Previous Chapter || First Chapter
The light in the new apartment was a luxury. It wasn't the grudging, grey seepage of her old room, but a warm, buttery glow that filtered through the clean slats of the blinds, striping the duvet with pale gold. It smelled of the coffee that had brewed automatically on the kitchen timer—another small, decadent miracle—and of sleep, and of him.
Anya lay on her side, cocooned in the warmth, her head pillowed on his bicep. Liam’s arm was a heavy, solid weight under her neck, anchoring her to the morning. She listened to the rhythm of his breathing, a slow, deep current that was the most peaceful sound she had ever known. Outside, the distant, muffled roar of a Tube train was a reminder that London was awake, but here, in the sanctuary of these sheets, the city couldn't touch them.
His skin, against her cheek, was warm and carried the clean, simple scent of the soap he used. She shifted slightly, her smooth leg brushing against his. Even in sleep, his body was a geography of hard-earned textures—the rough hair on his calves, the solid knot of muscle in his thigh, the ever-present, faint grit of his calloused hands. She traced a circle on his chest with her index finger, feeling the crisp hair tickle her fingertip. This felt real. The weight of him, the smell of him, the unvarnished reality of his skin.
Liam stirred, his arm tightening around her, pulling her closer. His voice, when it came, was a low rasp, thick with sleep. "Time is it?"
"Early," she murmured into his shoulder. "Go back to sleep."
"Can't," he mumbled, his lips brushing against her hair. "Got a very important meeting with a stubborn root system in Islington." He let out a long, contented sigh, and she felt the vibration of it travel through his ribs into her own. "You, on the other hand… you media consultants probably don't even start consulting until ten."
Anya smiled against his skin, a soft, private thing. The lie was so familiar now it almost felt like the truth. "It’s a very demanding job. Requires a lot of… mental preparation."
He chuckled, the sound a warm rumble in his chest. He shifted, rolling slightly to face her, propping his head up on his hand. The gold-flecked hazel of his eyes was soft in the morning light. "It's a wonder you get anything done. You look at your laptop like it’s a venomous snake. I saw you trying to attach a file to an email yesterday. You looked like you were disarming a bomb."
Anya’s smile tightened at the edges. She tried to laugh it off, a light, airy sound. "I’m not a tech person. I’m on the creative side. People management. Talent scouting. Boring stuff, really."
The deflection was smooth, practiced. It was the same one she’d used a dozen times. But this morning, it felt flimsy.
Liam didn't call her on it directly. Instead, his expression softened. He reached out with his free hand, the rough pads of his fingers tracing the curve of her jaw with a gentleness that was almost painful. "I just want to know you, Anya," he said, his voice losing its teasing edge. "All of you. Not just the… edited highlights. I feel like there’s this whole part of your life that’s behind a password you won’t give me."
His thumb brushed over her bottom lip. The touch was intimate, loving, but the words created a chasm between them. The warmth in her chest turned cool. He was right. She was giving him a performance, and he was patient, but he wasn't stupid. This peaceful, sun-drenched sanctuary she had built with him was founded on a lie, and the foundations were starting to crack.
She couldn’t give him an answer. So she did the only thing she could. She leaned in, closing the small gap between them, and kissed him. It was a deep, silencing kiss, a desperate attempt to replace questions with sensation. He responded instantly, his hand moving from her jaw to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. The world dissolved into the taste of him, the smell of coffee, and the warmth of the bed.
As she moved against him, her hand slid down his chest, over the hard plane of his stomach, stopping where the duvet tented over his hips. She let her fingers trace the rigid length of his cock through the soft cotton, a slow, deliberate exploration. His breath hitched against her lips. She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, a slow, predatory smile replacing her previous panic.
With a fluid, decisive movement, she swung her leg over his thighs, straddling him, the duvet pooling around his thighs, freeing his erection. She settled her weight onto him, grinding down just enough to make him gasp.
"Your work can wait," she purred, her voice a low, husky promise. "It seems you have some... hard wood... right here that needs immediate attention."
---
The guilt was a bitter, metallic taste under her tongue, a stark contrast to the sweet, milky coffee she sipped as she walked through the university gates. The memory of the morning—of Liam’s open, searching eyes and her own calculated, carnal deflection—played on a loop in her mind. He had wanted honesty, and she had given him an orgasm. It was an effective tactic, but a cowardly one. The pleasure had been real, their bodies moving in a familiar, desperate rhythm, but as she’d writhed on top of him, a cold corner of her mind had been calculating, analyzing. It wasn't a lie, she told herself, gripping the warm paper cup. It was a firewall. A necessary partition between the woman he thought he knew and the commodity she had become.
The click-clack of her Louboutins on the stone quadrangle felt different today. It wasn't the sound of armor; it was the sound of a countdown. Every step brought her closer to a choice she was terrified to make.
The lecture hall was a cavernous hive of pre-class chatter. Anya found her usual seat at the end of a row, setting her coffee down and pulling out her laptop. She tried to lose herself in the familiar ritual of preparation, but the air felt charged. As she was logging in, a figure slid into the empty seat next to her. She glanced over. It was him. The boy from the statistics lecture.
Old Anya would have shrunk. But Old Anya was gone.
She straightened her back, took a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee, and waited.
He wasn't the stammering kid she remembered. He seemed calmer, more direct. He waited until she set her cup down before leaning in slightly, his voice a low, confidential murmur that wouldn't carry. "Anya, right? We have Statistics together."
She nodded, her expression neutral. "That's right."
"Cool," he said, giving a small, respectful nod. He looked down at his own notes for a second before meeting her eyes again. "Look, I don't want to make this weird, but I just wanted to say, I'm a really big admirer of your other work." He paused, letting the implication land softly. "The new solo piece, 'The Tutor's Retribution'? It was incredible. The part where he used the end of the pencil on the ball of your foot… your control, trying not to laugh while explaining the theorem, was just… next level."
Anya’s professional mask snapped into place. The flicker of panic was instantly suppressed, replaced by the cool assessment of Amethyst. He wasn't a threat. He was a connoisseur.
"Thank you," she said, her voice even. "I appreciate the feedback. We were happy with how that one turned out."
"I had a feeling it was you," he continued, his voice still low. "It's more than just a physical resemblance. There’s a certain… intensity you have, even just sitting here. It really comes through on camera." He offered a small, self-aware smile. "Anyway. I won't bother you. I just wanted to say, you're a phenomenal performer. Seriously."
He turned back to his own laptop, effectively ending the conversation and giving her a respectful out. The interaction had been discreet, almost business-like.
The professor began to speak, his voice a droning monotone that faded into the background. Anya stared at the screen of her laptop, but the words were a meaningless jumble. Mark's validation had solidified one side of the scale, making the other feel impossibly heavy.
The power was intoxicating. To be recognized, to be praised for her 'work,' to see the awe his eyes—it was a drug. She thought of the money in her account, the security, the freedom from the gnawing beast of poverty. This was a fortress she had built, brick by painful, pleasurable brick. In this world, she wasn't a victim; she was a star, a businesswoman, a queen.
But then, the fortress walls seemed to dissolve, and she saw Liam’s face. He wouldn't see a queen. He would see a girl who let strangers watch her get tied up and tormented for money. He would see the 'performance,' the faked pleasure, the calculated vulnerability. Would he think less of her? Would the image of her, helpless on a screen, soil the memory of her laughing in his arms? The thought was a physical pain, a sharp, cold jab in her gut. To lose him, to lose the only 'real' thing she had found in this city—was her fortress destined to become her prison?
Before she knew it the lecture ended with a final click of the professor’s slideshow. The lecture hall, a moment ago a tomb of rapt attention, erupted. The air filled with the sharp zip of backpacks, the percussive clack of laptops snapping shut, and the grating chorus of chairs scraping against the floor. A river of students began to flow around her, their chatter a meaningless, rushing current of weekend plans and assignment complaints.
