Amara was thirty minutes early.
Not because she wanted to impress him. Not anymore. That stage had passed. Now, it was a strategy. Arriving early meant having a moment to steel herself, to rehearse her calm before the storm. Because Leon Kane—her boss, her enigma—was anything but predictable.
She stepped into the office, heels echoing against the quiet hallway, and unlocked her desk just outside his glass-walled domain. The skyline beyond the windows was just waking, blushed with pale gold light. It should have been peaceful.
But Leon was already there.
Again.
He sat behind his desk in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. A gold watch gleamed against his wrist. He didn't look up right away, but she felt his presence as if it tugged the air between them. He was still. Focused. Dangerous.
"Morning," she said, voice even.
He finally looked up. "You're early."
"You are too."
"I'm always early."
He stood and walked toward her, each step deliberate, as though they were part of a performance only he understood. His eyes skimmed down her blouse, high-waisted skirt, and the curve of her hips.
"You followed instructions," he said, voice low.
"I wasn't aware there were instructions."
"There always are," he replied. "Most people just don't listen well enough to hear them."
Her breath hitched slightly. His eyes darkened.
He stepped past her and went to pour himself a cup of coffee. "I want you to clear my calendar for Friday evening."
She hesitated. "There's a finance review with the board."
"Move it."
"To when?"
He turned and gave her a look. "That's your problem now, isn't it?"
She bit the inside of her cheek and nodded.
He sipped. "And bring me the Lakeview contract. I want your notes on it. Highlight the weak points."
"Yes, Mr. Kane."
His gaze lingered. "You say that very well."
"What?"
"'Mr. Kane.' The way your voice softens at the end. I wonder if you know you do that."
She turned away, choosing not to answer, even as heat flared in her chest.
—
By noon, the office was alive with pressure. Deals, calls, meetings—all whirling around Leon like a storm he refused to shield anyone from. Amara kept pace, matching his clipped sentences with sharper execution.
But nothing prepared her for the note.
It appeared on her desk at exactly 2:15 p.m.—a cream card in thick paper, embossed with gold letters. Simple. Elegant. No envelope.
Conference Room B. 2:30.
No signature. No context. But she didn't need either.
She knocked at exactly 2:30.
"Come in."
Leon stood at the far end of the room, beside a floor-to-ceiling window, hands clasped behind his back. The sun threw golden light against the floor, but his face was in shadow.
She closed the door behind her.
"You asked for me?"
He didn't move. "You're doing well."
"Thank you."
"Don't interrupt."
She froze.
He turned now, slowly, his eyes unreadable. "You follow directions. You adapt quickly. You know how to be quiet, and you understand boundaries. That's rare."
Amara said nothing. She wasn't sure what he wanted yet. But her pulse had already quickened.
He stepped toward her, stopping just close enough that the space between them hummed.
"I expect loyalty," he said. "And control."
"You have both," she replied, steady.
He nodded slowly. "We're entering a new phase."
Her breath caught. "What kind of phase?"
"The kind with rules."
"Rules?"
He reached into his blazer and pulled out another envelope. This time, black, sealed with wax.
"Read this," he said. "Tonight. Alone. Don't sign it unless you're sure."
He walked past her without another word, leaving only silence and the faint scent of cologne.
—
Amara didn't open it until midnight.
She sat on her bed, fingers trembling slightly as she broke the seal. Inside were two sheets of paper—typed, clinical, impersonal. And yet, she felt as though she were reading something forbidden.
---
Rules of Engagement – Private Contract Between Leon Kane and Amara Okoye
1. All instructions must be followed without hesitation during designated times.
2. Outside of designated hours, professional boundaries remain in place.
3. Safe words will be agreed upon. Consent may be withdrawn at any time.
4. No public discussions. No emotional entanglements unless stated.
5. Full honesty. No secrets.
Optional clause: If the submissive desires, the dominant may choose to explore emotional and personal territories beyond the initial agreement.
---
Her mouth was dry.
She read it twice. Then a third time.
It wasn't just about sex. It was about trust. Control. Willing surrender. And something deeper—buried in the optional clause. If the submissive desires... The power, it seemed, was never only his.
But she couldn't stop wondering: What did he desire?
—
The next morning, she placed the unsigned document on his desk.
He looked at it but didn't touch it. "You're not ready."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't need to."
He tapped the folder once, then looked up, his expression unreadable. "I don't want obedience. I want submission. There's a difference."
"Explain it."
"Obedience is about fear. Submission is about choice."
She stared at him, heart beating like a war drum. "And if I choose?"
He leaned forward. "Then everything changes."
—
That evening, she was about to leave when he called her name.
"Dinner," he said.
"I thought I wasn't ready."
"You're not. But I'm hungry."
They walked side by side down to the underground garage. His driver waited silently, opening the door to the sleek black car.
Inside, the silence stretched thick between them.
He glanced at her. "You didn't ask me what's on the menu."
"I assumed you'd choose."
He smiled slightly. "I always choose."
The restaurant was even darker than the last one. Black walls, candles, velvet booths. He ordered for them both without asking.
"Wine?" he asked.
She nodded.
He poured.
"You should know," he said quietly, "I don't mix business with pleasure."
She sipped. "That's what this is? Business?"
He leaned in. "Not yet. But I don't do casual, Amara. I don't do mess. If I take something—I own it. I control it."
"And what if it wants to be free?"
"Then it walks away."
Their eyes locked.
Neither of them moved.
The food came and went, untouched.
—
Outside, the night was cool. The city was still loud, but muffled from the inside of the car. He didn't speak as the driver pulled into traffic.
Then, softly: "You haven't asked me why I chose you."
She looked at him. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because I think you'll tell me when you're ready."
He reached out suddenly, brushing her hand with his. A test. She didn't pull away.
"I chose you," he said, "because you want control. But you don't trust yourself with it. You want someone to take it away, just enough to make you feel safe."
Her breath trembled.
"And you?" she whispered. "What do you want?"
His thumb traced the line of her wrist. "To earn your surrender."
—
Back in her apartment, she stared at the folder on her desk.
Then she picked up a pen.
Signed.
Folded it.
And slipped it into her bag.
Tomorrow, she would give it to him.
Tomorrow, the game would begin.