya stopped walking. Meeting the friends. It was the next step. The natural progression. But after the encounter with Jake, the idea of walking into a room full of men—Liam's men—felt fraught with invisible tripwires.
"The Nag's Head," she repeated. "Is that safe territory for a girl in Louboutins?"
"I'll defend your shoes with my life," Liam promised. "Come on. Gary's dying to meet the 'media consultant' who finally tied me down. Just... come as you are."
"Okay," Anya said, checking her reflection in a shop window. "I'm ten minutes away."
"See you soon, love."
She hung up. She looked at her reflection—blonde hair perfect, coat sharp, eyes guarded. She wasn't walking into a studio. She was walking into something much harder to script.
---
The Nag’s Head was a sensory assault that hit Anya the moment she pushed through the heavy, frosted-glass double doors. It didn't smell like the sterile corridors of the university or the expensive citrus polish of*La Petite Maison*. It smelled of things that had been soaked into the wood for decades: stale malt vinegar, damp wool, old tobacco smoke rising from the carpet like a ghost, and the sharp, chemical tang of urinal cakes drifting from the back hall.
The air was warm, thick, and loud. A football match blared from a TV mounted in the corner, competing with the thumping bass of a jukebox playing Oasis and the raucous, unregulated laughter of men who had finished their shift.
Anya hesitated on the threshold. Her camel coat was too clean, her hair too perfect, and the red soles of her heels flashed like distress flares against the dark, sticky carpet. She felt the shift in atmosphere immediately—the turning of heads, the drop in volume at the tables nearest the door. In this ecosystem, she wasn't just a guest; she was an invasive species.
"Anya! Over here!"
Liam’s voice cut through the din. He was standing near a booth by the dartboard, waving a pint glass. He looked different here—looser, louder, his shoulders unclenched.
She navigated the room, conscious of the eyes tracking her. She kept her chin up, adopting the same localized blindness she used on the Tube.
As she reached the booth, the three men sitting with Liam didn't stand up. They shifted, creating a wall of denim and flannel.
"Lads," Liam beamed, his face flushed with the first pint and the pride of introduction. He slid a heavy arm around Anya’s waist, pulling her into the heat of his side. "This is her. This is Anya."
He gestured to the two men on the left. "That's Steve," he pointed to a stocky man with a friendly, open face who offered a shy nod. "And Tom," a lanky, quiet man who raised his glass with a muttered 'hello'.
"And this," Liam’s voice tightened just a fraction, "is Gary."
Gary didn't nod. He didn't smile. He was sitting with his back to the wall, the strategic position of a man who liked to see the door. He was leaner than Liam, with sharp, ferret-like features and eyes that were cold, calculating, and utterly unimpressed. He looked Anya up and down, taking in the coat, the bag, the heels, peeling away her layers with a look of clinical disdain.
"Steady on," Gary said flatly, his eyes dropping to the razor-thin heels of her pumps. "You walking on stilts? Expecting the cellar to flood?"
Steve snorted into his lager. Liam’s grip on her waist tightened.
"Louboutin," Anya corrected smoothly, extending a hand that Gary ignored. "And in London, one should always expect a flood. Nice to meet you, Gary."
She sat down. The booth was cramped. The table was a sticky archipelago of beer mats and empty crisp packets. For the first ten minutes, Anya was a spectator in a sport she didn't play. The men spoke in a rapid-fire shorthand of job sites, football scores, and grievances about a foreman named 'Bastard Dave.'
Liam tried to include her, pausing to translate the jargon, but the rhythm was off. Every time she spoke, the table went quiet.
"So," Gary interrupted a story about a cracked foundation. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the wet table. He locked eyes with Anya. "Liam says you're in 'media.' That's a fancy word. Usually means 'unemployed' or 'rich parents.'"
"Gary," Liam warned, his voice dropping an octave.
"I'm just asking, Li," Gary held up his hands in mock surrender. "She's drinking a gin and tonic that costs more than my hourly rate. I'm just trying to figure out the economics." He turned back to Anya, his smile not reaching his eyes. "So? What is it you actually do, love? besides walking around in shoes worth a month's rent?"
The table went dead silent. Even the jukebox seemed to pause.
Anya looked at him. She saw the protectiveness beneath the aggression. He thought she was a tourist. He thought she was going to eat Liam alive.
"I work in specialized digital content," Anya said, her voice steady.
Gary laughed, a short, sharp bark. "Right. 'Content.' Liam told us, actually. He's terrible at keeping secrets when he's had a few."
Gary picked up a beer mat, flipping it over his fingers.
"He says you get tied up," Gary smirked. "Says you get tickled with feathers while blokes pay to watch. Bit of a distinct career path, innit? In my day, we just called that being a... well, you know."
"Gary, shut your mouth," Liam snarled, starting to rise from the bench. "I mean it."
"It's fine, Liam," Anya said. She didn't look at Liam. She didn't shrink. She placed a hand on Liam’s chest to keep him seated, but her eyes never left Gary’s.
She leaned in. She dropped the 'Anya' softness. She channeled the icy, terrifying composure of Amethyst when a scene was going wrong.
"You're right, Gary," she said, her voice cutting through the noise of the pub like a scalpel. "It is distinct. It involves psychology, endurance, and the ability to handle men who think they're in control when they're actually just paying the bill."
She let that hang for a second.
"It's physically exhausting," she continued, her tone conversational but hard as flint. "My wrists bleed. My throat burns. And I do it so I don't have to answer to a foreman like 'Bastard Dave' or sit in a pub at 5 PM miserable about my paycheck. I sell a fantasy, Gary. And business is booming."
She reached into her bag. She didn't pull out a phone or a compact. She pulled out her wallet.
"Now," she said, signaling the barman with a sharp nod. "Since we've established that I can afford it, I'm buying the next round. What are we drinking?"
Gary stared at her. The sneer faltered. He looked at Liam, who was fuming, then back at this woman who had just owned her reality without a single apology.
She hadn't defended herself. She had pulled rank.
"Lager," Steve piped up, desperate to break the tension. "I'll have a lager, love."
"Guinness," Tom added quickly.
Anya looked at Gary. "And you? You look like a man who needs a lemonade. Something to take the bitter taste out of his mouth."
The table went deathly quiet. Gary’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he prepared a retort. Liam looked ready to physically intervene.
Then, Anya let out a small, disarming laugh. The ice in her expression melted instantly into a warm, knowing smile.
"I'm joking, Gary," she said, her voice dropping the combative edge. She glanced at the half-empty glass in front of him, noting the logo and the specific golden hue of the dregs. "Besides, you can't drink lemonade with a scampi fry. It's against the law."
She tapped the rim of his glass with a manicured fingernail.
"Stella, right? 'Reassuringly expensive', or so the ads used to say." She winked at him. "See? I know my lagers."
The tension in Gary’s shoulders locked for a split second, then broke. He let out a breath that was half-sigh, half-chuckle.
"Yeah," Gary grunted, picking up his glass and draining the last inch. He set it down with a thud. "Stella's fine."
"Right then," Anya said, straightening up. "Two Stellas, two Guinness." She looked at Liam, squeezing his shoulder. "And a packet of peanuts for the table unless you want to see me get hangry. Trust me, nobody wants that."
She walked to the bar, the clack-clack-clack of her heels sounding decisive but no longer aggressive.
Steve watched her go, then turned to Liam, eyes wide. "Bloody hell, Li. She's sharp."
"She's terrifying," Tom corrected, grinning into his beer.
Gary didn't say anything. He just watched Anya lean over the bar to flag down the landlord, holding her ground against a bustling crowd of regulars. He picked up a beer mat and started shredding the corner.
"She's alright," Gary muttered finally, refusing to look at Liam. "Just make sure she gets the dry roasted nuts. I hate the salted ones."
When Anya returned with the tray—balancing four spilling pints and three packets of dry roasted peanuts—the wall of denim had permanently opened. She slid into the booth next to Liam, and for the first time, Gary moved his coat to give her room.
She wasn't one of them. But she was welcome.
---
Forty minutes later, the table was covered in empty crisp packets and half-drained pint glasses. The initial tension had thawed into something resembling a social gathering—at least for three of them.
Anya had shed her coat, sitting comfortably in her blouse, leaning forward as she held court.
"So there I was," she was saying, using her hands to illustrate the scene, "strapped to this antique library chair. The director, Stephen, is very particular about historical accuracy. He's yelling, 'More hysteria! More hysteria!' and the other actress, Jynx, who is supposed to be the strict librarian, leans in to tickle my ribs..."
Steve was leaning in, rapt. Tom was grinning. Even Liam was watching her with a look of pure pride.