Anya remained frozen, a statue in the eddy of her seat. The noise was a physical pressure, pressing in on her, but the world had gone curiously silent inside her own head. Her lungs felt tight, her breaths shallow. She could feel the ghost of the fan’s gaze on her, a pinprick of heat on her skin. She could see Liam’s face from the morning, his eyes so open, so full of a gentle inquiry that now felt more dangerous than any rope or restraint.
Queen.
Liar.
The two words warred inside her, echoing in the sudden, terrifying silence of her own mind. The praise from the fan felt like a gilded lock snapping shut on her cage. To be seen, to be known as Amethyst, was intoxicating. But the thought of Liam seeing that same performance, that same vulnerability… it was a black hole threatening to swallow the warm, buttery light of her new life.
She couldn't go home. She couldn't walk back into that apartment, into the sanctuary she had built on a lie, and look into his honest face. Not now. Not when the fortress walls were crumbling. But she couldn't stay here, either, in this place where her two worlds had finally, violently collided.
Her hand, trembling slightly, reached for her phone in her bag. The cool, smooth glass felt like a lifeline. She needed a third space. A demilitarized zone. She needed an architect, a strategist who didn't just understand the blueprint of this life but had helped her draw it. Her thumb moved with desperate purpose, finding the contact that had become her oracle.
Anya: Are you free? I’m having a crisis of faith.
The reply was almost instantaneous, a beacon of calm in her sea of panic.
Claire: Lunch. La Petite Maison. One hour. Don’t be late.
---
La Petite Maison was a hushed, cream-colored sanctuary in Mayfair where the clinking of cutlery was a delicate symphony and the air smelled of money and lemon zest. Anya felt her Amethyst armor click back into place the moment she stepped through the door; it was a necessity in a room like this.
Claire was already there, seated at a corner table, a glass of blood-red wine in front of her. She wore a simple black silk shell top and a pair of severe, architectural silver earrings that framed her jawline. She looked less like she was waiting for a friend and more like she was waiting to acquire a smaller company.
Anya slid into the chair opposite her, placing her handbag on the floor with a soft thud. The click of her heels had been swallowed by the sound-dampening floor. "Sorry I'm late. The tube was a nightmare."
"Nonsense, you're precisely on time," Claire said, gesturing to the waiter with an almost imperceptible flick of her wrist. "Gin and tonic for my guest. The good stuff." She turned her analytical gaze back to Anya. "You have that look again. The 'panicked deer' one. Let me guess," Claire said, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "The lumberjack."
Anya slumped slightly, the facade of composure crumbling. "He's a landscape architect, Claire," she corrected weakly, though the protest felt flimsy even to her. "But yes. It's him."
"Darling, please," Claire scoffed, holding up a perfectly manicured hand. "Let's review the evidence, shall we?" She ticked off the points on her fingers. "One," she said, extending her index finger, its nail a perfect slash of burgundy. "He wears flannel. In London. In the twenty-first century." She extended her middle finger. "Two, by your own enthusiastic account, he is impressively solid." Her ring finger joined the others. "And three, his primary professional tool is a fucking chainsaw. The man is a lumberjack." She lowered her hand, her expression turning serious. "Now, what's the problem?"
Anya let a genuine, unforced grin spread across her face. "Alright, fine. I see your point." Her gaze drifted past Claire's shoulder, the sharp lines of the restaurant blurring. She wasn't seeing the Mayfair decor anymore; she was seeing the thick, ropy muscles of Liam's forearms as he pushed his sleeves up, the dusting of sawdust caught in the fine hairs, the sheer, uncomplicated strength in his hands.
Snap.
A sharp click of fingers in front of her face hauled Anya back to Mayfair. Claire had leaned across the table, eyebrows arched high, lips pursed in exaggerated concern.
“Oh no,” she said gravely. “You’ve gone again.”
Anya blinked. “Gone?”
“Yes,” Claire continued, waving a hand in front of Anya’s eyes as if checking for consciousness. “That misty, faraway expression. Pupils dilated. Mild smile. Classic symptoms.” She sighed. "Your rural fantasy face."
Anya let out a breathy laugh, bringing a hand up to her face. “Is it really that obvious?”
“Darling, you weren’t even pretending to listen anymore,” Claire replied. “Now. Focus.” She softened, eyes still bright with amusement. “Tell me what’s actually wrong.”
Anya straightened in her chair, her grin fading into something more thoughtful. "So. The lumberjack has gotten serious. The problem is, he stayed over three times this week. He leaves his toothbrush in my bathroom now, Claire. A toothbrush. It's like a tiny, bristled declaration of intent."
The waiter placed the drink in front of her, the ice clinking with crystalline clarity. Anya took a long, grateful sip.
"The problem is, he keeps asking questions," Anya continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He thinks I'm a 'media consultant,' but he's not an idiot. He sees me struggle to use an Excel sheet. He knows something doesn't add up. This morning he said he felt like my life was behind a password. And I just..." She made a frustrated gesture. "I fucked him to shut him up. It's all I could think of to do."
Claire took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine. She didn't look shocked or disappointed. She looked like an engineer diagnosing a mechanical failure.
"A classic, if temporary, solution," she mused. "But a tactical dead-end. You can't fuck your way out of a foundational lie forever. So, what is it you're truly afraid of, Anya? Spell it out for me."
"That he'll be disgusted," Anya said, the words spilling out. "That he'll see 'Silence in the Library' and he won't see a performance, he'll see a girl getting off on being humiliated. That he'll look at me differently. That this... this real, normal, wonderful thing I have with him will just curdle and die because he can't get past the fact that I let hundreds of strangers watch me get tied up."
"And you?" Claire asked, her gaze sharp. "Do you think you're just a girl getting tied up for strangers?"
"No," Anya said immediately, defensively. "It's a job. It's empowering. It's... complicated."
"Precisely. And he is a man who wrestles trees for a living. He understands complicated things that need to be handled with care," Claire countered. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the cool marble. "Tell me, this Liam. Does he have any... proclivities? Is he a foot man? Does he have a dominant streak you haven't seen yet?"
Anya thought for a moment. "No. Not really. He's... vanilla. A wonderfully considerate, enthusiastic, and completely vanilla lover." A small, private smile touched her lips. "I mean, he'll give a fantastic foot rub if I ask him to after a long day in heels, but I can tell he's just doing it to be nice. There's no spark for him. He's not looking at my arch; he's just trying to stop my feet from aching."
She turned her full attention back to Anya, her eyes sharp and analytical. "You're afraid of the judgment. You think he'll see 'Amethyst' and assume you're damaged goods. That you're selling a piece of your soul."
"Isn't that what I'm doing?" Anya challenged, the words tasting like acid.
"Don't be so dramatic," Claire countered coolly. "You're providing a niche entertainment service. You are an athlete of the nervous system. What you do requires discipline, stamina, and an incredible amount of psychological control. It’s a job. A strange one, but a job. The question isn't whether what you do is valid. The question is whether he is capable of understanding that."
Claire leaned forward, her voice dropping. "Listen to me, Anya. The truth will come out. It always does. A forgotten browser tab, a stray email notification, a fan who recognizes you on the street with him. It is inevitable. And when it comes out, do you want it to be a secret he uncovers, or a truth you share? One makes you a liar. The other makes you brave."
The logic was brutal and inescapable. "So I should just… tell him?" Anya asked, the thought sending a spike of pure ice through her veins. "And risk him walking away?"
She set the glass down, her voice dropping to a low, intense command. "You cannot control his reaction. It is the one variable in this entire equation that is outside of your power. But you can control the narrative. You tell him. You show him. You watch it with him. You answer his questions with the same confidence you showed Jynx in that library. You don't present it as a dirty secret. You present it as your fucking empire. If he runs? Then he doesn't deserve a queen. And it's better to find that out now, before he's left more than a toothbrush in your bathroom."
Claire picked up her menu, the gesture a clear dismissal of the topic. The verdict had been delivered.
