Filthy Vows: My Guardian’s Obsession

The rain didn’t stop as the car climbed the final hill.

Ivy watched it streak sideways across the tinted window like it had been crying for hours. She hadn’t. Not yet.

The gate was taller than it needed to be. Black iron tipped with points, automated, and utterly silent as it creaked open to let them in. The driveway curved through thick trees, clean gravel laid down like it had never seen a single footstep.

She didn’t remember the crash. She remembered the silence after. The paperwork. The voices that buzzed around her like insects. Lawyers, bankers A and then the final name no one wanted to explain.

Victor Maddox.

Her new legal guardian.

The man who never came to the funeral, never sent condolences, never made a call. He just signed the papers and claimed her.

Ivy was nineteen. Old enough to make her own decisions. But when your parents die without a proper will, and you’re still in college with no money of your own, you don’t get choices. You get transferred. Like an object.

The car stopped.

“Miss Moore?” the driver said softly.

She didn’t answer. She stared out at the house instead.

It was a mansion, technically. Modern, sharp and cold. All glass walls and brutal black stone with slanted steel accents that made it look like a fortress built to keep the world out. Or maybe to keep someone in.

She stepped out.

The gravel crunched under her boots. The air smelled like rain and stone and pine. No one waited to greet her. No housekeeper. No staff. No Victor.

She climbed the wide steps and stood beneath the awning, shivering slightly in her wet coat. Before she could knock, the door clicked and opened by itself.

She didn’t know if that was worse.

“Hello?” she called into the vast silence.

No answer.

The entryway opened into a two story atrium with glass walls and sleek gray floors that echoed beneath her feet. Everything was black, silver, or white. Minimalist and cold.

A light flickered on at the end of the hallway.

She followed it.

Room after room passed in silent observation. Each one more sterile and controlled than the last. A sitting room with untouched books. A glass-walled dining room set for one. A kitchen that looked like it had never been used.

Then, finally, a man.

He stood in the center of the study. One hand in his pocket. The other holding a crystal tumbler of something amber and expensive. He didn’t turn to face her when she entered. He just said, “You’re late.”

Ivy bristled.

“I didn’t know I was expected at a specific time.”

He turned then.

Victor Maddox was taller than she expected. Broad-shouldered. He was dressed in black slacks and a dark gray shirt rolled up to the elbows. His sleeves revealed veins and lean muscle, like he spent more time building things with his hands than managing estates.

But it was his face that made her pulse shift.

Sharp jaw. High cheekbones. A mouth that looked like it rarely smiled. And eyes. Icy, bottomless gray that settled on her like a weight.

“You were expected at six,” he said.

“It’s raining.”

He nodded once. “The house is voice activated. You’ll need to be added to the system.”

“I didn’t know I’d need a voice to live here.”

“You need a lot of things you don’t know yet.”

Something in his voice made her fingers twitch.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he added after a beat, though the words sounded like protocol. Like he didn’t mean them and wasn’t sure why he said them at all.

She looked at him fully. “You didn’t come to the funeral.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t attend performances.”

She flinched at that. “It wasn’t a show.”

“No,” he said, finishing the drink and setting it down. “It was a tragedy. One that’s already cost enough.”

“And I’m the leftover.”

His mouth didn’t move, but his eyes did. They flicked over her from head to toe, taking in the wet coat, her messy braid, her red-rimmed eyes. She thought maybe he was going to offer her tea. Or a towel. Or a room.

Instead, he said, “Follow me.”

Ivy hesitated for one breath, then moved.

He led her through a private corridor that curved behind the central staircase. As they walked, she caught glimpses of strange things. A hallway of locked doors. Blacked-out glass. A narrow mirror that reflected her face at an odd angle.

Finally, they stopped at a door with a number code.

He pressed a sequence. The lock disengaged. The door opened.

Inside was a bedroom.

Minimalist like the rest. A king-sized bed with black sheets. A single chair in the corner. No TV. No books. No distractions.

“The room is soundproof,” he said without turning. “It locks from the outside and inside.”

She blinked. “Why would it need to lock from the outside?”

He looked at her now. Unflinching.

“In case you run.”

The door closed with a soft click behind him.

She was alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She didn’t unpack. She didn’t shower. She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall until her bones felt hollow.

Then she got up.

The door wasn’t locked thankfully.

She moved like a thief, silent and barefoot, down the same hallway he had led her through. She found the staircase and the kitchen, and then something curious. A black hallway with no windows and a slightly colder draft than the rest of the house.

At the end of it was a red-lit security panel.

Her curiosity turned to impulse.

She typed in a random number. The screen blinked. Denied.

She tried again.

On the third try, the door clicked open.

It was a surveillance room.

Four rows of monitors lined the far wall. Live feeds flickering from every angle of the house. The entry. The driveway. The kitchens. And the room she had just left.

Her room.

A red light blinked in the top right corner of the screen. She looked closer.

The camera had been on the entire time. Even now, she could see her own empty bed on the monitor, slightly ruffled from where she had sat.

Something twisted low in her stomach.

She touched the screen.

Another feed played. Older, dated a month before. It was her. In her dorm room. Folding laundry. Braless in an old shirt.

Another. A year ago. Her birthday. At a café with her parents.

She scrolled back further.

Two years ago. Sixteen. At a dance. Dress low. Laughing.

Her mouth went dry.

“I warned you not to explore.”

The voice came from behind.

Ivy turned fast.

Victor stood in the doorway. Unmoving. Not angry. Just watching.

She swallowed.

“You’ve been spying on me.”

“No.”

“You had cameras in my dorm.”

“I had cameras wherever you were,” he said calmly. “For your safety.”

“That’s not safety. That’s stalking.”

He stepped into the room.

She backed up.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t raise his voice. He just looked at her, like the calm in his voice was more terrifying than rage.

“I made myself your guardian because I couldn’t wait any longer.”

Her skin prickled.

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, stepping closer until she was against the console, “I’ve watched you from a distance for as long as I could. You were always going to end up here. With me.”

“You planned this?”

“I prepared for it.”

“You forged the guardianship?”

Silence.

That was enough.

She moved to push past him, but he caught her wrist.

“You don’t get to run.”

She tried again.

He turned her, pressed her back against the cold console. One hand on her chest, not hard, just firm. His mouth close to hers. His breath even.

“Do you know what happens to bad girls who disobey?” he whispered.

Her breath caught.

“Let go of me.”

“I’ll give you one chance, Ivy. Just one. Submit to me. Ninety days. No lies. No limits.”

She stared into his eyes.

“What if I say no?”

He smiled then. Slow. Dangerous.

“Then you’ll never know what it feels like to be owned.”

Her heart pounded in her throat.

She should slap him. Scream. Call the police.

Instead, she said, “Owned?”

His hand slid down, brushing her hip.

“Body. Mind. Soul.”

“You want a slave?”

“No,” he said, lowering his mouth near her ear. “I want you willing. I want you broken. And then I want to build you into something no one else gets to touch.”

She shuddered.

He stepped back.

“In the morning, you’ll have a choice. Sign the contract or leave. But if you sign, there is no safe word. And I will take everything.”

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t run.

She stared at the monitor behind him. Her own face reflected back in grainy grayscale.

For a moment, she imagined what she would look like on that screen the next night.

Naked.

Bound.

Begging.

Her thighs clenched.

Victor watched her from the doorway.

“You’ll decide,” he said quietly. “But you’ve already started to want it.”

The door closed behind him.

And she didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.