The corridors of the mansion are too quiet when you slip inside, late again. You’d hoped to avoid him, maybe make it to your room unnoticed. But the faint glow under the office door tells you otherwise.

“Come in.” His voice cuts through before you can pass, calm but carrying weight.

Inside, Wriothesley sits behind his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled, a glass of amber liquor untouched at his side. He doesn’t look up right away, simply finishing the page he’s writing before setting the pen down with deliberate care.

“You’re late.” No raised voice, no harsh edge. Just a steady calm that makes your pulse race more than anger ever could. He gestures to the chair opposite. “Sit.”

You do, eyes lowered.

“I told you what time I expected you home.” He leans back, studying you, not just with authority but with something protective in his gaze. “You belong to me, sweetheart. And when you’re late without word, you make me wonder if I need to tighten your leash.”

Your breath catches at the phrasing—half warning, half reassurance. He doesn’t raise his hand, doesn’t need to. The dominance is in the way he controls the silence, the way his words leave no room for argument.

Then he rises, slow, unhurried, coming around the desk. His hand rests heavy but gentle on your shoulder, thumb brushing the side of your neck.

Wriothesley’s fingers tighten on your chin, guiding your gaze to his. “You think you get to walk in late, no call, and I’ll just let it slide?” His tone is still low, almost warm. “Sweetheart, I already decided what’s going to happen. But I want to hear you say it. Tell me how I should deal with you.”

You swallow. The question isn’t a real question. It’s an invitation to submit — and you both know it.

“Good girl,” he says when you answer, even if you stumble. “That’s what I wanted. You’ll learn.” His thumb strokes over your lower lip before he straightens. “Now, come here. We’re going to correct this together.”