"Now," she said, her tone brightening. "I'm starving. I'm thinking the sea bass. What about you?"
Anya looked at the woman opposite her, a fortress of unapologetic self-possession. The cold knot in her stomach didn't dissolve; instead, it tightened, hardening from a knot of fear into a shard of resolve. For the first time, she saw a path through it. It was a terrifying path, lined with risk, but it was the only one that led forward. She was done deflecting. She was done hiding.
---
The kitchen was no longer just a kitchen; it was a war room, and Anya was preparing for the most important campaign of her life. She moved with a focused, almost reverent precision, the scent of simmering pork, garlic, and dill a thick, comforting fog that pushed back against the sterile ghosts of the studio. This was her ground, her territory.
On the counter, a pot of borscht simmered, its color a deep, life-giving crimson, a stark contrast to the burgundy of Claire’s wine or the clinical red of her own Louboutins. This was the color of beets, of earth, of home. Beside it, small rounds of dough for pampushky were rising under a damp cloth. She kneaded a second batch, not because she needed more, but because the physical act of it—the push, the fold, the turn—was a way to work the raw, vibrating knot of anxiety out of her own muscles. With every push of her palms into the soft, yielding dough, she repeated Claire’s words like a mantra: You control the narrative. You control the narrative.
This meal was the narrative. It wasn't Amethyst, the polished, high-fashion commodity. It was Anya, the girl from Kyiv, the daughter who learned to make this soup from a mother whose hands, like Liam’s, were never soft. This was her truth, her foundation. She was laying the cornerstone before she revealed the skyscraper of lies she had built upon it.
She uncorked a bottle of red wine—something decent, a step up from the pub’s cheap gin—and set two large glasses on the small dining table. She lit a candle. The warm, flickering light softened the sharp, modern lines of the apartment, turning it into a haven. The stage was set.
When Liam came through the door, the first thing that hit him was the smell. He stopped in the hallway, his gym bag sliding from his shoulder. "Whoa," he said, his voice full of genuine, uncomplicated delight. "What is all this?"
He walked into the kitchen, his eyes wide. He looked from the steaming pot to the wine, to the candlelight, and finally to her. She had a dusting of flour on her cheek, looking at him with an expression of terrifying vulnerability.
"Surprise," she said, her voice a little breathless.
He walked over until he was standing directly behind her. He didn't wrap his arms around her. Instead, his large, warm hand came up, calloused fingers gently cupping her chin. He tilted her head back, slowly, until she was looking straight up at the ceiling, her neck exposed and arched. He leaned over her, his tall frame a shadow that blocked out the light, and lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was soft, deliberate, and tasted of the cold night air and him. It was a kiss of ownership, tender and absolute.
He pulled back, still holding her chin. "What's the occasion?" he murmured, his gaze searching hers.
"No occasion," she lied, leaning back against the solid wall of his chest. "I just... wanted to cook for you. Properly."
Liam didn't press. He just hummed a low, satisfied note deep in his chest and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head. "Well, I'm not going to argue with that," he murmured, his voice warm against her hair. He released her, letting her turn back to the stove, but the gentle pressure of his hand lingered on her shoulder for a moment before he moved to take his seat at the table.
Anya’s hands were not quite steady as she ladled the deep crimson soup into two wide, shallow bowls. The rich, earthy scent of beets and dill rose in a fragrant cloud of steam, a smell so deeply embedded in her memory it was almost a language in itself. She placed a dollop of sour cream in the center of each, watching it swirl into the red like a ghost. Each movement felt deliberate, heavy with a significance that had nothing to do with food. She carried the bowls to the table, the candlelight dancing off the surface of the soup, and set one in front of him.
He waited for her to sit, a small, polite gesture that felt enormous tonight. For a moment, they just sat in the flickering light, the only sound the distant hum of the city. He picked up his spoon, dipped it into the borscht, and took his first taste. His eyes closed for a beat. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, a look of pure, uncomplicated pleasure. "Anya," he said, his voice full of warmth. "This is... incredible. Seriously. This is the best thing I've eaten all year."
A small, tight knot of tension in Anya’s chest eased just a little. He saw this. He tasted this. He was here, with her, in this moment. The relief was a temporary truce in the war raging inside her.
Dinner was a quiet island of normalcy in the anxious sea of her thoughts. Liam ate with a hunger that was both flattering and deeply comforting. He praised the borscht, comparing its richness to the stories she'd told him of her childhood. He tore into the garlic-brushed pampushky with a reverence that made her heart ache.
"My mother always said you can tell everything you need to know about a person by how they make their borscht," Anya said, swirling the wine in her glass. "If it's thin and watery, their soul is weak."
"Well," Liam said, mopping the last of the soup from his bowl with a piece of bread. "Your soul is a damn fortress."
The word hit her like a physical blow. Fortress. A prison.
After they cleared the dishes, the energy in the small apartment shifted. The buffer of the meal was gone. The quiet hum of the refrigerator seemed to grow louder. Liam moved to the sofa, stretching out with a contented groan. Anya remained standing, her hands wrapped around her wine glass, her heart beginning its treacherous, familiar gallop.
This was it. The moment of truth. Claire’s voice echoed in her head: Don’t present it as a dirty secret. Present it as your fucking empire.
Liam seemed to sense the shift. "Hey," he said softly from the sofa, patting the cushion next to him. "You okay? You've been a million miles away all night."
Anya took a deep breath. She didn't answer. Instead, she walked to the small desk in the corner and picked up her laptop. She carried it over to the sofa, the metal cool and heavy in her hands. She sat down beside him, the cushion sinking under her weight. The warmth from his thigh radiated through her jeans.
She placed the laptop on her own knees, the screen dark. She angled it so they could both see.
"I'm sorry I've been keeping this from you," she said, her voice quiet but steady. She looked at him, her eyes pleading for him to understand. "I want to be open with you. I just... I needed you to know me first. Before you met... her."
Liam shifted on the sofa, turning his body toward her, his expression a mixture of deep concern and wary patience. He said nothing, just watched as her thumb hovered over the trackpad. The small, almost inaudible click as she pressed down echoed in the silent apartment like a gunshot.
The screen flickered to life.
There was no slick intro, no studio logo. The video began abruptly, shot with a stark, high-definition clarity that felt hyper-real. The scene was a tastefully decorated bedroom at night, the only light coming from a single bedside lamp. On the screen, Anya—or a version of her—was asleep in a large, comfortable bed, wearing a simple silk nightgown. She looked peaceful, innocent. The domestic tranquility was so convincing it was unsettling.
A shadow moved in the corner of the frame. The burglar—Stephen, though his face was obscured by a black balaclava—slipped into the room with a predator’s silence. He moved to the bed. In one swift, brutal motion, he was on her, a gloved hand clamping over her mouth before her eyes even fully opened.
On the sofa, Liam’s body tensed, a low, protective growl rumbling in his chest. His hand instinctively went to her thigh, his grip tightening. Anya didn't flinch; she just kept her eyes locked on the screen.
In the video, the struggle was brief and hopeless. The burglar used thick, coarse rope, not leather cuffs. He bound her wrists behind her back, then her ankles, securing them tightly to the bedposts. He gagged her with a strip of black cloth, a functional, impersonal violation. Then, methodically, he began to rob the room, tossing jewelry into a bag. He moved to a large painting, pulling it aside to reveal a wall safe. He twisted the dial, failed, and let out a frustrated grunt.
He turned back to the bed. Back to her.
He walked to the foot of the bed and looked down at her feet, which were pale and vulnerable against the dark sheets, her toes curling and uncurling in terror. He reached into his bag and pulled out a small, stiff-bristled brush.
He sat on the edge of the mattress. "I need the combination," his muffled voice said in the video. "Nod if you understand."
The on-screen Anya gave a frantic, tearful nod.