"And?" Steve asked, grinning. "Did you break?"
"Well," Anya laughed, taking a sip of her gin and tonic. "Jynx has these long acrylic nails. And just as she goes for the 'kill shot' under my arm, one of them snaps off. Ping! Flies right into the camera lens."
The table erupted. Steve slapped his thigh. "No way!"
"Way," Anya nodded. "We had to cut. Stephen was furious because the nail scratched the lens. Jynx was crying about her manicure. And I'm still tied to the chair, just hanging there, waiting for someone to uncuff me so I can get a coffee. It was tragic."
"That is mental," Tom shook his head, chuckling. "Absolute madness. But fair play to you, Anya. Sounds like a laugh, really."
"It has its moments," she smiled. She glanced at Gary. He wasn't laughing. He was watching her over the rim of his glass, his expression unreadable, but the overt hostility had dimmed into a sullen watchfulness. He couldn't deny she was entertaining the troops.
---
"Time at the bar!" the landlord shouted, dimming the lights.
They said their goodbyes on the pavement outside, the cold air sobering them up. Steve and Tom gave Anya warm handshakes, promising to behave better next time. Gary gave a curt nod and vanished into the night without a word.
"I am so sorry about him," Liam groaned as they walked toward the taxi rank. "He's a prick when he's had a few. I shouldn't have told them. I just... I didn't want to lie to them."
"It's fine, Liam," Anya said, looping her arm through his. "Actually, I'm glad you did. It's better than them finding out later."
"He's just... protective," Liam sighed, looking at the ground. "My ex... Sarah. She really did a number on me a few years back. Cheated, lied, stole money from the business account. Gary was the one who caught her. He thinks anyone who isn't 'one of us' is running a scam."
He stopped, turning to face her under the streetlight. He took her hands.
"He thinks because of... the job... that you're just playing a role. That you're going to take me for a ride."
Anya looked at his earnest, open face.
"I'm not playing a role with you, Liam," she said softly. "The job is the performance. This..." She squeezed his hand. "This is real."
"I know," he smiled, relieved. "I know."
Anya checked her phone. "Speaking of the job... I should make a call. If we're doing the 'meet the family' tour, I think it's time you met the people who actually sign the checks. Stephen and Eleanor."
Liam’s eyebrows shot up. "The Director? And his wife?"
"The Architect," Anya corrected with a wink. "And his wife. I think you'll find them... interesting."
---
The shoot had finished twenty minutes ago, but the air in the basement studio still felt charged, smelling of rubbing alcohol, hot tungsten lights, and the faint, sweet scent of despair.
Anya sat on the edge of the set’s velvet chaise, rubbing a soothing lotion into her wrists where the silk ropes had left faint, pink indentations. Across the room, Stephen was meticulously cleaning a camera lens, treating the glass with more tenderness than he had shown his subjects all afternoon.
Claire was inspecting her reflection in a lighted mirror, touching up her lipstick. She had shed her "CEO" blazer, revealing a silk camisole that looked expensive enough to pay Anya’s rent for a month.
"There was a distinct lack of screaming toward the end, darling," Claire commented, catching Anya’s eye in the mirror. "You're building up a tolerance. We might have to switch to the stiff bristle brush earlier next time."
"I was pacing myself," Anya murmured, pulling on her wool sweater. The transition from Amethyst back to Anya was always a physical shift—a slouching of the shoulders, a softening of the eyes.
"You need a reset," Claire decided, capping her lipstick with a sharp click. "I'm booking a spa day at the Corinthia for this Saturday. Mud wraps, hot stones, and absolutely no tickling. You should come. My treat."
Anya paused, one boot halfway on. The offer was genuine, a glimpse of the camaraderie that existed in the strange trenches of their work. A month ago, she would have said yes in a heartbeat.
"I can't," Anya said, offering a small, apologetic smile. "I'm busy Saturday."
Claire raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Busy? On a Saturday? You usually spend weekends studying in that dreary library."
"Not this weekend," Anya said, shivering slightly as she stood up and stamped her heel into the boot. "Liam got us tickets to a show in the West End. The Book of Mormon, I think. Then an early dinner."
Claire stared at her for a moment, then a slow, knowing smirk curled her lips. "A matinee. How aggressively wholesome. You really are playing house with the lumberjack, aren't you?"
"It's not playing," Anya said simply. She turned to Stephen. "Which actually brings me to why I'm still hanging around."
Stephen looked up from his camera, his expression neutral but attentive. "Oh?"
"I'm hosting a dinner this Sunday," Anya said, keeping her voice steady. "At my place. I'd like you and Eleanor to come."
Stephen stopped cleaning. "A dinner? With you? And...?"
"And Liam," Anya finished. "He knows, Stephen. I told him everything. About the studio. About the subscription site. About the 'architecture'."
Silence stretched in the room, heavy and thick. Claire let out a low whistle.
"Brave girl," Claire murmured. "Did he didn't run?"
"No," Anya said, lifting her chin. "He listened. But he has questions. He has concerns about the industry, and about who I work for. He needs to see that this is a business, not just a basement dungeon." She met Stephen’s gaze. "I want him to meet you. And Eleanor. He needs to see the reality of it."
Stephen considered this, tapping the lens cloth against his palm. A flicker of intrigue lit up his eyes. "The civilian wants to inspect the management. A diplomatic summit." He chuckled, a dry sound. "Fascinating. We wouldn't miss it. Sunday?"
"Seven o'clock," Anya said, grabbing her bag. "And Stephen? Be on your best behavior. He's very protective."
Stephen smiled, slipping the lens cap back on. "I am always a professional, Amethyst."
---
The apartment felt like a pressure cooker. The air was dense with the rich, savory fog of boiling pork fat, caramelized onions, and the earthy, mineral scent of beetroots. On the counter, rows of Varenyky—half-moon dumplings stuffed with potato and cheese—sat waiting for the boiling water. Anya moved between the counter and the stove with mechanical efficiency, channeling her anxiety into the dough.
She wiped her hands on her apron and walked into the living room.
Liam was standing by the window, staring out at the grey London skyline. He was wearing a stiff, white button-down shirt that looked like it had been wrestled out of a package five minutes ago. The collar was too tight against his thick neck, and he kept running a finger around the rim, tugging at it. He looked like a man awaiting a court martial.
“Stop fidgeting,” Anya said gently, walking up behind him and smoothing the fabric across his broad shoulders. “You look handsome.”
“I look like a waiter,” Liam grumbled, though he leaned back into her touch. He turned around, his eyes anxious. “Are they coming?”
“They’ll be here at seven.”
“Right,” Liam nodded, rubbing his jaw. He looked terrified. “Stephen. The guy who ties you up. And his wife.” He shook his head, a mirthless chuckle escaping him. “I’ve faced down Rottweilers on job sites that scared me less than this dinner party.”
“You don’t have to impress them, Liam,” Anya said, buttoning his cuffs. “You just have to be you. They’re just people. Wealthy, eccentric people with a very specific business model, but people.”
“It’s not them I’m worried about,” Liam admitted, looking down at her. “It’s just… it’s weird, Anya. Sitting across the table from the man who… you know.” He gestured vaguely with his large hands, unable to say the words. “Who uses the brush. Who sees you like that. And I’m supposed to just pass the potatoes and chat about the weather?”
“He is a director,” Anya said firmly, looking him in the eye. “When the camera is rolling, I am a prop. When it stops, I am an employee. Tonight, I am the hostess. And you are my partner. Mark my words, Liam: Stephen is terrified of you.”
“Me?” Liam snorted. “Why?”
“Because you’re real,” she said, resting her hand on his chest, feeling the steady, heavy beat of his heart. “You build things. You work with your hands. You don’t live in a fantasy. To a man like Stephen, that kind of authenticity is intimidating.”
The doorbell rang brrrzt. It was a sharp, jagged sound in the quiet apartment.
Liam jumped slightly. He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He looked at the door, then back at Anya.
“Right,” he said, his voice dropping into that deep, protective register she loved. “Let’s get this over with. Into the breach.”
Anya squeezed his hand, then moved to the door. She unlocked it and swung it open.
Standing in the hallway was Stephen, wearing a tailored charcoal blazer and holding a bottle of expensive red wine. Beside him stood Eleanor. She was petite, elegant, with sharp, intelligent eyes behind designer frames. She wore a silk scarf and an expression of polite, predatory curiosity.
“Good evening, Amethyst,” Stephen smiled, his teeth white and perfect. “Or should I say… Anya?”
“Welcome, Stephen, Eleanor,” Anya said, stepping back to usher them in. “Come in. Meet Liam.”
