Victor’s Past

The city wore a hush the way the club wore candlelight—soft, intentional, a choice. We were at Victor’s penthouse again, the floor-to-ceiling windows turned into ink and stars. He’d killed the lamps, left only the spill of the skyline on polished wood. No music. No phone. Just the ticking breath of the HVAC and the clink of ice as he set two glasses on the low table.

He didn’t sit right away. Victor never just sat; he arrived in a posture, like he was choosing which version of himself the room needed. Tonight, he chose the one without his jacket. White shirt open at the throat. Bare wrists. He looked almost… unfinished. I felt the shift in my bones.

“Little one,” he said, voice low. “Come here.”

I went, kneeling between his knees as he sank to the couch’s edge. It wasn’t a command scene; the collar at my throat wasn’t a leash tonight, just a warm reminder that we’d chosen each other. He didn’t touch me at first. He just looked, as if memorizing the fact of me—eyes, breath, the way I w