Chapter 7: All You Have to Do is Ask

Elara lay awake until three in the morning, staring at the ceiling while Liam slept peacefully beside her. His breathing was deep and even, the sleep of a man whose conscience was clear, whose life followed predictable patterns that brought comfort rather than chaos.

She envied him that peace.

Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel Sandra's mouth against her skin, could taste the lingering ghost of forbidden pleasure that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with raw, consuming need. Her body still hummed with the aftershocks of what had transpired beneath the dining room table, a secret symphony that played beneath her skin while her boyfriend dreamed innocent dreams.

Sandra had vanished like smoke after delivering that devastating finale, leaving behind only the faint scent of her perfume and the echo of whispered promises. All you have to do is ask me, darling. The words had become a mantra, pulsing through Elara's consciousness with the persistence of her own heartbeat.

Ask for what, exactly? More stolen moments of madness? Complete surrender to desires that threatened to incinerate everything she'd built? Or something else entirely – something that would require her to finally choose between the safety of her carefully constructed life and the terrifying freedom Sandra offered?

Liam stirred beside her, his arm tightening around her waist in unconscious possession. Even in sleep, he claimed her, and the gesture that should have felt comforting now felt like a cage. His touch was warm and familiar, but it lacked the electric intensity that had made her whole body sing under Sandra's ministrations.

When morning finally came, Elara felt hollowed out, as if the night's revelations had carved away some essential part of her and left only empty space behind. She moved through her Sunday routine like an automaton – coffee, shower, the lazy breakfast she and Liam always shared while reading different sections of the newspaper.

"You're quiet this morning," Liam observed over his economics section, his voice carrying the mild concern of someone who knew her moods but not their causes. "Did you sleep alright?"

"Fine," she lied, not looking up from the arts section she wasn't actually reading. "Just tired."

"Sandra certainly made for interesting dinner conversation," he continued, folding his paper with characteristic precision. "I like her. There's something... I don't know, magnetic about her. You can see why she's successful as a photographer – people probably open up to her without even realizing it."

If only he knew how prophetic those words were. Sandra had indeed made her open up, in ways that went far beyond normal human interaction. She'd seen straight through every careful defense and social nicety to the desperate, hungry woman beneath.

"She's always been good at reading people," Elara managed.

"I'm glad you two are close," Liam said, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. "You need more friends like that – people who bring out your adventurous side. Sometimes I worry that I'm too predictable for you, too focused on practical things."

The guilt hit her like a physical blow. Here was this good man, worried that he wasn't exciting enough for her, while she'd spent the previous evening being systematically seduced by her best friend. His honesty and self-reflection only made her betrayal feel more monstrous.

"You're perfect," she said, and meant it on some level. He was perfect – for someone else. For the woman she'd been trying to be for the past three years. But that woman was cracking apart, revealing something underneath that had no use for perfection.

The rest of Sunday passed in a haze of domestic normalcy. They went grocery shopping, did laundry, watched a movie that neither of them would remember a week later. All the comfortable rituals of a couple who'd settled into the rhythm of long-term commitment, who'd found peace in routine and predictability.

But underneath the surface, Elara felt like she was screaming.

Monday morning brought the blessed distraction of work, though even the fluorescent-lit purgatory of her cubicle couldn't quiet the chaos in her mind. She stared at her computer screen, pretending to review color palettes for a new corporate identity project, while her thoughts circled obsessively around Sandra's whispered command.

All you have to do is ask me, darling.

Ask. Such a simple word, but it carried the weight of a thousand complications. To ask meant acknowledging what she wanted, giving voice to desires that polite society would condemn. It meant admitting that the life she'd built with Liam wasn't enough, had never been enough, would never be enough no matter how much she wanted it to be.

Her phone sat on her desk like a loaded weapon, Sandra's contact information just a few taps away. How easy it would be to send a message, to cross that final line between fantasy and reality. But easy and right were different things entirely, and she still possessed enough moral clarity to understand the difference.

Didn't she?

The day crawled by with agonizing slowness. Every email felt meaningless, every design decision arbitrary. She found herself sketching in the margins of her notes again – not the careful, controlled drawings that had always characterized her work, but wild, passionate strokes that seemed to flow directly from her subconscious onto the page.

When she realized what she was drawing, her breath caught in her throat. Sandra's face stared back at her from the white space beside a budget spreadsheet – not the carefully composed public version, but the predatory woman who'd claimed her so completely. The sketch captured something feral and knowing in those dark eyes, a hunger that promised both ecstasy and destruction.

She tore out the page and crumpled it, but not before memorizing every line. The image was burned into her mind now, just another piece of evidence that Sandra had colonized her thoughts completely.

The afternoon stretched endlessly, each minute feeling like an hour. When five o'clock finally arrived, Elara practically ran from the building, desperate to escape the suffocating normalcy of her professional life. But even the cool evening air couldn't calm the restless energy that had been building all day.