---
The small dining table, usually home to Anya’s laptop and scattered notes, had been transformed. A crisp white runner, heavy ceramic bowls, and the flickering light of three candles created an illusion of formality. But the tension in the room was thicker than the sour cream dolloped onto the borscht.
Stephen sat with the posture of a monarch, his tailored blazer a stark contrast to the IKEA chairs. He held his wine glass by the stem, swirling the liquid with a practiced wrist motion. Eleanor sat beside him, cutting her Varenyky with surgical precision, observing everything with bird-like intensity.
Across from them sat Liam. He looked too big for the table. His shoulders were hunched slightly, and his fingers—thick, scarred, and capable—gripped his fork like a weapon. He hadn't touched his wine.
"So, Liam," Stephen began, his voice smooth and conversational. "Anya tells us you're in ‘landscape architecture.’ Fascinating field. Shaping nature to the human will."
"I'm a gardener," Liam corrected, his voice flat. "I dig holes. I cut trees. I move dirt."
"There's an honesty in that," Eleanor noted, taking a delicate bite of a dumpling. "Visible results. Immediate feedback. Very different from our line of work, isn't it Stephen?"
"Indeed," Stephen nodded, smiling at Liam. "We deal in… intangibles. Emotions. Reactions. The architecture of the nervous system, if you will."
Liam set his fork down. The clack of steel on ceramic was as loud as a gunshot.
"Is that what you call it?" Liam asked. He looked directly at Stephen, ignoring the social script. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you pay girls who are desperate for tuition money to get tied up and tormented in your basement."
The air left the room. Anya froze, her hand halfway to her wine glass. Stephen’s smile didn't waver, but his eyes hardened.
"Liam," Anya warned softly.
"No," Liam said, turning his gaze to Eleanor. The polite facade had crumbled. The protective, baffled boyfriend was gone; the moral outrage was front and center. "And you. You're his wife. You sit there eating Anya’s food… do you know what goes on down there? Do you watch the videos? How do you sleep next to him knowing he spends his afternoons making young women scream for… for entertainment?"
Stephen opened his mouth to respond, likely with some intellectual deflection about consent and art, but Eleanor beat him to it. She set her cutlery down gently. She wiped her mouth with a napkin.
"It's charming that you think this is his operation, Liam," Eleanor said. Her voice was cool, clear, and devoid of shame.
She picked up her wine glass, looking Liam dead in the eye.
"Stephen is the artist. He handles the lights, the cameras, the… ‘architecture,’ as he puts it. He has the eye for the aesthetic." She took a sip. "But I am the one who files the LLC paperwork. I am the one who manages the tax returns on the subscription revenue. I am the one who scouted Claire from that Dungeon in Soho because I knew her particular brand of cruelty would poll well with the 25-to-40 demographic."
Liam stared at her, his mouth slightly open. The narrative of the perverted husband and the suffering wife dissolved instantly.
"Wait," Liam stammered. "You… you run it?"
"We run it," Eleanor corrected. "It is a business, Liam. A highly profitable one. Stephen has a fetish; I have an MBA. We found a way to monetize the former using the latter. The girls are paid double the industry standard. Safety protocols are rigorous. Contracts are ironclad."
She leaned forward, her expression sharpening.
"You look at Anya and see a victim, don't you? A poor student being exploited." Eleanor gestured around the room, her silver bracelets clinking softly. "Look at this apartment, Liam. Look at her self-possession. We didn't exploit her. We gave her a platform."
She paused, her predatory gaze softening into something almost wistful. She sighed, glancing at the spotless skirting board near the door.
"Though, I will admit… part of me breaks every time I see how impeccable her floors are. The contract cleaner we hired to replace her is an absolute disaster. She misses the corners. She uses the wrong polish on the mahogany." Eleanor looked at Anya with genuine regret. "You were an artist with a dust cloth, darling. Stephen still complains about the streaks on the library windows."
Stephen chuckled, the tension in his shoulders dropping. "It’s true. We lost the best cleaner in London to gain the best actress. A pyrrhic victory."
Liam looked at them—this wealthy, strange couple lamenting the loss of their cleaner while discussing their fetish empire. The absurdity of it seemed to break the dam of his anger. A bewildered, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"She is good with the details," Liam conceded, glancing at Anya. "Her windows are cleaner than mine, and I live in a new build."
"Exactly," Stephen beamed, refilling his glass. "Attention to detail. That is the currency of our world, Liam. Whether it’s removing dust or… reacting to a feather."
The atmosphere shifted. The hostility evaporated, replaced by a strange, cautious curiosity. Liam picked up his fork again, stabbing a dumpling but not eating it.
"So," Liam started, his tone less accusatory and more inquisitive. "This… ‘architecture.’ How does it work, practically? You said you track reactions?"
"We track everything," Stephen said, leaning forward, eager to discuss his craft. "Retention rates. Drop-off points. We analyze the audio waveforms of the laughter. We found that viewers respond most strongly not to constant noise, but to the anticipation of noise. The silence before the brush touches the skin… that spikes the engagement metrics by forty percent."
Liam frowned, processing. "Wait. You have graphs? For… tickling?"
"We have spreadsheets," Eleanor corrected dryly. "And quarterly projections. We know, for instance, that Amethyst’s fanbase prefers ‘Denial’ scenarios. They don’t just want to see her laugh; they want to see her try not to laugh. The struggle creates the value."
"And the script?" Liam asked, looking at Anya. "Do you write it?"
"We collaborate," Anya answered, her voice steady. "Stephen sets the scene—the Governess, the CEO. But the reaction… that’s me. I decide how much to give. I decide when to break."
"It's a dance," Stephen added, using his hands to illustrate. "Stimulus and response. I provide the stimulus—the brush, the bind, the dialogue. Anya provides the humanity. If she just sat there and giggled, it would be boring. But she fights. She bargains. She gets indignant. That’s what makes it art."
Liam looked at Stephen, really looked at him. He saw the passion there—strange, alien, but undeniable.
"You really care about this," Liam murmured. "It's not just… getting off."
"It is my life's work," Stephen said simply.
Liam turned to Eleanor. "And you handle the money?"
"Darling," Eleanor smiled, a shark-like grin returning but tempered with legitimate pride. "I'm the bank. I ensure that Stephen’s ‘art’ remains solvent. I negotiated the distribution deals in Japan and Germany. I handle the copyright takedowns when people try to pirate Anya’s scenes." She toasted Anya. "We protect our assets."
Liam sat back, finally taking a sip of his wine. He swirled it in his mouth, thinking.
"Japan and Germany," he shook his head, a chuckle bubbling up. "My girlfriend is an international export."
"A global brand," Stephen corrected. "And frankly, Liam, she's the best we've ever seen. You should be proud."
Liam looked at Anya. The fear that had been gnawing at him—that she was degraded, that she was a victim—finally dissolved. She wasn't a victim. She was a partner in a very strange, very lucrative, international business.
"I am," Liam said softly, holding Anya’s gaze. "I really am."
---
The door clicked shut behind Stephen and Eleanor, leaving a silence that vibrated with the aftermath of the strange summit.
Anya exhaled, leaning back against the doorframe, her shoulders dropping an inch. Liam was already moving, gathering the empty wine glasses from the table. The clink of crystal was the only sound for a moment.
"Well," Liam said, carrying a stack of plates into the kitchen. "That was... educational."
Anya followed him, picking up the linen napkins. "That's one word for it. What did you think?"
Liam turned on the tap, steam rising as he rinsed a plate. He chuckled, looking down at the soapy water, shaking his head. "I think Eleanor terrifies me. I've negotiated with property developers who have less shark in their eyes than she does. But... honestly? It makes sense now. It's not some seedy dungeon. It's a boardroom. A very weird boardroom, but a boardroom."
He turned off the tap and dried his hands on a towel, then leaned his hip against the counter, looking at her with a new kind of respect.
"I watched you tonight, Anya. Really watched you. When Eleanor started talking about the business side, about the numbers... you didn't shrink. You didn't act like the 'poor student' she was talking about." He tossed the towel aside and stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her into the warmth of his chest. "I'm proud of you," he murmured, resting his chin on the top of her head. "Holding your own with them like that. You weren't just nodding along—you were an equal at that table. You're a force, Anya."
Anya rested her cheek against his shirt, the tension finally leaving her spine. She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her eyes fierce and affectionate.
"And you," she said, reaching up to smooth the collar of the stiff white shirt he had hated wearing. "You walked into the lion's den for me. You looked Stephen—the man who invented the game—dead in the eye and demanded to know if I was safe. You were ready to flip that table to protect me, Liam." She softened, her thumb tracing his jawline. "I've never had anyone do that before. It was... incredibly sexy."