"Good girl," he said. He reached out and traced the edge of the brush handle from her heel up to the ball of her foot, a cold, clinical promise. "We can do this the easy way… or the fun way."
He didn't wait for an answer. He lowered the bristles to her right sole.
He started with a slow, agonizing scrape, dragging the stiff nylon from her heel Pad up the length of her arch.
"Mmmph! Nnnngh!" The gagged sound was sharp, a protest choked off by the cloth. Her back arched off the bed, her entire body straining against the ropes.
The burglar chuckled. "That's a reaction. Let's see what the other one does." He mirrored the motion on her left foot. The result was the same—a violent, full-body flinch.
"The numbers," he demanded, his voice low. "I'm going to start with your toes. And I am not going to stop."
He jammed the brush between her big toe and the second, sawing it back and forth.
The reaction was explosive.
"MMMPH-HAAAA-HAAAA-HMMMPH!" The sound was a wet, desperate, muffled scream of laughter. Her legs thrashed, pulling the ropes taut.
He moved the brush to the sensitive webbing of her smaller toes, scribbling with a merciless, frantic energy. Anya watched herself on the screen, a dispassionate observer to her own disintegration. She saw the tears streaming from her character's eyes, the way her chest heaved, the sheer, unadulterated panic as the relentless tickle broke through her resolve.
"STOP! HMMMMPH-HAAA-HAAAA!"
"The code!" the burglar shouted over her frantic, gagged laughter.
He abandoned the brush and used his gloved fingers, clawing at her arches, digging his thumbs into the balls of her feet. The assault was total.
"I DON'T-HMMMPH-HAAA-HAAA-KNOW!" she tried to scream, the sound dissolving into a high-pitched, hysterical wheeze.
He stopped, letting her gasp against the gag for a single, precious second. Then, he lunged again, raking all ten fingers down both soles at once.
"MMMMMPH-EEEEEE-HEEE-HEEE-HAAA!"
The on-screen Anya broke. She nodded frantically, tears and snot smearing against the black cloth. He pulled the gag down.
"32... ha-ha... 18... oh god... 44!" she sobbed, the words punctuated by ragged, painful gasps for air.
The burglar nodded, stood up, and walked back to the safe. The video held on her for another ten seconds—a broken, weeping, trembling figure tied to the bed—before it cut to black.
The apartment was silent. The only light was the soft glow of the laptop's desktop wallpaper. Anya slowly, deliberately, closed the lid. The soft click of the latch felt like a closing cell door. She placed the laptop on the couch beside her.
She turned to Liam. She was ready for anything—anger, disgust, confusion. But his face was a blank, impassive mask. He just stared at the dark screen, his hand still resting on her thigh, his thumb tracing a slow, absent circle on the denim. The silence stretched for an eternity.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was quiet, devoid of emotion.
"So," he said, turning his unreadable gaze to her. "You're a porn actress?"
The words, clinical and cold, hit her harder than any brush or fingernail. A sharp, wounded sound escaped her throat. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. "Not... not really. I mean, I don't fuck anybody. It's all… strictly tickling."
She watched his face, desperate for a flicker of understanding. "I… I both give and receive, depending on the video. The fans… they prefer to see me on the receiving end. So that's mostly what I do."
Liam was quiet for another long moment, his brow furrowed in concentration, processing. "So… no sexual stuff? Just tickling?" He looked at her, his eyes full of a strange, bewildered curiosity. "And… and guys like that?"
A sad, watery smile touched Anya’s lips. The fear began to recede, replaced by the simple, weary urge to explain. "Yes," she said softly. "It turns out there's a very big niche for people with a tickle fetish." She took a deep, shaky breath, the dam of her secrecy finally breaking. "I was cleaning his house to pay for my tuition. His name is Stephen. I found the studio in his basement by accident. He offered me an audition, and the money was… it was life-changing, Liam."
He listened, his expression softening as she spoke, the story tumbling out—the desperation, the fear, the strange empowerment. When she finished, he was no longer looking at her like a puzzle to be solved. He was just looking at her. At Anya. He reached out, his rough thumb gently wiping a tear she hadn't realized had fallen.
"Okay," he said, his voice a low, grounding rumble. "Okay. I get it."
The words hung in the air, simple, quiet, and utterly transformative. I get it.
It wasn't forgiveness, because she hadn't done anything wrong. It wasn't excitement, because he didn't share the fetish. It was acceptance. And for Anya, who had been bracing herself for the impact of judgment, the absence of that blow was enough to completely undo her.
A sound tore from her throat, a raw, ragged sob of pure, unadulterated relief. The fortress walls didn't just crack; they disintegrated into dust. She slumped forward, the tension draining from her body in a single, shuddering wave, and buried her face in his chest. She wept, not with sadness, but with the overwhelming release of a weight she hadn't realized was heavy enough to crush her.
"Thank you," she choked out, the words muffled against the soft cotton of his thermal shirt. "Oh god, Liam, thank you."
He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight against him, his large hand stroking her hair with a slow, grounding rhythm. He let her cry, holding her steady as weeks of pent-up fear and loneliness poured out of her.
"Hey," he murmured into her hair after a long moment, his voice a low, steady anchor in her storm. "It's okay. Shhh. It's okay." He waited until her sobs subsided into shaky, hitching breaths before he spoke again. "Listen to me."
He gently pulled her back so he could see her face, his rough hands cupping her tear-streaked cheeks. "I'm not going to lie and say I'm thrilled that my girlfriend gets tied up by men in masks for a living," he said, his expression completely serious. "The protective, caveman part of my brain is having a bit of a meltdown right now. But I heard what you said. You're safe. It's a performance. And as long as it's... just tickling... then I don't see the harm in it. It's a job. A weird fucking job, but a job."
A watery, hysterical giggle escaped her. "It is a weird fucking job."
"So help me understand," he said, his thumb brushing away a tear from under her eye. "Because my mind is genuinely blown right now. What… what is the appeal? For the people watching, I mean. What do they get out of it?"
It was the most beautiful question she had ever been asked. He wasn't dismissing it; he was engaging with it. He was trying to see her world through her eyes.
She took a shaky breath, the last of the sobs subsiding. "It's… it's about a few things," she began, her voice still thick. "For a lot of them, it's about the vulnerability. Seeing someone completely helpless, unable to control their own body… there's a power in that for the viewer."
"Okay," he nodded slowly, processing. "Like a BDSM thing."
"Exactly," she confirmed. "But it's also about the reaction. You can't fake a tickle response. That laughter, the screaming… it's genuine. It's a real, physical reaction that the person can't stop, and for some people, that authenticity is incredibly arousing. They know they're seeing something real, not just an actress pretending."
He was quiet, his gaze thoughtful as he absorbed the information. "And you?" he asked softly. "My girlfriend, the 'phenomenal performer'... do you enjoy it?"
The question was a test. A part of her wanted to say no, to paint herself as a reluctant victim just doing it for the money. But that would be another lie, and she was done with lies.
"Sometimes," she admitted, her voice dropping. "Not the sensation itself. It's mostly awful. But the performance… being Amethyst… there's a power in it, Liam. Being the one everyone is watching, knowing I can make them feel something just by twitching my toes... It makes me feel strong. In a strange way, it makes me feel less helpless than I ever did when I was scrubbing floors."
He didn't speak. Instead, he released her face and let his hands slide down, his gaze following. His large, warm, calloused hand settled on her right foot, which was resting on the sofa cushion. He didn't grab it or squeeze it. He just held it, his thumb stroking the instep. It wasn't the slow, firm pressure of a massage, but a lighter, more analytical touch, as if he were trying to read the history of the skin, to understand the architecture of the instrument he was holding. He looked at it not as just a foot, but as a tool of her trade, an instrument.
"So this," he said, a small, wondering smile touching his lips as he looked from her foot back to her face. "This is the star of the show?"
Anya let out a real, genuine laugh, the last of the fear finally, truly gone. "And her sister," she said, lifting her other foot onto his lap.
