Chapter 7: The Weakness

The Weakness

Leo Pov

The library smelled oppressively of aged paper and new, expensive leather, and the scent felt too heavy, too solid for me to breathe properly. We were supposed to be reviewing the final draft of the Thorne Legacy Foundation grant, but the discussion had been hijacked the moment Arthur Volkov stepped out to take a "critical international call." Now, I was the one under critical evaluation.

“Functionally, the proposal is sound, Leo,” Ivan stated, dismissing the hundred hours of work with a flick of his wrist as he set the document down. His tone was not critical, but profoundly unimpressed. “But it lacks a certain necessary disclosure. It doesn’t showcase the raw, compelling vulnerability that draws the deepest investment.”

I felt the familiar heat of defensive anger. “Vulnerability is not a metric for investment, Ivan. We are seeking professional funding, not sentimental contributions.”

Dmitri remained perfectly still in the high-backed leather chair, a statue carved from cold focus. He simply observed the exchange, and his silence was a concentrated form of intimidation.

“Ah, but vulnerability is the purest form of art,” Ivan countered smoothly, leaning forward until the polished mahogany desk felt like it was shrinking beneath his arms. “It’s the moment the subject gives up the pretense of strength and lets the audience see the precise point of fracture. And you, Leo, are a study in hidden fracture points.”

My breath hitched—a tiny, involuntary gasp I immediately tried to choke down. He was using my language, the language of the gallery and the canvas, to talk about my sexual humiliation.

“I have no idea what you are implying,” I articulated, trying to sound aloof, but my voice was too tight. I pushed my chair back an inch, a meaningless physical retreat.

Ivan’s smile was chillingly knowing. “Of course you do. I’m implying that your most profound work, your truest expression, is entirely non-visual. It’s acoustic. Specifically, the moment your resistance finally collapses. Dmitri, do you recall the precise pitch?”

Dmitri finally moved, a slow, deliberate tilt of his head toward the light. His eyes, cold and absolute, met mine. “The initial frequency was one of sharp surprise, transitioning quickly to a low, insistent plea. A sound of unforced admission. Very efficient.”

Shame, potent and immediate, flooded my system. They were cataloging me, reducing the single most desperate, chaotic night of my life to data points and recorded sound. My hands tightened on the chair arms, my knuckles aching with the strain of holding myself together.

“You are crossing every boundary,” I whispered, forcing the words out. “That night was a mistake. A regrettable lapse in judgment.”

“But we have every right to discuss the terms of our contract, Leo,” Ivan said, his voice dropping to a low, magnetic hum. He slowly extended his hand, not touching me, but placing his index finger on the desk, precisely two millimeters from the skin of my wrist. “That night wasn’t a lapse; it was the signing of the true ledger. Your body told us the profound truth your mouth still screams to deny.”

I focused intently on anything at that moment, trying to block out his voice, trying to deny the immediate heat that was spreading through me just from his nearness.

“You fight so hard to suppress the noise, don’t you?” Ivan continued, his gaze unwavering. “Every sound you try to withhold is merely evidence of the internal argument. That small, desperate moan you tried to swallow right at the end? That was the loudest confirmation of all.”

I squeezed my jaw shut, clenching my teeth. He’s right. I hate that I responded to their demands. I hate that I want them to impose that control again. The disgust I felt for them warred violently with the sickening pulse of heat in my core.

“Stop this. We need to focus on the foundation,” I argued, trying desperately to pull the conversation back to safety.

“No,” Dmitri stated, sharp and absolute. He hadn't moved, but the single word was a total shutdown of my objection. “We will focus on the integration process. Your denial is a logistical error.”

Ivan smiled, a flicker of wicked triumph in his eyes at his brother's intervention. He then swiftly enclosed my wrist with his hand. The touch was firm, not cruel, but intensely possessive. I gasped, a tiny, shallow sound and instinctively tried to yank my arm away, but his grip was instantly non-negotiable.

“You’re trembling,” Ivan noted, his eyes scanning my face, documenting my struggle. “You’re trying to hide the physical reaction. Trying to restrict your breathing so we don’t hear the shameful evidence.” He gently moved his thumb to the sensitive vein on the underside of my wrist, pressing down with calculated assurance.

I tried to turn my head away, tried to pull my trapped wrist toward my body, but the effort only made my muscles lock. My chest rose and fell rapidly, but the air felt trapped, unable to escape with a sound.

“That shallow, panicked breathing? That is the sound of your denial fracturing,” Ivan whispered, leaning so close I could feel the cool air from his breath. “You despise us. You hate our coldness and our control. But you cannot deny the physical language. It overrides all your intellect and your morals. It screams, 'Yes. Claim me. Now.'”

The pleasure, unwanted and terrifying, was immediate. A molten wave that started from the pressure point under his thumb and spread outward, dissolving my fear into need. I hated him for knowing exactly how to touch me, for knowing exactly what to say to make me feel the submission.

“Let go,” I pleaded, the word barely a rasp.

“Not yet,” Dmitri murmured from the corner, his voice low and utterly dominant, a counterpoint to Ivan's intimacy. “We need the full report on the asset’s response metrics.”

Ivan’s eyes gleamed with triumphant malice. He held the connection for another agonizing second, watching the tears of shame and frustration sting my eyes, watching the way my resistance dissolved into the frantic, silent language of desire.

Then, he released my wrist abruptly, leaving my skin cold and tingling with abandonment. He picked up his tablet and returned to his previous position, his tone instantly corporate and sterile.

“You see, Leo,” Ivan finished, leaning back in his chair with casual confidence. “We do not require your verbal consent to establish the terms of engagement. Your body already executed the contract. And trust me, the dividend on this high-value acquisition is going to be extensive and utterly non-negotiable.”

I sat there, gasping silently, my heart hammering against my ribs, a choked sound stuck in my throat. I couldn't deny it. No matter how much I loathed their calculated cruelty, the raw, undeniable rush of pleasure they unlocked was a profound weakness I couldn't possibly fight.

I am trapped. And the key to the ca

ge is already in their hands.