"Ideally, I still would have punched him," Liam laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest, flourishing under the praise. "But I suppose as long as he keeps writing the checks and you keep handling the... architecture... I can live with it."
He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. "Come on. The dishes can wait. I think we've both earned a night off from high-stakes diplomacy."
They moved to the bedroom in a comfortable silence, shedding the "hostess" and "partner" costumes. The stiff white shirt was discarded; the blouse unbuttoned. They tumbled into bed, the sheets cool against their skin, tangling together in the dark.
They kissed—slow, lazy, wine-flavored kisses. It was comfortable, familiar.
Then, Liam pulled back slightly. His eyes were adjusted to the gloom, searching hers. He seemed to be wrestling with an idea, a goofy, slightly drunken spark of inspiration.
"So," he grinned, shifting his weight so he hovered over her. "Stimulus and response, right? That’s the family business?"
Before Anya could answer, he lunged.
"Let's see if I can spike those metrics!"
He buried his face in her neck, blowing a loud, wet raspberry, while his large, heavy hands clamped onto her waist.
"Gitchy-gitchy-goo!" he announced, wiggling his thick fingers into her ribs.
It was... clumsy.
Liam was a man built for hauling timber and digging earth. His hands were heavy and blunt. He didn't dance across the nerves; he poked at them. He dug his thumbs into her intercostal muscles with the finesse of a kneader working dough. The rhythm was chaotic, jarring, and completely devoid of the psychological tension that made the sensation work.
"Ah! Liam! Hah-no!" Anya squirmed, but it wasn't the flight-response of the studio. It was the wriggle of someone being annoyed by a large, affectionate dog. "Wait—gah! Stops! Only—hah!"
She caught his wrists, using her leverage to push his heavy hands away from her ribs. She was laughing, but it was a breathless, "you're squishing me" laugh, not the hysterical release of Amethyst.
"Okay, okay! Time out!" she wheezed, pinning his hands to the mattress.
Liam stopped instantly. He looked down at her, chest heaving slightly. His grin faded, replaced by a look of sudden, crushing deflation. The playfulness drained out of his eyes.
"That... didn't work, did it?" he asked, his voice quiet. He pulled his hands back, sitting up on the edge of the mattress, his shoulders slumping. He looked at his own hands, turning them over. "I wanted to... I don't know. Participate. Understand it. But I guess I'm just the gardener."
Anya’s heart squeezed. She sat up, reaching out to touch his back. The muscles were tense with embarrassment. She didn't want him to feel locked out. She wanted him to understand that while he couldn't play that instrument, he was still part of the music.
"Liam, look at me," she said softly.
He turned.
"I love that you tried," she smiled, leaning in to kiss his shoulder. "I really do. But tickling... it's like surgery. You can't just hack away at it. You have hands made for building strong things, not for teasing nerve endings."
She reached past him to the bedside drawer.
"But," she purred, a new, mischievous tone entering her voice. "Since you're interested in the industry secrets... maybe we try a different kind of technique. One where 'rough' isn't a problem."
She pulled out the glass bottle of high-grade silicone lubricant.
She pushed him back gently until he was reclining against the headboard. "Shuck those boxers, landscape architect."
Liam hesitated, frowning slightly, but he shucked them down, kicking them off his ankles. His cock sprang free—thick, heavy, and semi-hard.
Anya shook the bottle. She pumped a generous amount of the clear, heavy fluid into her palm. She began to massage it into her feet.
Liam watched, his brow furrowed in skepticism. "Feet?" he asked, watching her coat her soles until they glistened in the low light. "I mean... I know the fans like it, Anya, but... it's not really my thing. Always found feet a bit... weird."
"Trust me," she whispered, her eyes dark. "You haven't had these feet."
She moved between his legs. The silicone made her skin look like glass. She placed her left foot against the base of his shaft to steady it. The oil was cool, but her skin was warm.
"Just relax," she instructed.
She brought her right foot up. She didn't just rub him. She splayed her toes—long, flexible, and dexterous. She positioned her big toe and her second toe on either side of his cock head.
Then, she clamped down.
Liam’s breath hitched. "Oh."
She began to slide. The silicone eliminated all friction, leaving only pure, crushing pressure. But it was the toes that did the work. As she slid her foot down, she kept her big toe and second toe squeezed tight around the girth of his shaft, acting like a vice.
"That feeling..." Liam murmured, his head tilting back against the headboard. "It's... tighter than a hand."
"Wait," she whispered.
She slid back up. When she reached the top, she didn't let go. She curled her toes inward, bringing the soft, sensitive webbing between her toes directly against the hypersensitive frenulum on the underside of his glans.
She began to saw back and forth.
The webbing was soft, seamless skin, uncalloused and perfectly smooth. The friction was maddeningly specific.
"Fuuuack!" Liam gasped, his hips bucking up off the mattress. His eyes flew open, wide with shock. "Jesus! What is that?"
"Physics," Anya smirked, watching his reaction. She increased the speed, twisting her ankle to grind that soft webbing against his sensitive spot while her sole compressed the shaft. "They beg for this in the comments, you know. They offer double just to see my feet coated like this. They’d kill to know what this actually feels like… but they never will. This doesn't go on the internet, Liam. This is just for you."
"I feel it," he groaned, his hands gripping the sheets, knuckles white. "God, Anya. It's... it's everywhere."
His skepticism was gone, incinerated by the technique. He wasn't thinking about feet being "weird" anymore; he was lost in the sensation of the oil, the pressure, and the terrifyingly skilled grip of her toes.
She picked up the pace, using both feet now. She clamped his shaft between her arches, creating a vacuum tunnel of oiled skin, while her toes worked the head like frantic, hungry fingers. Schhh-luck, schhh-luck, schhh-luck. The wet sound was loud in the room.
"Yeah," Liam panted, his face flushed, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his chest. "Yeah, don't stop. Don't—fuck!"
"You like the expertise now?" she teased, churning him faster, feeling him swell and throb between her arches.
"I love it," he choked out, his voice ragged. "I fucking love it. I'm gonna—Anya!"
He arched his back, a guttural roar tearing from his throat.
"Let go," she commanded, squeezing tight.
Liam erupted. He fired rope after rope of hot semen, coating her oiled soles, splashing against her ankles. He twitched violently, his hips jerking, completely undone by the sensation.
Anya kept moving, milking the last drops from him with a slow, deliberate slide of her arch, mixing the fluid with the silicone until her feet were soaked in the evidence of his pleasure.
Liam slumped back, his chest heaving, his eyes glazed. He stared at her feet, then up at her face, looking like a man who had just had a religious experience.
"Okay," he wheezed, a lopsided, dazed grin spreading across his face. "I stand corrected. I am... definitely a fan."
The lecture hall emptied with the chaotic, shuffling roar of two hundred students simultaneously deciding they had better places to be. The air was thick with the plastic tang of overheating laptops, stale coffee, and the damp wool of winter coats.
Anya took her time packing her bag, sliding her notebook in with deliberate, calming movements. She could feel the gaze before she saw him. It was a weight on the back of her neck, a pricking heat that she had learned to identify with the precision of a radar operator.
She zipped her bag—a sharp zzt—and turned.
Jake was standing at the end of the row. He wasn’t blocking the exit, but he was hovering in that ambiguous space that demanded interaction. He looked different today. The awe she had seen previously had hardened into something more transactional. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot, hands deep in the pockets of his parka.
"Anya," he said. He didn't wait for a greeting. He stepped into the row, closing the distance. "I was thinking about what you said. About your... heavy workload."
Anya slung her bag over her shoulder, her expression neutral. "I'm afraid the schedule hasn't cleared up, Jake."
"I'm not talking about the studio," he said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. He glanced around to ensure the professor was distracted at the podium. "I'm talking about private work. Off the books. No Stephen. No cameras."
He pulled a hand from his pocket. He wasn't holding a weapon, but the roll of cash he flashed briefly in his palm felt just as aggressive.
"I’ve got five hundred," he pressed, his eyes darting to her face, searching for a crack in the armor. "Just for an hour. My place is ten minutes away. I just want to... I want to try the brush. I want to see if I can make you break like that guy did in 'The Burglar'."
Anya went still. The air in the lecture hall seemed to drop ten degrees. It was the request she had dreaded—the moment the digital fantasy tried to claw its way into her physical reality.
She looked at the cash, then up at his hopeful, hungry eyes. A month ago, she might have calculated the hourly rate. She might have weighed the risk against the rent. But today, a different image superimposed itself over Jake's face: Liam, staring at the screen in her apartment, his hand resting protectively on her thigh.
"Put that away," she said. Her voice was ice, quiet and absolute.
