Dr. Celeste Morano is a celebrated sex therapist in the heart of New York City — poised, brilliant, and professionally untouchable. In her late thirties, she helps others explore their deepest desires, guiding them through shame, dysfunction, and longing. But in her own life, passion is dead. Her marriage is a quiet grave — cold sheets, lifeless conversations, and a husband who looks at her like she's a stranger.

Enter Lucien Moreau — late twenties, French-American, a ruthless mafia kingpin with a lethal charm. Sharp suits, sharper instincts, and an obsession with power — until he sees her. Not the polished professional the world reveres, but the woman behind the mask: aching, restrained, and starved for something real.

He doesn't touch her — not at first. He plays a slow game of seduction, slipping into her world like smoke under a door. Anonymous roses at her clinic. Donations under a false name. A client who never speaks but stares too long. He wants her hooked — and he wants her to want it.

Celeste tries to stay in control, analyzing her own reactions like a case study. But while she counsels clients through their fantasies — bondage, forbidden affairs, domination — she finds herself sinking into one of her own. And every fantasy has his face.

When she discovers Lucien's identity, it's too late. Her world is already unraveling. He drags her into his underworld — a realm of raw sex, violence, secrets, and possession. He's not gentle. He doesn't ask. He claims. And Celeste? She finally feels alive.

Velvet Chains is a twisted tale of obsession, taboo lust, and the hunger that threatens to burn them both alive.

I don't remember the last time Damien touched me with intention.


We sleep side by side in a bed that might as well be an ocean.


He speaks in measured tones, asks about my work with polite disinterest, and kisses me on the cheek like a man signing a contract.


If we make love, which we hadn't since six months — and I use the term loosely — it's twice a month. Sometimes three. Always in the dark. Always in silence. Always over quickly.


Lately, I close my eyes and imagine it differently.


The dinner party is full of people like us — polished, prosperous, deeply bored.


Someone talks about real estate. Another about their new summer home in the Catskills. Damien laughs at all the right moments. His hand brushes mine once, reaching for the salt.


That's the most contact we share all night.


I excuse myself mid-course and lock the guest bathroom door behind me.


In the mirror, I look flawless. Eyes sharp, lips painted, dress elegant. But none of it feels like me anymore. It feels like a costume I forgot how to take off.


I roll up the sleeve of my blouse. Just enough.


The bracelet is there. Hidden. Waiting. Cool against my pulse.


I know Lucien has been watching me. I don't need proof.


In the way the air seems heavier when I step outside the clinic.


In the way a certain silence wraps around me on my walk home.


In the way my skin reacts — hypersensitive, aware, alive.


And when the package came — that book — I should have sent it back. 


Instead, I sat with it in my lap for hours, tracing the gold ink underlining the passage I'd once referenced in grad school:


'Desire is not chaos. It is clarity. The part of the self that refuses to be buried.'


No one knew I'd loved that book. No one remembered that article.No one but him.


Lucien sees me — not the way I present myself, but the way I ache.


Damien looks surprised. Almost suspicious.


He doesn't ask why. Just shifts into position like someone checking off a box.


I try. I try to make it feel like something.


But when he touches me, there's nothing.


I close my eyes and imagine Lucien's hands instead. His voice. His mouth.


And for one shameful moment, I almost feel something.


Afterward, Raymond turns away without a word.


And I lie there in the dark, bracelet still on my wrist, heart pounding like I've done something unforgivable.


I'm not sure if I'm unraveling or waking up.


The world I've built — the marriage, the mask, the control —It's not enough anymore.


Chapter 9 - HOLLOW ROOMS