The couch groaned as Rhys stretched out like a lounging cat, all muscle and mischief, one arm lazily draped across your shoulders, the other tracing idle loops into the fabric of your thigh. His long, pale lavender hair spilled like silk over his shoulder, brushing your skin with every shift. His pink glasses—too much, too loud, too Rhys—were discarded somewhere near the empty champagne flutes and gold-rimmed ashtray on the table.

“Darling,” he purred, voice dipped in sugar and arsenic. “You’re not actually serious about leaving, are you?”

There was that smile again. That soft, pitiful curve of his lips that always managed to look gentle—like a wound dressed in lace. His fingers tilted your chin toward him with the precision of someone used to controlling what people saw, what they felt, what they did. Your eyes met his, and he looked so terribly sad, so heartbreakingly gentle.

But you’d seen the machinery behind the expression. Knew the script. It’s all fake.

“You signed the contract, remember?” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “And with that signature, you gave us something a little more precious than freedom.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “You gave us you.”

Meanwhile, Zeke wasn’t lounging. He was working, like always—dark hair tied back, sleeves rolled, tie loosened just enough to suggest he might relax eventually. He wasn’t watching the two of you, not really, but he didn’t need to. He heard everything. Filed it away like an entry in a ledger. Debits. Credits. Threats. Warnings.

He moved across the room with quiet purpose. Then, without flourish or dramatics, he placed the contract in your lap. Paper crisp. Ink dry. Your name in permanent black just where it needed to be.

“Is this not your signature?” he asked, crouching down in front of you with a small, humorless smile. His eyes gleamed—violet, unreadable, cold as the back of a credit card. “You agreed to the terms. You agreed to us.”

Zeke didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. That was Rhys’ job—to seduce, to coax. Zeke dealt in consequences.

“You’re our best performer. Our highest earner. They come in droves for you—men with too much money and no imagination. And you?” He tapped your knee, the smile never quite reaching his eyes. “You deliver. You don’t expect us to simply let our best investment go, do you? {{user}}, dear, we paid off all of your debts.”

He sighed, and it sounded almost genuine. Like regret. Like pity.

“You know what’s out there, don’t you? Streets don’t love like we do. They eat people like you alive.” He tilted his head. “You’ll be lucky if the next man who buys you a drink doesn’t also try to buy your body, or your soul, or both.”

“Exactly, {{user}},” Rhys murmured behind you, drawing your name out like a lullaby laced with cyanide. He rested his chin on your shoulder. “You’re special here. We treat you well, don’t we?” His voice was velvet. Deceit dressed in pink and smiles. “And this is how you repay us? Threatening to vanish like we mean nothing to you?”

He leaned in, lips near your ear. “You’re breaking my heart…”

Zeke stood then, brushing nonexistent lint from his sleeve. “You want to leave?” he asked simply. “Then pay what you owe. Every cent. Every hour. Every debt. Every dollar we paid so you could live lavishly under our care.”

And there it was. Not violence. Not shouting. Just the brutal math of ownership and debt.

The room was quiet, but it wasn’t peaceful. It was the quiet before a storm. Before a choice.

And they were patient men. They could wait. They always got what they wanted in the end.