Jake blinked, startled by the tone. "It's good money, Anya. I promise I'm safe."
"It's not about the money, and it's not about safety," she said, taking a step closer, forcing him to give ground. "I am a performer, Jake. What happens in that studio is a job. It stays behind the glass."
She adjusted the strap of her bag, her posture straightening into the regal bearing of Amethyst.
"Besides," she added, her voice softening just a fraction, though the steel remained. "My boyfriend is currently coming to terms with the fact that thousands of people see my feet on the internet every week. I think if I told him I was doing private, undocumented house calls... that would be the end of the truce. And I value that truce more than your five hundred pounds."
Jake stood there for a moment, mouth slightly open. The mention of a 'boyfriend' seemed to shatter the fantasy more effectively than any professional rejection could. The 'Amethyst' he watched was accessible, a digital object. 'Anya' belonged to someone else.
"Right," he mumbled, shoving his hand back into his pocket, his face flushing a dull red. "Right. Sorry. I just... thought I'd ask."
"Now you know," she said. "See you next week."
She walked past him without looking back, the click of her heels on the linoleum—clack, clack, clack—each step sounding like gavel strikes.
She made it to the heavy double doors of the building before her phone buzzed against her hip bzzzzzzzt. The vibration was long, insistent. She pulled it out.
Liam Calling.
She exhaled, the tension in her shoulders dropping instantly. She swiped the green icon.
"Hey," she answered, stepping out into the raw, damp wind of the London afternoon.
"Tell me you're done with the books for the day," Liam’s voice crackled through the speaker. There was background noise—the clinking of glasses, a low roar of laughter.
"Just finished," Anya said, turning her collar up against the chill. "Why? What's going on?"
"I'm at The Nag's Head in Islington," he said. "The job finished early. The massive oak finally conceded defeat." He laughed, a warm sound that warmed her despite the wind. "Gary and the boys are here. I was thinking... maybe you should come down. Have a pint. Meet the crew."
Anya stopped walking. Meeting the friends. It was the next step. The natural progression. But after the encounter with Jake, the idea of walking into a room full of men—Liam's men—felt fraught with invisible tripwires.
"The Nag's Head," she repeated. "Is that safe territory for a girl in Louboutins?"
"I'll defend your shoes with my life," Liam promised. "Come on. Gary's dying to meet the 'media consultant' who finally tied me down. Just... come as you are."
"Okay," Anya said, checking her reflection in a shop window. "I'm ten minutes away."
"See you soon, love."
She hung up. She looked at her reflection—blonde hair perfect, coat sharp, eyes guarded. She wasn't walking into a studio. She was walking into something much harder to script.
---
The Nag’s Head was a sensory assault that hit Anya the moment she pushed through the heavy, frosted-glass double doors. It didn't smell like the sterile corridors of the university or the expensive citrus polish of*La Petite Maison*. It smelled of things that had been soaked into the wood for decades: stale malt vinegar, damp wool, old tobacco smoke rising from the carpet like a ghost, and the sharp, chemical tang of urinal cakes drifting from the back hall.
The air was warm, thick, and loud. A football match blared from a TV mounted in the corner, competing with the thumping bass of a jukebox playing Oasis and the raucous, unregulated laughter of men who had finished their shift.
Anya hesitated on the threshold. Her camel coat was too clean, her hair too perfect, and the red soles of her heels flashed like distress flares against the dark, sticky carpet. She felt the shift in atmosphere immediately—the turning of heads, the drop in volume at the tables nearest the door. In this ecosystem, she wasn't just a guest; she was an invasive species.
"Anya! Over here!"
Liam’s voice cut through the din. He was standing near a booth by the dartboard, waving a pint glass. He looked different here—looser, louder, his shoulders unclenched.
She navigated the room, conscious of the eyes tracking her. She kept her chin up, adopting the same localized blindness she used on the Tube.
As she reached the booth, the three men sitting with Liam didn't stand up. They shifted, creating a wall of denim and flannel.
"Lads," Liam beamed, his face flushed with the first pint and the pride of introduction. He slid a heavy arm around Anya’s waist, pulling her into the heat of his side. "This is her. This is Anya."
He gestured to the two men on the left. "That's Steve," he pointed to a stocky man with a friendly, open face who offered a shy nod. "And Tom," a lanky, quiet man who raised his glass with a muttered 'hello'.
"And this," Liam’s voice tightened just a fraction, "is Gary."
Gary didn't nod. He didn't smile. He was sitting with his back to the wall, the strategic position of a man who liked to see the door. He was leaner than Liam, with sharp, ferret-like features and eyes that were cold, calculating, and utterly unimpressed. He looked Anya up and down, taking in the coat, the bag, the heels, peeling away her layers with a look of clinical disdain.
"Steady on," Gary said flatly, his eyes dropping to the razor-thin heels of her pumps. "You walking on stilts? Expecting the cellar to flood?"
Steve snorted into his lager. Liam’s grip on her waist tightened.
"Louboutin," Anya corrected smoothly, extending a hand that Gary ignored. "And in London, one should always expect a flood. Nice to meet you, Gary."
She sat down. The booth was cramped. The table was a sticky archipelago of beer mats and empty crisp packets. For the first ten minutes, Anya was a spectator in a sport she didn't play. The men spoke in a rapid-fire shorthand of job sites, football scores, and grievances about a foreman named 'Bastard Dave.'
Liam tried to include her, pausing to translate the jargon, but the rhythm was off. Every time she spoke, the table went quiet.
"So," Gary interrupted a story about a cracked foundation. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the wet table. He locked eyes with Anya. "Liam says you're in 'media.' That's a fancy word. Usually means 'unemployed' or 'rich parents.'"
"Gary," Liam warned, his voice dropping an octave.
"I'm just asking, Li," Gary held up his hands in mock surrender. "She's drinking a gin and tonic that costs more than my hourly rate. I'm just trying to figure out the economics." He turned back to Anya, his smile not reaching his eyes. "So? What is it you actually do, love? besides walking around in shoes worth a month's rent?"
The table went dead silent. Even the jukebox seemed to pause.
Anya looked at him. She saw the protectiveness beneath the aggression. He thought she was a tourist. He thought she was going to eat Liam alive.
"I work in specialized digital content," Anya said, her voice steady.
Gary laughed, a short, sharp bark. "Right. 'Content.' Liam told us, actually. He's terrible at keeping secrets when he's had a few."
Gary picked up a beer mat, flipping it over his fingers.
"He says you get tied up," Gary smirked. "Says you get tickled with feathers while blokes pay to watch. Bit of a distinct career path, innit? In my day, we just called that being a... well, you know."
"Gary, shut your mouth," Liam snarled, starting to rise from the bench. "I mean it."
"It's fine, Liam," Anya said. She didn't look at Liam. She didn't shrink. She placed a hand on Liam’s chest to keep him seated, but her eyes never left Gary’s.
She leaned in. She dropped the 'Anya' softness. She channeled the icy, terrifying composure of Amethyst when a scene was going wrong.
"You're right, Gary," she said, her voice cutting through the noise of the pub like a scalpel. "It is distinct. It involves psychology, endurance, and the ability to handle men who think they're in control when they're actually just paying the bill."
She let that hang for a second.
"It's physically exhausting," she continued, her tone conversational but hard as flint. "My wrists bleed. My throat burns. And I do it so I don't have to answer to a foreman like 'Bastard Dave' or sit in a pub at 5 PM miserable about my paycheck. I sell a fantasy, Gary. And business is booming."
She reached into her bag. She didn't pull out a phone or a compact. She pulled out her wallet.
"Now," she said, signaling the barman with a sharp nod. "Since we've established that I can afford it, I'm buying the next round. What are we drinking?"
Gary stared at her. The sneer faltered. He looked at Liam, who was fuming, then back at this woman who had just owned her reality without a single apology.
She hadn't defended herself. She had pulled rank.
"Lager," Steve piped up, desperate to break the tension. "I'll have a lager, love."
"Guinness," Tom added quickly.
Anya looked at Gary. "And you? You look like a man who needs a lemonade. Something to take the bitter taste out of his mouth."
The table went deathly quiet. Gary’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he prepared a retort. Liam looked ready to physically intervene.
Then, Anya let out a small, disarming laugh. The ice in her expression melted instantly into a warm, knowing smile.
"I'm joking, Gary," she said, her voice dropping the combative edge. She glanced at the half-empty glass in front of him, noting the logo and the specific golden hue of the dregs. "Besides, you can't drink lemonade with a scampi fry. It's against the law."
She tapped the rim of his glass with a manicured fingernail.