The light in the new apartment was a luxury. It wasn't the grudging, grey seepage of her old room, but a warm, buttery glow that filtered through the clean slats of the blinds, striping the duvet with pale gold. It smelled of the coffee that had brewed automatically on the kitchen timer—another small, decadent miracle—and of sleep, and of him.
Anya lay on her side, cocooned in the warmth, her head pillowed on his bicep. Liam’s arm was a heavy, solid weight under her neck, anchoring her to the morning. She listened to the rhythm of his breathing, a slow, deep current that was the most peaceful sound she had ever known. Outside, the distant, muffled roar of a Tube train was a reminder that London was awake, but here, in the sanctuary of these sheets, the city couldn't touch them.
His skin, against her cheek, was warm and carried the clean, simple scent of the soap he used. She shifted slightly, her smooth leg brushing against his. Even in sleep, his body was a geography of hard-earned textures—the rough hair on his calves, the solid knot of muscle in his thigh, the ever-present, faint grit of his calloused hands. She traced a circle on his chest with her index finger, feeling the crisp hair tickle her fingertip. This felt real. The weight of him, the smell of him, the unvarnished reality of his skin.
Liam stirred, his arm tightening around her, pulling her closer. His voice, when it came, was a low rasp, thick with sleep. "Time is it?"
"Early," she murmured into his shoulder. "Go back to sleep."
"Can't," he mumbled, his lips brushing against her hair. "Got a very important meeting with a stubborn root system in Islington." He let out a long, contented sigh, and she felt the vibration of it travel through his ribs into her own. "You, on the other hand… you media consultants probably don't even start consulting until ten."
Anya smiled against his skin, a soft, private thing. The lie was so familiar now it almost felt like the truth. "It’s a very demanding job. Requires a lot of… mental preparation."
He chuckled, the sound a warm rumble in his chest. He shifted, rolling slightly to face her, propping his head up on his hand. The gold-flecked hazel of his eyes was soft in the morning light. "It's a wonder you get anything done. You look at your laptop like it’s a venomous snake. I saw you trying to attach a file to an email yesterday. You looked like you were disarming a bomb."
Anya’s smile tightened at the edges. She tried to laugh it off, a light, airy sound. "I’m not a tech person. I’m on the creative side. People management. Talent scouting. Boring stuff, really."
The deflection was smooth, practiced. It was the same one she’d used a dozen times. But this morning, it felt flimsy.
Liam didn't call her on it directly. Instead, his expression softened. He reached out with his free hand, the rough pads of his fingers tracing the curve of her jaw with a gentleness that was almost painful. "I just want to know you, Anya," he said, his voice losing its teasing edge. "All of you. Not just the… edited highlights. I feel like there’s this whole part of your life that’s behind a password you won’t give me."
His thumb brushed over her bottom lip. The touch was intimate, loving, but the words created a chasm between them. The warmth in her chest turned cool. He was right. She was giving him a performance, and he was patient, but he wasn't stupid. This peaceful, sun-drenched sanctuary she had built with him was founded on a lie, and the foundations were starting to crack.
She couldn’t give him an answer. So she did the only thing she could. She leaned in, closing the small gap between them, and kissed him. It was a deep, silencing kiss, a desperate attempt to replace questions with sensation. He responded instantly, his hand moving from her jaw to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. The world dissolved into the taste of him, the smell of coffee, and the warmth of the bed.
As she moved against him, her hand slid down his chest, over the hard plane of his stomach, stopping where the duvet tented over his hips. She let her fingers trace the rigid length of his cock through the soft cotton, a slow, deliberate exploration. His breath hitched against her lips. She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, a slow, predatory smile replacing her previous panic.
With a fluid, decisive movement, she swung her leg over his thighs, straddling him, the duvet pooling around his thighs, freeing his erection. She settled her weight onto him, grinding down just enough to make him gasp.
"Your work can wait," she purred, her voice a low, husky promise. "It seems you have some... hard wood... right here that needs immediate attention."
---
The guilt was a bitter, metallic taste under her tongue, a stark contrast to the sweet, milky coffee she sipped as she walked through the university gates. The memory of the morning—of Liam’s open, searching eyes and her own calculated, carnal deflection—played on a loop in her mind. He had wanted honesty, and she had given him an orgasm. It was an effective tactic, but a cowardly one. The pleasure had been real, their bodies moving in a familiar, desperate rhythm, but as she’d writhed on top of him, a cold corner of her mind had been calculating, analyzing. It wasn't a lie, she told herself, gripping the warm paper cup. It was a firewall. A necessary partition between the woman he thought he knew and the commodity she had become.
The click-clack of her Louboutins on the stone quadrangle felt different today. It wasn't the sound of armor; it was the sound of a countdown. Every step brought her closer to a choice she was terrified to make.
The lecture hall was a cavernous hive of pre-class chatter. Anya found her usual seat at the end of a row, setting her coffee down and pulling out her laptop. She tried to lose herself in the familiar ritual of preparation, but the air felt charged. As she was logging in, a figure slid into the empty seat next to her. She glanced over. It was him. The boy from the statistics lecture.
Old Anya would have shrunk. But Old Anya was gone.
She straightened her back, took a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee, and waited.
He wasn't the stammering kid she remembered. He seemed calmer, more direct. He waited until she set her cup down before leaning in slightly, his voice a low, confidential murmur that wouldn't carry. "Anya, right? We have Statistics together."
She nodded, her expression neutral. "That's right."
"Cool," he said, giving a small, respectful nod. He looked down at his own notes for a second before meeting her eyes again. "Look, I don't want to make this weird, but I just wanted to say, I'm a really big admirer of your other work." He paused, letting the implication land softly. "The new solo piece, 'The Tutor's Retribution'? It was incredible. The part where he used the end of the pencil on the ball of your foot… your control, trying not to laugh while explaining the theorem, was just… next level."
Anya’s professional mask snapped into place. The flicker of panic was instantly suppressed, replaced by the cool assessment of Amethyst. He wasn't a threat. He was a connoisseur.
"Thank you," she said, her voice even. "I appreciate the feedback. We were happy with how that one turned out."
"I had a feeling it was you," he continued, his voice still low. "It's more than just a physical resemblance. There’s a certain… intensity you have, even just sitting here. It really comes through on camera." He offered a small, self-aware smile. "Anyway. I won't bother you. I just wanted to say, you're a phenomenal performer. Seriously."
He turned back to his own laptop, effectively ending the conversation and giving her a respectful out. The interaction had been discreet, almost business-like.
The professor began to speak, his voice a droning monotone that faded into the background. Anya stared at the screen of her laptop, but the words were a meaningless jumble. Mark's validation had solidified one side of the scale, making the other feel impossibly heavy.
The power was intoxicating. To be recognized, to be praised for her 'work,' to see the awe his eyes—it was a drug. She thought of the money in her account, the security, the freedom from the gnawing beast of poverty. This was a fortress she had built, brick by painful, pleasurable brick. In this world, she wasn't a victim; she was a star, a businesswoman, a queen.
But then, the fortress walls seemed to dissolve, and she saw Liam’s face. He wouldn't see a queen. He would see a girl who let strangers watch her get tied up and tormented for money. He would see the 'performance,' the faked pleasure, the calculated vulnerability. Would he think less of her? Would the image of her, helpless on a screen, soil the memory of her laughing in his arms? The thought was a physical pain, a sharp, cold jab in her gut. To lose him, to lose the only 'real' thing she had found in this city—was her fortress destined to become her prison?
Before she knew it the lecture ended with a final click of the professor’s slideshow. The lecture hall, a moment ago a tomb of rapt attention, erupted. The air filled with the sharp zip of backpacks, the percussive clack of laptops snapping shut, and the grating chorus of chairs scraping against the floor. A river of students began to flow around her, their chatter a meaningless, rushing current of weekend plans and assignment complaints.