Her phone buzzed as she reached her car, and her heart stopped. For a moment, she was certain it would be Sandra, that somehow the woman had sensed her desperate need and chosen this moment to make contact. Instead, it was a text from Liam: Working late again tonight. Don't wait up. Love you.

The message should have disappointed her, should have made her feel abandoned and unimportant. Instead, it felt like a reprieve, a few precious hours without the need to maintain the careful facade of contentment.

She drove home in a daze, her mind already making dangerous calculations. She was alone, completely alone, for the first time since Saturday night. No boyfriend to placate, no coworkers to perform normalcy for, no witnesses to whatever choice she was about to make.

Her apartment felt different somehow, charged with possibility in a way that made her skin prickle with awareness. She poured herself a large glass of wine and tried to eat dinner, but the food tasted like cardboard, her appetite completely overwhelmed by other, more pressing hungers.

By eight o'clock, she was pacing her living room like a caged animal, the walls seeming to close in with every circuit. The carefully curated space that had once felt like a sanctuary now felt like a prison, every piece of furniture a reminder of the life she'd been settling for.

Her phone sat on the coffee table, innocent and patient, waiting for her to make the choice that would change everything. How many times had she picked it up tonight, only to set it down again when faced with the reality of what she was contemplating?

All you have to do is ask me, darling.

The words pulsed through her consciousness with increasing urgency, drowning out every reasonable objection her mind tried to raise. She was tired of being reasonable, tired of always choosing safety over desire, tired of living half a life while pretending it was enough.

At nine-thirty, her resolve finally cracked.

She grabbed the phone before she could lose her nerve, fingers moving with desperate efficiency to open a new message to Sandra. The blank screen stared back at her, cursor blinking with patient expectation, waiting for her to find the words that would seal her fate.

What was she supposed to say? How did one ask for the kind of complete surrender Sandra was offering? The conventional phrases felt inadequate, too small to contain the magnitude of what she was contemplating.

In the end, she kept it simple: I need to see you.

She hit send before she could change her mind, then immediately regretted the ambiguous phrasing. Was that too desperate? Too vague? Sandra would probably laugh at her cowardice, at her inability to articulate what she actually wanted.

The response came within seconds, as if Sandra had been waiting by her phone: I was wondering how long it would take you to work up the courage. Are you sure you're ready for this, darling?

The question hung in the digital space between them, weighted with implications that made Elara's hands shake. Ready for what, exactly? She suspected she was about to find out.

Yes, she typed, though she wasn't sure if it was true.

Good girl. My address is 847 Meridian St, Apt 3B. Come now, while you still have the nerve.

Another message arrived almost immediately, and Elara's breath caught as she opened it. The image that filled her screen was clearly from Sandra's private gallery – one she hadn't seen during her initial voyeuristic exploration. Sandra lay across rumpled sheets, her body artfully arranged to showcase every curve and shadow, her expression an invitation to sin that made Elara's mouth go dry.

This is what's waiting for you, read the accompanying text. All you have to do is walk through my door.

Elara stared at the image until her vision blurred, her entire body responding to the blatant sexuality of the photograph. This was it – the point of no return, the moment when she would either surrender completely to the fire Sandra had ignited or retreat back into the comfortable lies of her former life.

She was already reaching for her keys before she consciously made the decision.

The drive across town passed in a blur of traffic lights and racing thoughts. Part of her expected to turn around at every intersection, to come to her senses and return to the safety of her apartment. But her hands remained steady on the wheel, her foot consistent on the accelerator, carrying her inexorably toward whatever waited at 847 Meridian Street.

Sandra's building was exactly what Elara had expected – converted warehouse in the arts district, all exposed brick and industrial windows, the kind of bohemian space that attracted photographers and painters and other people who made their living from beauty and rebellion.

Apartment 3B was on the top floor, and Elara climbed the stairs on unsteady legs, her heart hammering against her ribs with each step. By the time she reached Sandra's door, she felt light-headed with anticipation and terror.

She raised her hand to knock, then hesitated. This was her last chance to change her mind, to preserve what remained of her carefully constructed life. Once she crossed this threshold, there would be no going back, no pretending that she was the same woman who'd shared breakfast with Liam that morning.

The door opened before she could knock, as if Sandra had been watching through the peephole, waiting for exactly this moment of hesitation.

"Hello, darling," Sandra said, her voice low and smoky with satisfaction. She wore a silk robe that revealed more than it concealed, her dark hair loose around her shoulders like a curtain of shadows. "I was beginning to think you'd lost your nerve."

"I'm here," Elara managed, though her voice came out as barely more than a whisper.

"Yes, you are." Sandra's smile was predatory, triumphant, and absolutely devastating. She stepped aside, gesturing for Elara to enter with fluid grace. "Welcome to my world."

As Elara crossed the threshold into Sandra's apartment, she felt something fundamental shift inside her chest. Behind her lay three years of compromise and careful respectability. Ahead waited mysteries she was only beginning to comprehend, pleasures that promised to remake her entirely.

The door closed with a soft click, sealing her fate and her future in the space of a heartbeat.

There was no going back now.