"Stella, right? 'Reassuringly expensive', or so the ads used to say." She winked at him. "See? I know my lagers."
The tension in Gary’s shoulders locked for a split second, then broke. He let out a breath that was half-sigh, half-chuckle.
"Yeah," Gary grunted, picking up his glass and draining the last inch. He set it down with a thud. "Stella's fine."
"Right then," Anya said, straightening up. "Two Stellas, two Guinness." She looked at Liam, squeezing his shoulder. "And a packet of peanuts for the table unless you want to see me get hangry. Trust me, nobody wants that."
She walked to the bar, the clack-clack-clack of her heels sounding decisive but no longer aggressive.
Steve watched her go, then turned to Liam, eyes wide. "Bloody hell, Li. She's sharp."
"She's terrifying," Tom corrected, grinning into his beer.
Gary didn't say anything. He just watched Anya lean over the bar to flag down the landlord, holding her ground against a bustling crowd of regulars. He picked up a beer mat and started shredding the corner.
"She's alright," Gary muttered finally, refusing to look at Liam. "Just make sure she gets the dry roasted nuts. I hate the salted ones."
When Anya returned with the tray—balancing four spilling pints and three packets of dry roasted peanuts—the wall of denim had permanently opened. She slid into the booth next to Liam, and for the first time, Gary moved his coat to give her room.
She wasn't one of them. But she was welcome.
---
Forty minutes later, the table was covered in empty crisp packets and half-drained pint glasses. The initial tension had thawed into something resembling a social gathering—at least for three of them.
Anya had shed her coat, sitting comfortably in her blouse, leaning forward as she held court.
"So there I was," she was saying, using her hands to illustrate the scene, "strapped to this antique library chair. The director, Stephen, is very particular about historical accuracy. He's yelling, 'More hysteria! More hysteria!' and the other actress, Jynx, who is supposed to be the strict librarian, leans in to tickle my ribs..."
Steve was leaning in, rapt. Tom was grinning. Even Liam was watching her with a look of pure pride.
"And?" Steve asked, grinning. "Did you break?"
"Well," Anya laughed, taking a sip of her gin and tonic. "Jynx has these long acrylic nails. And just as she goes for the 'kill shot' under my arm, one of them snaps off. Ping! Flies right into the camera lens."
The table erupted. Steve slapped his thigh. "No way!"
"Way," Anya nodded. "We had to cut. Stephen was furious because the nail scratched the lens. Jynx was crying about her manicure. And I'm still tied to the chair, just hanging there, waiting for someone to uncuff me so I can get a coffee. It was tragic."
"That is mental," Tom shook his head, chuckling. "Absolute madness. But fair play to you, Anya. Sounds like a laugh, really."
"It has its moments," she smiled. She glanced at Gary. He wasn't laughing. He was watching her over the rim of his glass, his expression unreadable, but the overt hostility had dimmed into a sullen watchfulness. He couldn't deny she was entertaining the troops.
---
"Time at the bar!" the landlord shouted, dimming the lights.
They said their goodbyes on the pavement outside, the cold air sobering them up. Steve and Tom gave Anya warm handshakes, promising to behave better next time. Gary gave a curt nod and vanished into the night without a word.
"I am so sorry about him," Liam groaned as they walked toward the taxi rank. "He's a prick when he's had a few. I shouldn't have told them. I just... I didn't want to lie to them."
"It's fine, Liam," Anya said, looping her arm through his. "Actually, I'm glad you did. It's better than them finding out later."
"He's just... protective," Liam sighed, looking at the ground. "My ex... Sarah. She really did a number on me a few years back. Cheated, lied, stole money from the business account. Gary was the one who caught her. He thinks anyone who isn't 'one of us' is running a scam."
He stopped, turning to face her under the streetlight. He took her hands.
"He thinks because of... the job... that you're just playing a role. That you're going to take me for a ride."
Anya looked at his earnest, open face.
"I'm not playing a role with you, Liam," she said softly. "The job is the performance. This..." She squeezed his hand. "This is real."
"I know," he smiled, relieved. "I know."
Anya checked her phone. "Speaking of the job... I should make a call. If we're doing the 'meet the family' tour, I think it's time you met the people who actually sign the checks. Stephen and Eleanor."
Liam’s eyebrows shot up. "The Director? And his wife?"
"The Architect," Anya corrected with a wink. "And his wife. I think you'll find them... interesting."
---
The shoot had finished twenty minutes ago, but the air in the basement studio still felt charged, smelling of rubbing alcohol, hot tungsten lights, and the faint, sweet scent of despair.
Anya sat on the edge of the set’s velvet chaise, rubbing a soothing lotion into her wrists where the silk ropes had left faint, pink indentations. Across the room, Stephen was meticulously cleaning a camera lens, treating the glass with more tenderness than he had shown his subjects all afternoon.
Claire was inspecting her reflection in a lighted mirror, touching up her lipstick. She had shed her "CEO" blazer, revealing a silk camisole that looked expensive enough to pay Anya’s rent for a month.
"There was a distinct lack of screaming toward the end, darling," Claire commented, catching Anya’s eye in the mirror. "You're building up a tolerance. We might have to switch to the stiff bristle brush earlier next time."
"I was pacing myself," Anya murmured, pulling on her wool sweater. The transition from Amethyst back to Anya was always a physical shift—a slouching of the shoulders, a softening of the eyes.
"You need a reset," Claire decided, capping her lipstick with a sharp click. "I'm booking a spa day at the Corinthia for this Saturday. Mud wraps, hot stones, and absolutely no tickling. You should come. My treat."
Anya paused, one boot halfway on. The offer was genuine, a glimpse of the camaraderie that existed in the strange trenches of their work. A month ago, she would have said yes in a heartbeat.
"I can't," Anya said, offering a small, apologetic smile. "I'm busy Saturday."
Claire raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Busy? On a Saturday? You usually spend weekends studying in that dreary library."
"Not this weekend," Anya said, shivering slightly as she stood up and stamped her heel into the boot. "Liam got us tickets to a show in the West End. The Book of Mormon, I think. Then an early dinner."
Claire stared at her for a moment, then a slow, knowing smirk curled her lips. "A matinee. How aggressively wholesome. You really are playing house with the lumberjack, aren't you?"
"It's not playing," Anya said simply. She turned to Stephen. "Which actually brings me to why I'm still hanging around."
Stephen looked up from his camera, his expression neutral but attentive. "Oh?"
"I'm hosting a dinner this Sunday," Anya said, keeping her voice steady. "At my place. I'd like you and Eleanor to come."
Stephen stopped cleaning. "A dinner? With you? And...?"
"And Liam," Anya finished. "He knows, Stephen. I told him everything. About the studio. About the subscription site. About the 'architecture'."
Silence stretched in the room, heavy and thick. Claire let out a low whistle.
"Brave girl," Claire murmured. "Did he didn't run?"
"No," Anya said, lifting her chin. "He listened. But he has questions. He has concerns about the industry, and about who I work for. He needs to see that this is a business, not just a basement dungeon." She met Stephen’s gaze. "I want him to meet you. And Eleanor. He needs to see the reality of it."
Stephen considered this, tapping the lens cloth against his palm. A flicker of intrigue lit up his eyes. "The civilian wants to inspect the management. A diplomatic summit." He chuckled, a dry sound. "Fascinating. We wouldn't miss it. Sunday?"
"Seven o'clock," Anya said, grabbing her bag. "And Stephen? Be on your best behavior. He's very protective."
Stephen smiled, slipping the lens cap back on. "I am always a professional, Amethyst."
---
The apartment felt like a pressure cooker. The air was dense with the rich, savory fog of boiling pork fat, caramelized onions, and the earthy, mineral scent of beetroots. On the counter, rows of Varenyky—half-moon dumplings stuffed with potato and cheese—sat waiting for the boiling water. Anya moved between the counter and the stove with mechanical efficiency, channeling her anxiety into the dough.
She wiped her hands on her apron and walked into the living room.
Liam was standing by the window, staring out at the grey London skyline. He was wearing a stiff, white button-down shirt that looked like it had been wrestled out of a package five minutes ago. The collar was too tight against his thick neck, and he kept running a finger around the rim, tugging at it. He looked like a man awaiting a court martial.
“Stop fidgeting,” Anya said gently, walking up behind him and smoothing the fabric across his broad shoulders. “You look handsome.”
“I look like a waiter,” Liam grumbled, though he leaned back into her touch. He turned around, his eyes anxious. “Are they coming?”
“They’ll be here at seven.”
“Right,” Liam nodded, rubbing his jaw. He looked terrified. “Stephen. The guy who ties you up. And his wife.” He shook his head, a mirthless chuckle escaping him. “I’ve faced down Rottweilers on job sites that scared me less than this dinner party.”