Anya remained frozen, a statue in the eddy of her seat. The noise was a physical pressure, pressing in on her, but the world had gone curiously silent inside her own head. Her lungs felt tight, her breaths shallow. She could feel the ghost of the fan’s gaze on her, a pinprick of heat on her skin. She could see Liam’s face from the morning, his eyes so open, so full of a gentle inquiry that now felt more dangerous than any rope or restraint.
Queen.
Liar.
The two words warred inside her, echoing in the sudden, terrifying silence of her own mind. The praise from the fan felt like a gilded lock snapping shut on her cage. To be seen, to be known as Amethyst, was intoxicating. But the thought of Liam seeing that same performance, that same vulnerability… it was a black hole threatening to swallow the warm, buttery light of her new life.
She couldn't go home. She couldn't walk back into that apartment, into the sanctuary she had built on a lie, and look into his honest face. Not now. Not when the fortress walls were crumbling. But she couldn't stay here, either, in this place where her two worlds had finally, violently collided.
Her hand, trembling slightly, reached for her phone in her bag. The cool, smooth glass felt like a lifeline. She needed a third space. A demilitarized zone. She needed an architect, a strategist who didn't just understand the blueprint of this life but had helped her draw it. Her thumb moved with desperate purpose, finding the contact that had become her oracle.
Anya: Are you free? I’m having a crisis of faith.
The reply was almost instantaneous, a beacon of calm in her sea of panic.
Claire: Lunch. La Petite Maison. One hour. Don’t be late.
---
La Petite Maison was a hushed, cream-colored sanctuary in Mayfair where the clinking of cutlery was a delicate symphony and the air smelled of money and lemon zest. Anya felt her Amethyst armor click back into place the moment she stepped through the door; it was a necessity in a room like this.
Claire was already there, seated at a corner table, a glass of blood-red wine in front of her. She wore a simple black silk shell top and a pair of severe, architectural silver earrings that framed her jawline. She looked less like she was waiting for a friend and more like she was waiting to acquire a smaller company.
Anya slid into the chair opposite her, placing her handbag on the floor with a soft thud. The click of her heels had been swallowed by the sound-dampening floor. "Sorry I'm late. The tube was a nightmare."
"Nonsense, you're precisely on time," Claire said, gesturing to the waiter with an almost imperceptible flick of her wrist. "Gin and tonic for my guest. The good stuff." She turned her analytical gaze back to Anya. "You have that look again. The 'panicked deer' one. Let me guess," Claire said, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "The lumberjack."
Anya slumped slightly, the facade of composure crumbling. "He's a landscape architect, Claire," she corrected weakly, though the protest felt flimsy even to her. "But yes. It's him."
"Darling, please," Claire scoffed, holding up a perfectly manicured hand. "Let's review the evidence, shall we?" She ticked off the points on her fingers. "One," she said, extending her index finger, its nail a perfect slash of burgundy. "He wears flannel. In London. In the twenty-first century." She extended her middle finger. "Two, by your own enthusiastic account, he is impressively solid." Her ring finger joined the others. "And three, his primary professional tool is a fucking chainsaw. The man is a lumberjack." She lowered her hand, her expression turning serious. "Now, what's the problem?"
Anya let a genuine, unforced grin spread across her face. "Alright, fine. I see your point." Her gaze drifted past Claire's shoulder, the sharp lines of the restaurant blurring. She wasn't seeing the Mayfair decor anymore; she was seeing the thick, ropy muscles of Liam's forearms as he pushed his sleeves up, the dusting of sawdust caught in the fine hairs, the sheer, uncomplicated strength in his hands.
Snap.
A sharp click of fingers in front of her face hauled Anya back to Mayfair. Claire had leaned across the table, eyebrows arched high, lips pursed in exaggerated concern.
“Oh no,” she said gravely. “You’ve gone again.”
Anya blinked. “Gone?”
“Yes,” Claire continued, waving a hand in front of Anya’s eyes as if checking for consciousness. “That misty, faraway expression. Pupils dilated. Mild smile. Classic symptoms.” She sighed. "Your rural fantasy face."
Anya let out a breathy laugh, bringing a hand up to her face. “Is it really that obvious?”
“Darling, you weren’t even pretending to listen anymore,” Claire replied. “Now. Focus.” She softened, eyes still bright with amusement. “Tell me what’s actually wrong.”
Anya straightened in her chair, her grin fading into something more thoughtful. "So. The lumberjack has gotten serious. The problem is, he stayed over three times this week. He leaves his toothbrush in my bathroom now, Claire. A toothbrush. It's like a tiny, bristled declaration of intent."
The waiter placed the drink in front of her, the ice clinking with crystalline clarity. Anya took a long, grateful sip.
"The problem is, he keeps asking questions," Anya continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He thinks I'm a 'media consultant,' but he's not an idiot. He sees me struggle to use an Excel sheet. He knows something doesn't add up. This morning he said he felt like my life was behind a password. And I just..." She made a frustrated gesture. "I fucked him to shut him up. It's all I could think of to do."
Claire took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine. She didn't look shocked or disappointed. She looked like an engineer diagnosing a mechanical failure.
"A classic, if temporary, solution," she mused. "But a tactical dead-end. You can't fuck your way out of a foundational lie forever. So, what is it you're truly afraid of, Anya? Spell it out for me."
"That he'll be disgusted," Anya said, the words spilling out. "That he'll see 'Silence in the Library' and he won't see a performance, he'll see a girl getting off on being humiliated. That he'll look at me differently. That this... this real, normal, wonderful thing I have with him will just curdle and die because he can't get past the fact that I let hundreds of strangers watch me get tied up."
"And you?" Claire asked, her gaze sharp. "Do you think you're just a girl getting tied up for strangers?"
"No," Anya said immediately, defensively. "It's a job. It's empowering. It's... complicated."
"Precisely. And he is a man who wrestles trees for a living. He understands complicated things that need to be handled with care," Claire countered. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the cool marble. "Tell me, this Liam. Does he have any... proclivities? Is he a foot man? Does he have a dominant streak you haven't seen yet?"
Anya thought for a moment. "No. Not really. He's... vanilla. A wonderfully considerate, enthusiastic, and completely vanilla lover." A small, private smile touched her lips. "I mean, he'll give a fantastic foot rub if I ask him to after a long day in heels, but I can tell he's just doing it to be nice. There's no spark for him. He's not looking at my arch; he's just trying to stop my feet from aching."
She turned her full attention back to Anya, her eyes sharp and analytical. "You're afraid of the judgment. You think he'll see 'Amethyst' and assume you're damaged goods. That you're selling a piece of your soul."
"Isn't that what I'm doing?" Anya challenged, the words tasting like acid.
"Don't be so dramatic," Claire countered coolly. "You're providing a niche entertainment service. You are an athlete of the nervous system. What you do requires discipline, stamina, and an incredible amount of psychological control. It’s a job. A strange one, but a job. The question isn't whether what you do is valid. The question is whether he is capable of understanding that."
Claire leaned forward, her voice dropping. "Listen to me, Anya. The truth will come out. It always does. A forgotten browser tab, a stray email notification, a fan who recognizes you on the street with him. It is inevitable. And when it comes out, do you want it to be a secret he uncovers, or a truth you share? One makes you a liar. The other makes you brave."
The logic was brutal and inescapable. "So I should just… tell him?" Anya asked, the thought sending a spike of pure ice through her veins. "And risk him walking away?"
She set the glass down, her voice dropping to a low, intense command. "You cannot control his reaction. It is the one variable in this entire equation that is outside of your power. But you can control the narrative. You tell him. You show him. You watch it with him. You answer his questions with the same confidence you showed Jynx in that library. You don't present it as a dirty secret. You present it as your fucking empire. If he runs? Then he doesn't deserve a queen. And it's better to find that out now, before he's left more than a toothbrush in your bathroom."
Claire picked up her menu, the gesture a clear dismissal of the topic. The verdict had been delivered.
