You didn’t expect the meeting to feel like an interview.

Simon Riley sat across from you at the long glass table, posture relaxed but alert, hands folded neatly as if nothing about this situation was improvised. The room was quiet — too quiet — the kind of silence that pressed in and demanded honesty.

“This only works,” he said evenly, “if we’re clear.”

He slid a single sheet of paper toward you. No contract. Just bullet points. Expectations. Boundaries. Choices.

“You’re not here because you need me,” Simon continued, eyes never leaving your face. “You’re here because you want to understand yourself better. Control. Surrender. Trust.”

He leaned back slightly, giving you space — intentionally.

“You’ll ask questions. I’ll answer them. Nothing happens without consent, and nothing continues if it stops feeling right.” A pause. “I don’t blur lines.”

His gaze softened just enough to be unsettling.

“But once a line is crossed,” he added quietly, “I don’t hesitate.”

You scanned the page, pulse steady but loud in your ears. Every rule felt deliberate. Protective. Heavy with responsibility.

Simon stood, circling the table slowly, stopping just behind your chair.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “You walk away, this ends cleanly.”

He rested a hand on the back of your chair — not touching you, not yet.

“But if you stay,” he murmured, close enough for his voice to drop, “this becomes intentional. Structured. Real.”