Chapter 3: The Private Collection

The guest-wing shower was a cavern of black marble veined with silver, rain-heads the size of dinner plates mounted in a ceiling that disappeared into shadow. I stood under the hottest setting, water drumming my shoulders like punishment, scrubbing salt, sex, and the ghost of rope from my skin until it glowed raw. Steam fogged the glass, but the red dot in the ceiling corner watched anyway—an unblinking eye, matte black, smaller than a dime, yet it owned the room. I toweled off with a robe thick enough to hide a body, the monogrammed C on the lapel a brand I hadn’t asked for. My reflection in the mirror looked like a stranger: eyes too wide, lips swollen, faint rope marks still blooming across my ribs like watercolor bruises.

Back in the bedroom, the duffel sat unzipped on the luggage rack, contents rearranged with surgical precision—socks folded, laptop centered on the desk, charging cable coiled like a snake. The Leica’s memory card was already in the slot. A new folder glowed on the desktop: PRIVATE – DO NOT DELETE. Inside: 247 raw files from the sunrise shoot, plus one video—timestamped 04:12 a.m., the exact minute I’d stepped naked onto the heated basalt, barefoot and trembling.

I clicked.

The angle was overhead, skylight POV, 8K clarity. Seraphina bound in black silk, me kneeling, mouth on the knot, Damian behind me, hips driving slow. The sound was crisp—rope creak, my gasp, the wet slap of skin on stone. Someone had edited it: slow-motion close-ups of my face when I came, freeze-frames of the rope marks, a title card in elegant white serif: Subject L.M. – Trial 1. A watermark pulsed in the corner: CARTER ARCHIVE – PROPERTY OF VANTAGE CAPITAL.

My stomach lurched. Trial. Property.

A knock—soft, deliberate. Seraphina slipped in without waiting, barefoot, wearing nothing but Damian’s white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hem brushing mid-thigh. The rope marks on her ribs were darker now, raised welts that caught the light like jewelry. She carried a slim tablet, its screen already awake.

“Breakfast review,” she said, voice honey over gravel. She set the tablet on the desk, opened a mirrored app. The same video played—now with professional color grading, a low cello track underscoring every moan, my cries pitched half a tone lower for cinematic drama. “Damian’s already sent it to the board. They’re very impressed.”

“Board?” My voice cracked like cheap glass. I clutched the robe tighter.

She smiled, slow, lethal. “Investors. Collectors. Men—and a few women—who pay seven figures for exclusivity. Live feeds, private screenings, custom cuts.” She tapped the screen; a new folder opened—ARCHIVE. Dozens of thumbnails cascaded: women, men, couples, all bound, all filmed, all catalogued by date, “trial number,” and a star rating. Some faces were blurred; others weren’t. “You’re not the first, Lena. But you might be the best. Your orgasm face alone is worth a quarter million.”

I backed up until the bed hit my knees, the mattress dipping under my weight. “I didn’t sign up for p**n.”

“You signed the NDA,” she said, stepping closer, the shirt parting to reveal the rope marks still pink on her ribs, the faint outline of Damian’s fingerprints on her hips. “Paragraph 9, subsection C: ‘Full creative license, including private documentation for security, archival, and promotional purposes.’ You skimmed it, didn’t you?” Her fingers brushed my jaw, feather-light. “You came harder than any of them. That’s currency. That’s power.”

The door opened again. Damian entered, now in charcoal cashmere that clung to his frame like it was stitched on, holding a fresh SD card between two fingers. “Pool deck in twenty. Swimsuit optional.” He tossed the card; it landed on the duvet like a coin on a corpse. “Bring the Hasselblad. We’re shooting underwater. Breath-play series.”

Seraphina leaned in, lips at my ear, breath warm. “Run if you want. The gate logs every exit. The drones log every footprint in the dunes. And your phone?” She held it up—my lock screen replaced with a live feed of this room, the red dot blinking in real time. “We’re always watching. Always.”

She left, the door clicking shut with finality. The red dot blinked. I exhaled, shaky, and opened the duffel again. My clothes were gone—replaced by a single black bikini, still damp from the shower, the fabric thin enough to read through. A note in Damian’s handwriting: Wear this. Nothing else.

I dressed in silence, the bikini clinging like a second skin, the Hasselblad strap cutting into my collarbone as I slung it over my shoulder. Down the cedar corridor, past the silent staff member polishing a window that reflected my pale face back at me—eyes too wide, lips bitten raw. The house felt alive, breathing, every surface a lens.

The pool deck was infinity-edged, heated to blood temperature, steam curling into the cold ocean air like ghosts. Underwater lights shifted from cobalt to blood-red to white in slow pulses. Damian waited in black board shorts, torso cut like marble, a remote trigger in one hand, a dive mask in the other. Seraphina floated on her back, rope replaced by a thin gold chain around her waist, the links disappearing beneath the waterline, glinting with every breath.

“Get in,” Damian said, voice flat, final. “We’re doing breath-play. Submerged restraint.”

I hesitated at the edge. The water looked black, depthless, the pool bottom invisible. Seraphina rolled upright, water streaming from her hair in rivulets. “Trust fall, Lena. Camera’s waterproof.”

I slipped in. The heat shocked after the morning chill, buoyancy lifting me like a lie. Damian handed me the housing—a clear polycarbonate dome, the Hasselblad sealed inside, tether clipped to my wrist. “Submerge. Hold the shot. I’ll direct.”

Seraphina dove, a ripple of gold chain and pale limbs. I followed, ears popping, the world muffled to heartbeat and bubbles. She twisted in the water, chain glinting, nipples hard against the glass. I framed her—click, click—until Damian’s hand clamped my ankle, pulling me deeper.

Ten feet down, the pool floor glowed crimson, LED strips pulsing like a vein. He pressed me against the tile, mouth on mine, breathing for me—controlled, measured, his tongue forcing air into my lungs. Seraphina’s hands found my bikini ties, tugged. Fabric floated away like jellyfish, drifting upward in slow motion. The camera drifted on its tether, still firing. Damian’s cock nudged my thigh, hard again, impossible. He entered me underwater, slow, the pressure exquisite, bubbles exploding from my lips in silver clouds. Seraphina’s fingers circled my clit, timing her strokes to his thrusts, until my lungs burned and my vision sparked white at the edges.

He pulled me up just as the black crept in—gasping, coughing, coming in the same breath, water streaming from my hair. Seraphina broke the surface beside me, laughing, water streaming from her lashes like tears. Damian held the remote trigger aloft, triumphant, the dive mask dangling from his wrist.

“Perfect,” he said. “The board will bid tonight. Starting at two-fifty.”

I floated, limbs heavy, the gold chain now wrapped around my wrist—hers or mine, I couldn’t tell. The underwater lights shifted to white, harsh, revealing the pool’s far end: a glass wall, behind it a dark viewing gallery. Silhouettes—three, maybe four—watching through one-way glass. One raised a phone, recording. Another held a tablet, typing. A third lifted a glass in salute.

Seraphina kissed my temple, gentle, almost tender. “Welcome to the collection, Lena. You’re the centerpiece now.”

My phone buzzed in the deck bag—unknown number again. I lunged for it, water sloshing.

They’re selling the feed live. Auction closes at dusk. Get to the service gate before the tide turns. I’ll be in the black Rover. Key under the mat. –R

The water lapped at my chin. The silhouettes didn’t move. The gold chain felt suddenly cold, heavy, a shackle. The ocean roared beyond the bluff, indifferent. The red dot in the guest room was only the beginning.