"Now," she said, her tone brightening. "I'm starving. I'm thinking the sea bass. What about you?"
Anya looked at the woman opposite her, a fortress of unapologetic self-possession. The cold knot in her stomach didn't dissolve; instead, it tightened, hardening from a knot of fear into a shard of resolve. For the first time, she saw a path through it. It was a terrifying path, lined with risk, but it was the only one that led forward. She was done deflecting. She was done hiding.
---
The kitchen was no longer just a kitchen; it was a war room, and Anya was preparing for the most important campaign of her life. She moved with a focused, almost reverent precision, the scent of simmering pork, garlic, and dill a thick, comforting fog that pushed back against the sterile ghosts of the studio. This was her ground, her territory.
On the counter, a pot of borscht simmered, its color a deep, life-giving crimson, a stark contrast to the burgundy of Claire’s wine or the clinical red of her own Louboutins. This was the color of beets, of earth, of home. Beside it, small rounds of dough for pampushky were rising under a damp cloth. She kneaded a second batch, not because she needed more, but because the physical act of it—the push, the fold, the turn—was a way to work the raw, vibrating knot of anxiety out of her own muscles. With every push of her palms into the soft, yielding dough, she repeated Claire’s words like a mantra: You control the narrative. You control the narrative.
This meal was the narrative. It wasn't Amethyst, the polished, high-fashion commodity. It was Anya, the girl from Kyiv, the daughter who learned to make this soup from a mother whose hands, like Liam’s, were never soft. This was her truth, her foundation. She was laying the cornerstone before she revealed the skyscraper of lies she had built upon it.
She uncorked a bottle of red wine—something decent, a step up from the pub’s cheap gin—and set two large glasses on the small dining table. She lit a candle. The warm, flickering light softened the sharp, modern lines of the apartment, turning it into a haven. The stage was set.
When Liam came through the door, the first thing that hit him was the smell. He stopped in the hallway, his gym bag sliding from his shoulder. "Whoa," he said, his voice full of genuine, uncomplicated delight. "What is all this?"
He walked into the kitchen, his eyes wide. He looked from the steaming pot to the wine, to the candlelight, and finally to her. She had a dusting of flour on her cheek, looking at him with an expression of terrifying vulnerability.
"Surprise," she said, her voice a little breathless.
He walked over until he was standing directly behind her. He didn't wrap his arms around her. Instead, his large, warm hand came up, calloused fingers gently cupping her chin. He tilted her head back, slowly, until she was looking straight up at the ceiling, her neck exposed and arched. He leaned over her, his tall frame a shadow that blocked out the light, and lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was soft, deliberate, and tasted of the cold night air and him. It was a kiss of ownership, tender and absolute.
He pulled back, still holding her chin. "What's the occasion?" he murmured, his gaze searching hers.
"No occasion," she lied, leaning back against the solid wall of his chest. "I just... wanted to cook for you. Properly."
Liam didn't press. He just hummed a low, satisfied note deep in his chest and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head. "Well, I'm not going to argue with that," he murmured, his voice warm against her hair. He released her, letting her turn back to the stove, but the gentle pressure of his hand lingered on her shoulder for a moment before he moved to take his seat at the table.
Anya’s hands were not quite steady as she ladled the deep crimson soup into two wide, shallow bowls. The rich, earthy scent of beets and dill rose in a fragrant cloud of steam, a smell so deeply embedded in her memory it was almost a language in itself. She placed a dollop of sour cream in the center of each, watching it swirl into the red like a ghost. Each movement felt deliberate, heavy with a significance that had nothing to do with food. She carried the bowls to the table, the candlelight dancing off the surface of the soup, and set one in front of him.
He waited for her to sit, a small, polite gesture that felt enormous tonight. For a moment, they just sat in the flickering light, the only sound the distant hum of the city. He picked up his spoon, dipped it into the borscht, and took his first taste. His eyes closed for a beat. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, a look of pure, uncomplicated pleasure. "Anya," he said, his voice full of warmth. "This is... incredible. Seriously. This is the best thing I've eaten all year."
A small, tight knot of tension in Anya’s chest eased just a little. He saw this. He tasted this. He was here, with her, in this moment. The relief was a temporary truce in the war raging inside her.
Dinner was a quiet island of normalcy in the anxious sea of her thoughts. Liam ate with a hunger that was both flattering and deeply comforting. He praised the borscht, comparing its richness to the stories she'd told him of her childhood. He tore into the garlic-brushed pampushky with a reverence that made her heart ache.
"My mother always said you can tell everything you need to know about a person by how they make their borscht," Anya said, swirling the wine in her glass. "If it's thin and watery, their soul is weak."
"Well," Liam said, mopping the last of the soup from his bowl with a piece of bread. "Your soul is a damn fortress."
The word hit her like a physical blow. Fortress. A prison.
After they cleared the dishes, the energy in the small apartment shifted. The buffer of the meal was gone. The quiet hum of the refrigerator seemed to grow louder. Liam moved to the sofa, stretching out with a contented groan. Anya remained standing, her hands wrapped around her wine glass, her heart beginning its treacherous, familiar gallop.
This was it. The moment of truth. Claire’s voice echoed in her head: Don’t present it as a dirty secret. Present it as your fucking empire.
Liam seemed to sense the shift. "Hey," he said softly from the sofa, patting the cushion next to him. "You okay? You've been a million miles away all night."
Anya took a deep breath. She didn't answer. Instead, she walked to the small desk in the corner and picked up her laptop. She carried it over to the sofa, the metal cool and heavy in her hands. She sat down beside him, the cushion sinking under her weight. The warmth from his thigh radiated through her jeans.
She placed the laptop on her own knees, the screen dark. She angled it so they could both see.
"I'm sorry I've been keeping this from you," she said, her voice quiet but steady. She looked at him, her eyes pleading for him to understand. "I want to be open with you. I just... I needed you to know me first. Before you met... her."
Liam shifted on the sofa, turning his body toward her, his expression a mixture of deep concern and wary patience. He said nothing, just watched as her thumb hovered over the trackpad. The small, almost inaudible click as she pressed down echoed in the silent apartment like a gunshot.
The screen flickered to life.
There was no slick intro, no studio logo. The video began abruptly, shot with a stark, high-definition clarity that felt hyper-real. The scene was a tastefully decorated bedroom at night, the only light coming from a single bedside lamp. On the screen, Anya—or a version of her—was asleep in a large, comfortable bed, wearing a simple silk nightgown. She looked peaceful, innocent. The domestic tranquility was so convincing it was unsettling.
A shadow moved in the corner of the frame. The burglar—Stephen, though his face was obscured by a black balaclava—slipped into the room with a predator’s silence. He moved to the bed. In one swift, brutal motion, he was on her, a gloved hand clamping over her mouth before her eyes even fully opened.
On the sofa, Liam’s body tensed, a low, protective growl rumbling in his chest. His hand instinctively went to her thigh, his grip tightening. Anya didn't flinch; she just kept her eyes locked on the screen.
In the video, the struggle was brief and hopeless. The burglar used thick, coarse rope, not leather cuffs. He bound her wrists behind her back, then her ankles, securing them tightly to the bedposts. He gagged her with a strip of black cloth, a functional, impersonal violation. Then, methodically, he began to rob the room, tossing jewelry into a bag. He moved to a large painting, pulling it aside to reveal a wall safe. He twisted the dial, failed, and let out a frustrated grunt.
He turned back to the bed. Back to her.
He walked to the foot of the bed and looked down at her feet, which were pale and vulnerable against the dark sheets, her toes curling and uncurling in terror. He reached into his bag and pulled out a small, stiff-bristled brush.
He sat on the edge of the mattress. "I need the combination," his muffled voice said in the video. "Nod if you understand."
The on-screen Anya gave a frantic, tearful nod.