“You don’t have to impress them, Liam,” Anya said, buttoning his cuffs. “You just have to be you. They’re just people. Wealthy, eccentric people with a very specific business model, but people.”
“It’s not them I’m worried about,” Liam admitted, looking down at her. “It’s just… it’s weird, Anya. Sitting across the table from the man who… you know.” He gestured vaguely with his large hands, unable to say the words. “Who uses the brush. Who sees you like that. And I’m supposed to just pass the potatoes and chat about the weather?”
“He is a director,” Anya said firmly, looking him in the eye. “When the camera is rolling, I am a prop. When it stops, I am an employee. Tonight, I am the hostess. And you are my partner. Mark my words, Liam: Stephen is terrified of you.”
“Me?” Liam snorted. “Why?”
“Because you’re real,” she said, resting her hand on his chest, feeling the steady, heavy beat of his heart. “You build things. You work with your hands. You don’t live in a fantasy. To a man like Stephen, that kind of authenticity is intimidating.”
The doorbell rang brrrzt. It was a sharp, jagged sound in the quiet apartment.
Liam jumped slightly. He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. He looked at the door, then back at Anya.
“Right,” he said, his voice dropping into that deep, protective register she loved. “Let’s get this over with. Into the breach.”
Anya squeezed his hand, then moved to the door. She unlocked it and swung it open.
Standing in the hallway was Stephen, wearing a tailored charcoal blazer and holding a bottle of expensive red wine. Beside him stood Eleanor. She was petite, elegant, with sharp, intelligent eyes behind designer frames. She wore a silk scarf and an expression of polite, predatory curiosity.
“Good evening, Amethyst,” Stephen smiled, his teeth white and perfect. “Or should I say… Anya?”
“Welcome, Stephen, Eleanor,” Anya said, stepping back to usher them in. “Come in. Meet Liam.”
---
The small dining table, usually home to Anya’s laptop and scattered notes, had been transformed. A crisp white runner, heavy ceramic bowls, and the flickering light of three candles created an illusion of formality. But the tension in the room was thicker than the sour cream dolloped onto the borscht.
Stephen sat with the posture of a monarch, his tailored blazer a stark contrast to the IKEA chairs. He held his wine glass by the stem, swirling the liquid with a practiced wrist motion. Eleanor sat beside him, cutting her Varenyky with surgical precision, observing everything with bird-like intensity.
Across from them sat Liam. He looked too big for the table. His shoulders were hunched slightly, and his fingers—thick, scarred, and capable—gripped his fork like a weapon. He hadn't touched his wine.
"So, Liam," Stephen began, his voice smooth and conversational. "Anya tells us you're in ‘landscape architecture.’ Fascinating field. Shaping nature to the human will."
"I'm a gardener," Liam corrected, his voice flat. "I dig holes. I cut trees. I move dirt."
"There's an honesty in that," Eleanor noted, taking a delicate bite of a dumpling. "Visible results. Immediate feedback. Very different from our line of work, isn't it Stephen?"
"Indeed," Stephen nodded, smiling at Liam. "We deal in… intangibles. Emotions. Reactions. The architecture of the nervous system, if you will."
Liam set his fork down. The clack of steel on ceramic was as loud as a gunshot.
"Is that what you call it?" Liam asked. He looked directly at Stephen, ignoring the social script. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you pay girls who are desperate for tuition money to get tied up and tormented in your basement."
The air left the room. Anya froze, her hand halfway to her wine glass. Stephen’s smile didn't waver, but his eyes hardened.
"Liam," Anya warned softly.
"No," Liam said, turning his gaze to Eleanor. The polite facade had crumbled. The protective, baffled boyfriend was gone; the moral outrage was front and center. "And you. You're his wife. You sit there eating Anya’s food… do you know what goes on down there? Do you watch the videos? How do you sleep next to him knowing he spends his afternoons making young women scream for… for entertainment?"
Stephen opened his mouth to respond, likely with some intellectual deflection about consent and art, but Eleanor beat him to it. She set her cutlery down gently. She wiped her mouth with a napkin.
"It's charming that you think this is his operation, Liam," Eleanor said. Her voice was cool, clear, and devoid of shame.
She picked up her wine glass, looking Liam dead in the eye.
"Stephen is the artist. He handles the lights, the cameras, the… ‘architecture,’ as he puts it. He has the eye for the aesthetic." She took a sip. "But I am the one who files the LLC paperwork. I am the one who manages the tax returns on the subscription revenue. I am the one who scouted Claire from that Dungeon in Soho because I knew her particular brand of cruelty would poll well with the 25-to-40 demographic."
Liam stared at her, his mouth slightly open. The narrative of the perverted husband and the suffering wife dissolved instantly.
"Wait," Liam stammered. "You… you run it?"
"We run it," Eleanor corrected. "It is a business, Liam. A highly profitable one. Stephen has a fetish; I have an MBA. We found a way to monetize the former using the latter. The girls are paid double the industry standard. Safety protocols are rigorous. Contracts are ironclad."
She leaned forward, her expression sharpening.
"You look at Anya and see a victim, don't you? A poor student being exploited." Eleanor gestured around the room, her silver bracelets clinking softly. "Look at this apartment, Liam. Look at her self-possession. We didn't exploit her. We gave her a platform."
She paused, her predatory gaze softening into something almost wistful. She sighed, glancing at the spotless skirting board near the door.
"Though, I will admit… part of me breaks every time I see how impeccable her floors are. The contract cleaner we hired to replace her is an absolute disaster. She misses the corners. She uses the wrong polish on the mahogany." Eleanor looked at Anya with genuine regret. "You were an artist with a dust cloth, darling. Stephen still complains about the streaks on the library windows."
Stephen chuckled, the tension in his shoulders dropping. "It’s true. We lost the best cleaner in London to gain the best actress. A pyrrhic victory."
Liam looked at them—this wealthy, strange couple lamenting the loss of their cleaner while discussing their fetish empire. The absurdity of it seemed to break the dam of his anger. A bewildered, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"She is good with the details," Liam conceded, glancing at Anya. "Her windows are cleaner than mine, and I live in a new build."
"Exactly," Stephen beamed, refilling his glass. "Attention to detail. That is the currency of our world, Liam. Whether it’s removing dust or… reacting to a feather."
The atmosphere shifted. The hostility evaporated, replaced by a strange, cautious curiosity. Liam picked up his fork again, stabbing a dumpling but not eating it.
"So," Liam started, his tone less accusatory and more inquisitive. "This… ‘architecture.’ How does it work, practically? You said you track reactions?"
"We track everything," Stephen said, leaning forward, eager to discuss his craft. "Retention rates. Drop-off points. We analyze the audio waveforms of the laughter. We found that viewers respond most strongly not to constant noise, but to the anticipation of noise. The silence before the brush touches the skin… that spikes the engagement metrics by forty percent."
Liam frowned, processing. "Wait. You have graphs? For… tickling?"
"We have spreadsheets," Eleanor corrected dryly. "And quarterly projections. We know, for instance, that Amethyst’s fanbase prefers ‘Denial’ scenarios. They don’t just want to see her laugh; they want to see her try not to laugh. The struggle creates the value."
"And the script?" Liam asked, looking at Anya. "Do you write it?"
"We collaborate," Anya answered, her voice steady. "Stephen sets the scene—the Governess, the CEO. But the reaction… that’s me. I decide how much to give. I decide when to break."
"It's a dance," Stephen added, using his hands to illustrate. "Stimulus and response. I provide the stimulus—the brush, the bind, the dialogue. Anya provides the humanity. If she just sat there and giggled, it would be boring. But she fights. She bargains. She gets indignant. That’s what makes it art."
Liam looked at Stephen, really looked at him. He saw the passion there—strange, alien, but undeniable.
"You really care about this," Liam murmured. "It's not just… getting off."
"It is my life's work," Stephen said simply.
Liam turned to Eleanor. "And you handle the money?"
"Darling," Eleanor smiled, a shark-like grin returning but tempered with legitimate pride. "I'm the bank. I ensure that Stephen’s ‘art’ remains solvent. I negotiated the distribution deals in Japan and Germany. I handle the copyright takedowns when people try to pirate Anya’s scenes." She toasted Anya. "We protect our assets."
Liam sat back, finally taking a sip of his wine. He swirled it in his mouth, thinking.
"Japan and Germany," he shook his head, a chuckle bubbling up. "My girlfriend is an international export."
"A global brand," Stephen corrected. "And frankly, Liam, she's the best we've ever seen. You should be proud."
