Chapter 2: The Estate

The drive to the Hamptons took two hours and it felt like I was crossing into some other country—one with no cell service, no witnesses, and a private security gate that only rolled open after they scanned my license plate twice, the red laser sliding over my rental like a hungry tongue. The estate was at the end of a crushed-shell drive lined with black pines, and their needles brushed the windshield as I coasted to a stop. The Atlantic stretched out past the dunes, a dull pewter sheet under a sky that was bruised violet and ink. October here smelled of salt and woodsmoke and something metallic—ozone maybe, or the tight knot of anticipation in my gut.

The main house was all glass and cedar, and it stuck out over the bluff like it was daring the ocean to grab it. Floodlights tucked in the dunes painted the front in shifting blues and golds, and the reflection rippled across the infinity pool that spilled toward the horizon. Inside, the air was warmer than the night outside, with heated stone under my feet and cedar walls giving off resin and money. A lone staff guy—white gloves, no name tag, face smooth as porcelain—popped up from a side hall. He took my keys and my phone and my duffel with the same quiet speed, and his fingers brushed mine just long enough to feel on purpose.

“Mr. and Mrs. Carter are in the studio,” he said, voice clipped and British, and he was gone before I could ask where that was or why my pulse was already racing.

I found them in a glass-walled room that stuck out over the cliff like a birdcage for gods. The floor was heated basalt, and the ceiling was a retractable skylight open to the bleeding sky. Damian stood behind a carbon-fiber tripod, and he was tweaking a Profoto strobe with the care of a surgeon. Seraphina lounged on a low, wide chaise of pale oak, and she wore nothing but black silk rope—shibari, top-notch, the knots fancy and mean-pretty. They framed her tits like gifts, squeezed her waist to a breath-stealing hourglass, and vanished between her thighs in a diamond pattern that ended in a single red ribbon: the quick-release, a teasing promise of mercy.

“Morning, Lena,” Damian said without looking up, and his voice carried over the low hiss of the fireplace built, I mean the fireplace built into the glass wall. “Lose the clothes. We’re shooting the sunrise series.”

I hesitated just a second. The job. The six-figure wire already in my account. The memory of last night still slick between my legs, and their taste still on my tongue like a brand. I stripped—jeans kicked off, sweater tossed, bra and panties following until I stood barefoot on the warm stone, and gooseflesh rose despite the heat. Seraphina’s storm-gray eyes tracked every inch, hungry and amused, already owning me.

Damian handed me a Leica M11, matte black, heavier than mine, and its grip felt molded for my hand. “Natural light only. Move with her. Don’t think—just feel the frame.”

I lifted the camera. The shutter sounded different here—cleaner and sharper, like the ocean had swallowed the city’s noise and spit back something purer. Seraphina shifted, and the silk rope creaked softly, the knots pulling tighter as she arched her back, tits lifting, the red ribbon fluttering. Damian circled, and he adjusted a knot at her hip, his knuckles brushing the inside of her thigh real slow. She exhaled—a soft, deliberate sound that went straight to my core, and it pooled heat low in my belly.

“Closer,” he said, voice rougher now. “Get the tension in the rope. The way it bites.”

I knelt, lens inches from her skin. The rope left faint pink lines, and her pulse fluttered beneath like a trapped bird. Click. Click. The basalt was warm against my knees, and the ocean’s roar was a distant heartbeat. Seraphina’s hand found my hair, fingers threading and guiding—not forcing—until my mouth hovered over the knot between her legs, the silk damp with her arousal. “Taste the restraint,” she whispered, and her voice was a blade wrapped in velvet.

I did. Salt and silk and her—musky, sharp, addictive. The camera hung forgotten around my neck, and its strap cut into my skin as Damian’s hands settled on my hips from behind. I hadn’t heard him undress, but his cock was already hard against my ass, hot and insistent. “Keep shooting,” he growled, and he slid into me in one slow, relentless thrust that stole my breath. The Leica’s weight pulled at my neck as I braced one hand on the chaise, and the shutter fired blind, capturing Seraphina’s face as she watched us—eyes hooded, lips parted, rope pulling tighter with every rock of my hips.

The sunrise bled across the glass, and it painted us in molten gold and crimson, the skylight framing the scene like a living painting. Damian’s rhythm was merciless, and each thrust pushed me deeper into Seraphina’s heat, her fingers tangled in my hair, guiding my tongue in slow, filthy circles. The rope creaked, and her thighs trembled. When she came, it was with a low, broken moan that vibrated through the silk and through me, her release flooding my mouth as the red ribbon fluttered loose.

Damian followed, and he spilled inside me with a curse that cracked the air, his grip bruising my hips, anchoring me as the world tilted. Seraphina wasn’t finished—her mouth replaced mine, and she licked me clean with slow, deliberate strokes, shuddering through her second release as Damian’s fingers worked her from behind, knuckles white against the rope. The camera captured it all—blurred and frantic and perfect.

We stayed tangled and breathless, sweat cooling on our skin, the fire dying to embers, and the ocean’s roar filling the silence. Seraphina untied herself with quick flicks, and the rope pooled like liquid obsidian at her feet, her body unmarked except for the faint pink lines that would fade by lunch. Damian pulled out, leaving me empty and aching, and the Leica was still clutched in my white-knuckled hand, its memory card heavy with evidence.

“Breakfast on the terrace,” he said, voice calm again, as if he hadn’t just fucked me over a cliff. He dressed in silence—black linen shirt, no buttons, trousers that hung low on his hips. Seraphina slipped into a sheer white robe, and the rope marks showed beneath like a secret signature. I dressed slower, legs trembling, and the basalt was warm under my bare feet as I followed them out.

The terrace stuck out over the dunes, and a glass table was already set with silver and bone china, coffee steaming in porcelain cups thin enough to read through. The staff guy reappeared, and he poured orange juice the color of fresh blood, his eyes never meeting mine. I sat, the chair cool against my thighs, and the ocean wind was sharp with salt. Damian reviewed the Leica’s screen, and he nodded at frames—Seraphina’s arched back, my mouth on the rope, the blur of my hips against his. “Good,” he said. “Raw. We’ll use these for the private collection.”

Private collection. The words landed like a stone in my stomach. Seraphina sipped her coffee, and she watched me over the rim. “You’ll stay the week,” she said, not a question. “The guest wing is yours. No distractions.”

I nodded, throat dry, and the juice was untouched. After breakfast, the staff guy returned my phone—screen locked, battery at 89%. A single text waited from an unknown number: Get out. They’re not who they seem. –R I slipped into the guest wing, a simple suite of white oak and linen, and the bed was huge, the bathroom a cave of marble and steam. My duffel waited on a luggage rack—unzipped, contents rearranged with perfect care. My laptop sat open on the desk, and the screen was dark. I glanced up: a tiny red dot blinked in the ceiling corner, a camera, live, and its lens stared without blinking. They’d been watching before I even got here—maybe since the penthouse, maybe longer.

I closed the laptop, heart pounding, and the ocean crashed below like a warning. The rope’s faint imprint still warmed my skin, Damian’s release still slick between my thighs, and Seraphina’s taste lingered on my tongue. The shoot had barely started—and the trap was already set, the gate behind me locked, the cliff at my back