Chapter 7: A Shopping Trip with a Twist

Chapter 7: A Shopping Trip with a Twist

A week. Seven days. That’s how long it had been since the carefully constructed order of their apartment—and her life—had been gloriously detonated on the living room floor. The physical evidence was gone. The bruises had faded from purple to a faint, yellowish ghost on her skin, the floor burn on her spine had healed, and the ruined maid costume had vanished into the trash. But the echo of that afternoon remained, a low, constant hum beneath the surface of their daily lives.

Something had fundamentally shifted between them. Their conversations were laced with a new, charged intimacy. A simple touch as they passed in the hallway held a different weight. When Liam looked at her, his eyes held a knowing glint, a silent acknowledgment of the chaos they had unleashed, and the even more thrilling chaos that was promised. He was using his cheat code not to win, but to share in a secret victory they both now owned.

Chloe, for her part, felt… different. Lighter. The rigid control she had always mistaken for strength now felt like a cage she had willingly, joyfully, helped demolish. Her declaration—next time, the agenda is mine to set—hadn't been a hollow boast. It was a promise to herself, a mission brief for a project she was surprisingly, desperately eager to manage.

So when Liam leaned over the kitchen island on Saturday morning, a playful smile on his lips, and said, "I'm taking you shopping today," she felt a flicker of eager anticipation.

"Oh?" she replied, taking a slow sip of her coffee, feigning a casualness she did not feel. "Finally going to buy me that black silk monstrosity you promised?" She was ready for it, ready to play, to parry his suggestion with one of her own.

His smile widened. "Something like that. Wear something comfortable. And be ready to have your mind opened."

An hour later, she was sitting in the passenger seat of his car, dressed in jeans and a simple black sweater, a knot of nervous excitement tightening in her stomach. She expected him to pull up to Bloomingdale's or a high-end department store. Instead, he drove them to a quieter, more exclusive part of the city, a street lined with discreet, appointment-only art galleries and bespoke tailors. He parked in front of a building with no sign, only a sleek, unmarked black door with a single, glowing silver bell.

"Liam, where are we?" Chloe asked, a sliver of uncertainty cutting through her confidence.

"Our appointment," he said simply, getting out of the car. He came around and opened her door, offering his hand with a theatrical flourish. "For your agenda."

The moment she stepped inside, she understood. This was no department store. The air was thick with the scent of expensive leather, rich perfume, and something else… something heady and forbidden. Soft, strategic lighting illuminated mannequins draped not in everyday wear, but in breathtaking, intimidating works of art. Plush velvet carpets muffled their footsteps. This wasn't a cheap, tacky costume shop. This was a temple. A luxurious, intimidating temple dedicated to fantasy.

A woman with silver hair pinned in an elegant chignon greeted them with a quiet, knowing smile and led them into a private viewing suite. The room was opulent, with deep crimson walls, a gilded mirror that covered one entire wall, and several pedestals displaying exquisite pieces. There was a severe, floor-length leather coat that looked like it belonged to a dystopian villainess. A set of intricate, feathered wings lay beside a delicate, elven-inspired lace gown. On another pedestal sat a steel-boned corset of blood-red brocade, its craftsmanship as fine as any museum piece.

Chloe felt her throat go dry. Her carefully planned agenda, which had been a vague, powerful concept in her mind, suddenly felt flimsy and inadequate in the face of this overwhelming reality. This was a library of fantasies, and she didn't even know what language they were written in. The assertive project manager who could wrangle a team of twenty engineers was utterly, completely lost.

Liam stood beside her, his presence a warm, solid anchor in her sea of confusion. He wasn't looking at the costumes. He was watching her.

"So," he said, his voice a low, gentle murmur meant only for her. "The maid uniform is off the table. As per the new management." He gestured expansively at the room. "The floor is yours, boss. You wanted to set the agenda. Here it is. Pick one."

The challenge landed like a physical weight on her shoulders. He had done it again. He had ceded control to her, but in a way that left her more vulnerable and exposed than ever. He wasn't telling her what to do; he was asking her what she wanted. And for a woman who had built her life around logic, schedules, and deliverables, the question was terrifying. What did she want?

She took a hesitant step into the room, her hands clasped tightly behind her back to stop herself from fidgeting. Her organized mind tried to categorize, to create a spreadsheet of options, but the data was too chaotic. Each piece told a story, hinted at a different world, a different power dynamic. It was too much.

She ran a finger over the sleeve of the leather coat, the material impossibly soft and cool beneath her touch. It felt powerful, dominant. But was it her? She glanced at the red corset, imagining the feeling of being laced into it, her body reshaped and confined. The idea sent a shiver of something hot and unfamiliar through her. She felt her cheeks flush.

"Flustered, Chlo?" Liam's voice was soft, laced with an affectionate amusement. He had seen it, of course. His cheat code was in full effect. He could read the conflict in her rigid posture, the excitement warring with anxiety in her eyes.

"This is… a lot," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "I don't know where to start."

"You don't have to have the whole script written," he said, coming to stand behind her. He didn't touch her, but she could feel his warmth. "Just like last week. You started with an idea—to teach me a lesson—and it turned into something else. Just look. What intrigues you? What sparks something? Forget what you think you should want. What does that hidden, magnificent, lying part of you actually want to play?"

His words hit their mark. Forget what you think. He was asking her to feel. To surrender to instinct, just as she had been forced to do on their living room floor.

She took a deep breath, letting the scents of leather and perfume fill her lungs, and tried to quiet the frantic planner in her mind. She let her gaze drift, allowing herself to simply react. The elven lace was beautiful, but too soft. The dystopian coat, too severe. The corset, too… obvious. She was looking for something else. A power that wasn't about overt dominance or submission, but something more complex.

And then she saw it.

Tucked away on a display in the corner, almost overlooked, was a military-style jacket. It was tailored from a heavy, dark navy wool, with sharp, structured shoulders and a high, stand-up collar. Two rows of burnished silver buttons marched down the front in perfect, rigid formation. It wasn't overtly sexual. It wasn't a costume for a bedroom game. It was a uniform of command. It spoke of discipline, of authority, of unshakeable control and the power to issue orders that would be followed without question.

It was the antithesis of the frilly, subservient maid.

Chloe stopped breathing. An image flashed in her mind, unbidden and shockingly clear: Liam, standing at attention. Her, wearing that jacket and nothing else. Her voice, crisp and low, issuing a command. The look in his eyes as he obeyed.

A jolt of pure, undiluted desire, so sharp and powerful it made her gasp, shot through her. It was a fantasy she had never, not once in her life, consciously considered. It was born in that instant, springing fully formed from the sight of that jacket.

She reached out a trembling hand and touched the rough wool of the sleeve. It felt real. Solid. Authoritative.

Liam had followed her gaze. He saw the look on her face, the way her breath caught, the sudden, fierce light that ignited in her eyes. He saw the fantasy bloom behind them.

"That one?" he asked, his voice quiet, reverent.

Chloe didn't look at him. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the jacket. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic, martial drumbeat. The agenda was no longer a vague concept. It was here. It was real. And it was hers.

"Yes," she said, her voice filled with a newfound certainty that was both terrifying and utterly thrilling. "That one."