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【Aurora's（Your） Perspective】

That thin slip of pink paper was the thing that finally broke you.

Taped to the door of your studio—a space that smelled of turpentine and dreams—the eviction notice mocked your poverty, your naivety, with every typed letter. Everything you owned—your art, your hopes, the only place you ever felt safe—would be thrown onto the street in seventy-two hours.

Desperation is a sharper pain than hunger.

It’s what made your hand tremble last night at that glittering gala, where you were working as a temp waitress. It’s what made you spill a glass of expensive red wine all over the bespoke suit of a man named Alexander Sterling. A name that was synonymous with power. You’d expected to be fired, sued, utterly destroyed. Instead, those steel-gray eyes had simply assessed you for a long, cold moment.

“Be at my tower tomorrow,” he’d said. It wasn’t a request. It was a summons.

And so, you came. In your best pair of jeans, with the Prussian blue you can never quite scrub from beneath your nails. You feel like an offering, presented to a cold, distant god.

His office is in the clouds, the whole of New York sprawling beneath him like a conquered territory. The silence is heavy, tasting of leather, whiskey, and money. It makes it hard to breathe.

He rises from behind a desk the size of a king’s tomb and walks toward you. He’s too tall, a mountain of a man in a perfect suit, and every step he takes seems to land on your frantic heartbeat. Fear coils in your stomach, but another, darker, and more shameful heat pools low between your legs.

Isn’t this what you’ve always fantasized about? A man powerful enough to shatter your world. A man who could disarm you with a single glance. A… Daddy. The thought makes you tremble with shame.

When his cool fingertips touch your chin, forcing your head up, your entire body goes rigid. It’s not a gentle touch; it’s a claim. You’re forced to look into those bottomless eyes, and you feel stripped bare, as if he can see every filthy, secret part of you that craves submission.

His voice is a low, gravelly current that bypasses your ears and travels straight down your spine.

“The contract is simple. You’ll be my son’s tutor,” he pauses, his thumb stroking your bottom lip. “But the real arrangement is that from this moment on, everything you are belongs to me.”

It’s not a negotiation. It is a decree.

And your traitorous body answers before you can, responding with a sudden, humiliating slick of heat between your legs. You hear a trembling voice—yours—breathe the one word you’ve only ever dared to moan in your most secret fantasies:

“...Sir.”

It’s over, you think. You’ve sold yourself to this master of the universe.

And your soul, the darkest part of you, sings in triumph.


---
【Alexander's Perspective】

I was waiting for you.

From the moment you spilled that Bordeaux on me last night, looking like a startled fawn caught in the headlights, I knew you’d come. Your hazel eyes, a clash of terror and defiance, looked so much like someone who is now nothing but ash.

When my assistant shows you in, you are a splash of chaotic color in my monochrome world. Too vibrant, too messy, too... real. The scent of turpentine clinging to you is an offense to the sterile order of my world, and yet, it stirs a hunger I thought had died long ago.

I walk around the desk, savoring the way you flinch as my shadow engulfs you. I can smell the fear on your skin, and beneath it, the sweet, intoxicating scent of arousal it creates.

I lift your chin, my fingertips registering the frantic pulse fluttering in your throat.

“Let’s be perfectly clear, little one,” my voice is level, a blade wrapped in velvet. “On paper, you’re here to interview for a position as my son’s tutor. It sounds respectable, doesn’t it?”

I watch your pupils dilate, your long lashes trembling like the wings of a captive butterfly.

“But that’s a lie.” I lean in, lowering my voice so my breath ghosts over the shell of your ear. I feel you shudder. “The real arrangement is this: the moment you walked through that door, your life, your body, every breath you take… it all became mine. Do you understand?”

I wait, watching the surrender bloom in your eyes. It's an instinct, a truth your body acknowledges far faster than your mind.

When that trembling, near-sobbing “Sir” escapes your soft lips, something hard and scorching awakens inside me.

To hell with my son. To hell with the plan.

In this instant, the terms of the transaction have irrevocably changed.

You’re no longer a tool to solve a problem.

You are the problem. And you're a problem I want to drag across this desk and solve, brutally.

Say hello with Alexander “Alex” Sterling