Liam looked at Anya. The fear that had been gnawing at him—that she was degraded, that she was a victim—finally dissolved. She wasn't a victim. She was a partner in a very strange, very lucrative, international business.
"I am," Liam said softly, holding Anya’s gaze. "I really am."
---
The door clicked shut behind Stephen and Eleanor, leaving a silence that vibrated with the aftermath of the strange summit.
Anya exhaled, leaning back against the doorframe, her shoulders dropping an inch. Liam was already moving, gathering the empty wine glasses from the table. The clink of crystal was the only sound for a moment.
"Well," Liam said, carrying a stack of plates into the kitchen. "That was... educational."
Anya followed him, picking up the linen napkins. "That's one word for it. What did you think?"
Liam turned on the tap, steam rising as he rinsed a plate. He chuckled, looking down at the soapy water, shaking his head. "I think Eleanor terrifies me. I've negotiated with property developers who have less shark in their eyes than she does. But... honestly? It makes sense now. It's not some seedy dungeon. It's a boardroom. A very weird boardroom, but a boardroom."
He turned off the tap and dried his hands on a towel, then leaned his hip against the counter, looking at her with a new kind of respect.
"I watched you tonight, Anya. Really watched you. When Eleanor started talking about the business side, about the numbers... you didn't shrink. You didn't act like the 'poor student' she was talking about." He tossed the towel aside and stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her into the warmth of his chest. "I'm proud of you," he murmured, resting his chin on the top of her head. "Holding your own with them like that. You weren't just nodding along—you were an equal at that table. You're a force, Anya."
Anya rested her cheek against his shirt, the tension finally leaving her spine. She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her eyes fierce and affectionate.
"And you," she said, reaching up to smooth the collar of the stiff white shirt he had hated wearing. "You walked into the lion's den for me. You looked Stephen—the man who invented the game—dead in the eye and demanded to know if I was safe. You were ready to flip that table to protect me, Liam." She softened, her thumb tracing his jawline. "I've never had anyone do that before. It was... incredibly sexy."
"Ideally, I still would have punched him," Liam laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest, flourishing under the praise. "But I suppose as long as he keeps writing the checks and you keep handling the... architecture... I can live with it."
He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. "Come on. The dishes can wait. I think we've both earned a night off from high-stakes diplomacy."
They moved to the bedroom in a comfortable silence, shedding the "hostess" and "partner" costumes. The stiff white shirt was discarded; the blouse unbuttoned. They tumbled into bed, the sheets cool against their skin, tangling together in the dark.
They kissed—slow, lazy, wine-flavored kisses. It was comfortable, familiar.
Then, Liam pulled back slightly. His eyes were adjusted to the gloom, searching hers. He seemed to be wrestling with an idea, a goofy, slightly drunken spark of inspiration.
"So," he grinned, shifting his weight so he hovered over her. "Stimulus and response, right? That’s the family business?"
Before Anya could answer, he lunged.
"Let's see if I can spike those metrics!"
He buried his face in her neck, blowing a loud, wet raspberry, while his large, heavy hands clamped onto her waist.
"Gitchy-gitchy-goo!" he announced, wiggling his thick fingers into her ribs.
It was... clumsy.
Liam was a man built for hauling timber and digging earth. His hands were heavy and blunt. He didn't dance across the nerves; he poked at them. He dug his thumbs into her intercostal muscles with the finesse of a kneader working dough. The rhythm was chaotic, jarring, and completely devoid of the psychological tension that made the sensation work.
"Ah! Liam! Hah-no!" Anya squirmed, but it wasn't the flight-response of the studio. It was the wriggle of someone being annoyed by a large, affectionate dog. "Wait—gah! Stops! Only—hah!"
She caught his wrists, using her leverage to push his heavy hands away from her ribs. She was laughing, but it was a breathless, "you're squishing me" laugh, not the hysterical release of Amethyst.
"Okay, okay! Time out!" she wheezed, pinning his hands to the mattress.
Liam stopped instantly. He looked down at her, chest heaving slightly. His grin faded, replaced by a look of sudden, crushing deflation. The playfulness drained out of his eyes.
"That... didn't work, did it?" he asked, his voice quiet. He pulled his hands back, sitting up on the edge of the mattress, his shoulders slumping. He looked at his own hands, turning them over. "I wanted to... I don't know. Participate. Understand it. But I guess I'm just the gardener."
Anya’s heart squeezed. She sat up, reaching out to touch his back. The muscles were tense with embarrassment. She didn't want him to feel locked out. She wanted him to understand that while he couldn't play that instrument, he was still part of the music.
"Liam, look at me," she said softly.
He turned.
"I love that you tried," she smiled, leaning in to kiss his shoulder. "I really do. But tickling... it's like surgery. You can't just hack away at it. You have hands made for building strong things, not for teasing nerve endings."
She reached past him to the bedside drawer.
"But," she purred, a new, mischievous tone entering her voice. "Since you're interested in the industry secrets... maybe we try a different kind of technique. One where 'rough' isn't a problem."
She pulled out the glass bottle of high-grade silicone lubricant.
She pushed him back gently until he was reclining against the headboard. "Shuck those boxers, landscape architect."
Liam hesitated, frowning slightly, but he shucked them down, kicking them off his ankles. His cock sprang free—thick, heavy, and semi-hard.
Anya shook the bottle. She pumped a generous amount of the clear, heavy fluid into her palm. She began to massage it into her feet.
Liam watched, his brow furrowed in skepticism. "Feet?" he asked, watching her coat her soles until they glistened in the low light. "I mean... I know the fans like it, Anya, but... it's not really my thing. Always found feet a bit... weird."
"Trust me," she whispered, her eyes dark. "You haven't had these feet."
She moved between his legs. The silicone made her skin look like glass. She placed her left foot against the base of his shaft to steady it. The oil was cool, but her skin was warm.
"Just relax," she instructed.
She brought her right foot up. She didn't just rub him. She splayed her toes—long, flexible, and dexterous. She positioned her big toe and her second toe on either side of his cock head.
Then, she clamped down.
Liam’s breath hitched. "Oh."
She began to slide. The silicone eliminated all friction, leaving only pure, crushing pressure. But it was the toes that did the work. As she slid her foot down, she kept her big toe and second toe squeezed tight around the girth of his shaft, acting like a vice.
"That feeling..." Liam murmured, his head tilting back against the headboard. "It's... tighter than a hand."
"Wait," she whispered.
She slid back up. When she reached the top, she didn't let go. She curled her toes inward, bringing the soft, sensitive webbing between her toes directly against the hypersensitive frenulum on the underside of his glans.
She began to saw back and forth.
The webbing was soft, seamless skin, uncalloused and perfectly smooth. The friction was maddeningly specific.
"Fuuuack!" Liam gasped, his hips bucking up off the mattress. His eyes flew open, wide with shock. "Jesus! What is that?"
"Physics," Anya smirked, watching his reaction. She increased the speed, twisting her ankle to grind that soft webbing against his sensitive spot while her sole compressed the shaft. "They beg for this in the comments, you know. They offer double just to see my feet coated like this. They’d kill to know what this actually feels like… but they never will. This doesn't go on the internet, Liam. This is just for you."
"I feel it," he groaned, his hands gripping the sheets, knuckles white. "God, Anya. It's... it's everywhere."
His skepticism was gone, incinerated by the technique. He wasn't thinking about feet being "weird" anymore; he was lost in the sensation of the oil, the pressure, and the terrifyingly skilled grip of her toes.
She picked up the pace, using both feet now. She clamped his shaft between her arches, creating a vacuum tunnel of oiled skin, while her toes worked the head like frantic, hungry fingers. Schhh-luck, schhh-luck, schhh-luck. The wet sound was loud in the room.
"Yeah," Liam panted, his face flushed, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his chest. "Yeah, don't stop. Don't—fuck!"
"You like the expertise now?" she teased, churning him faster, feeling him swell and throb between her arches.
"I love it," he choked out, his voice ragged. "I fucking love it. I'm gonna—Anya!"
He arched his back, a guttural roar tearing from his throat.
"Let go," she commanded, squeezing tight.
Liam erupted. He fired rope after rope of hot semen, coating her oiled soles, splashing against her ankles. He twitched violently, his hips jerking, completely undone by the sensation.
Anya kept moving, milking the last drops from him with a slow, deliberate slide of her arch, mixing the fluid with the silicone until her feet were soaked in the evidence of his pleasure.
Liam slumped back, his chest heaving, his eyes glazed. He stared at her feet, then up at her face, looking like a man who had just had a religious experience.
"Okay," he wheezed, a lopsided, dazed grin spreading across his face. "I stand corrected. I am... definitely a fan."
