The Mistress
He adjusted his silk tie for the tenth time, his eyes wide and glassy—the look of a man who had finally reached the summit of his own madness and found the view intoxicating.
“I’m looking, Daniel,” I replied, my voice as steady as the marble pillars holding up the ceiling. “I’m looking at everyone who is about to witness the truth.”
He didn’t hear the edge in my words. He only heard the submission he had spent five years crafting. He reached out, his hand sliding over the cold, metallic fabric of my dress. It was a custom-made gown of structured silver lace, woven with micro-filaments that caught the light like polished steel. It didn’t feel like fabric; it felt like a suit of armor, a shimm