"Good girl," he said. He reached out and traced the edge of the brush handle from her heel up to the ball of her foot, a cold, clinical promise. "We can do this the easy way… or the fun way."
He didn't wait for an answer. He lowered the bristles to her right sole.
He started with a slow, agonizing scrape, dragging the stiff nylon from her heel Pad up the length of her arch.
"Mmmph! Nnnngh!" The gagged sound was sharp, a protest choked off by the cloth. Her back arched off the bed, her entire body straining against the ropes.
The burglar chuckled. "That's a reaction. Let's see what the other one does." He mirrored the motion on her left foot. The result was the same—a violent, full-body flinch.
"The numbers," he demanded, his voice low. "I'm going to start with your toes. And I am not going to stop."
He jammed the brush between her big toe and the second, sawing it back and forth.
The reaction was explosive.
"MMMPH-HAAAA-HAAAA-HMMMPH!" The sound was a wet, desperate, muffled scream of laughter. Her legs thrashed, pulling the ropes taut.
He moved the brush to the sensitive webbing of her smaller toes, scribbling with a merciless, frantic energy. Anya watched herself on the screen, a dispassionate observer to her own disintegration. She saw the tears streaming from her character's eyes, the way her chest heaved, the sheer, unadulterated panic as the relentless tickle broke through her resolve.
"STOP! HMMMMPH-HAAA-HAAAA!"
"The code!" the burglar shouted over her frantic, gagged laughter.
He abandoned the brush and used his gloved fingers, clawing at her arches, digging his thumbs into the balls of her feet. The assault was total.
"I DON'T-HMMMPH-HAAA-HAAA-KNOW!" she tried to scream, the sound dissolving into a high-pitched, hysterical wheeze.
He stopped, letting her gasp against the gag for a single, precious second. Then, he lunged again, raking all ten fingers down both soles at once.
"MMMMMPH-EEEEEE-HEEE-HEEE-HAAA!"
The on-screen Anya broke. She nodded frantically, tears and snot smearing against the black cloth. He pulled the gag down.
"32... ha-ha... 18... oh god... 44!" she sobbed, the words punctuated by ragged, painful gasps for air.
The burglar nodded, stood up, and walked back to the safe. The video held on her for another ten seconds—a broken, weeping, trembling figure tied to the bed—before it cut to black.
The apartment was silent. The only light was the soft glow of the laptop's desktop wallpaper. Anya slowly, deliberately, closed the lid. The soft click of the latch felt like a closing cell door. She placed the laptop on the couch beside her.
She turned to Liam. She was ready for anything—anger, disgust, confusion. But his face was a blank, impassive mask. He just stared at the dark screen, his hand still resting on her thigh, his thumb tracing a slow, absent circle on the denim. The silence stretched for an eternity.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was quiet, devoid of emotion.
"So," he said, turning his unreadable gaze to her. "You're a porn actress?"
The words, clinical and cold, hit her harder than any brush or fingernail. A sharp, wounded sound escaped her throat. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. "Not... not really. I mean, I don't fuck anybody. It's all… strictly tickling."
She watched his face, desperate for a flicker of understanding. "I… I both give and receive, depending on the video. The fans… they prefer to see me on the receiving end. So that's mostly what I do."
Liam was quiet for another long moment, his brow furrowed in concentration, processing. "So… no sexual stuff? Just tickling?" He looked at her, his eyes full of a strange, bewildered curiosity. "And… and guys like that?"
A sad, watery smile touched Anya’s lips. The fear began to recede, replaced by the simple, weary urge to explain. "Yes," she said softly. "It turns out there's a very big niche for people with a tickle fetish." She took a deep, shaky breath, the dam of her secrecy finally breaking. "I was cleaning his house to pay for my tuition. His name is Stephen. I found the studio in his basement by accident. He offered me an audition, and the money was… it was life-changing, Liam."
He listened, his expression softening as she spoke, the story tumbling out—the desperation, the fear, the strange empowerment. When she finished, he was no longer looking at her like a puzzle to be solved. He was just looking at her. At Anya. He reached out, his rough thumb gently wiping a tear she hadn't realized had fallen.
"Okay," he said, his voice a low, grounding rumble. "Okay. I get it."
The words hung in the air, simple, quiet, and utterly transformative. I get it.
It wasn't forgiveness, because she hadn't done anything wrong. It wasn't excitement, because he didn't share the fetish. It was acceptance. And for Anya, who had been bracing herself for the impact of judgment, the absence of that blow was enough to completely undo her.
A sound tore from her throat, a raw, ragged sob of pure, unadulterated relief. The fortress walls didn't just crack; they disintegrated into dust. She slumped forward, the tension draining from her body in a single, shuddering wave, and buried her face in his chest. She wept, not with sadness, but with the overwhelming release of a weight she hadn't realized was heavy enough to crush her.
"Thank you," she choked out, the words muffled against the soft cotton of his thermal shirt. "Oh god, Liam, thank you."
He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight against him, his large hand stroking her hair with a slow, grounding rhythm. He let her cry, holding her steady as weeks of pent-up fear and loneliness poured out of her.
"Hey," he murmured into her hair after a long moment, his voice a low, steady anchor in her storm. "It's okay. Shhh. It's okay." He waited until her sobs subsided into shaky, hitching breaths before he spoke again. "Listen to me."
He gently pulled her back so he could see her face, his rough hands cupping her tear-streaked cheeks. "I'm not going to lie and say I'm thrilled that my girlfriend gets tied up by men in masks for a living," he said, his expression completely serious. "The protective, caveman part of my brain is having a bit of a meltdown right now. But I heard what you said. You're safe. It's a performance. And as long as it's... just tickling... then I don't see the harm in it. It's a job. A weird fucking job, but a job."
A watery, hysterical giggle escaped her. "It is a weird fucking job."
"So help me understand," he said, his thumb brushing away a tear from under her eye. "Because my mind is genuinely blown right now. What… what is the appeal? For the people watching, I mean. What do they get out of it?"
It was the most beautiful question she had ever been asked. He wasn't dismissing it; he was engaging with it. He was trying to see her world through her eyes.
She took a shaky breath, the last of the sobs subsiding. "It's… it's about a few things," she began, her voice still thick. "For a lot of them, it's about the vulnerability. Seeing someone completely helpless, unable to control their own body… there's a power in that for the viewer."
"Okay," he nodded slowly, processing. "Like a BDSM thing."
"Exactly," she confirmed. "But it's also about the reaction. You can't fake a tickle response. That laughter, the screaming… it's genuine. It's a real, physical reaction that the person can't stop, and for some people, that authenticity is incredibly arousing. They know they're seeing something real, not just an actress pretending."
He was quiet, his gaze thoughtful as he absorbed the information. "And you?" he asked softly. "My girlfriend, the 'phenomenal performer'... do you enjoy it?"
The question was a test. A part of her wanted to say no, to paint herself as a reluctant victim just doing it for the money. But that would be another lie, and she was done with lies.
"Sometimes," she admitted, her voice dropping. "Not the sensation itself. It's mostly awful. But the performance… being Amethyst… there's a power in it, Liam. Being the one everyone is watching, knowing I can make them feel something just by twitching my toes... It makes me feel strong. In a strange way, it makes me feel less helpless than I ever did when I was scrubbing floors."
He didn't speak. Instead, he released her face and let his hands slide down, his gaze following. His large, warm, calloused hand settled on her right foot, which was resting on the sofa cushion. He didn't grab it or squeeze it. He just held it, his thumb stroking the instep. It wasn't the slow, firm pressure of a massage, but a lighter, more analytical touch, as if he were trying to read the history of the skin, to understand the architecture of the instrument he was holding. He looked at it not as just a foot, but as a tool of her trade, an instrument.
"So this," he said, a small, wondering smile touching his lips as he looked from her foot back to her face. "This is the star of the show?"
Anya let out a real, genuine laugh, the last of the fear finally, truly gone. "And her sister," she said, lifting her other foot onto his lap.
