I sat on my balcony. Feeling a flash of--something.

Jealousy, perhaps. It's been a long time since I felt it. But here it was, a burning sensation in my fucking chest as I watched her with that fucking clown. I had to admit, he was good-looking in a boyish way. But he was no match for me.

I decided to change my strategy. If she wanted a challenge, I'd give her one. If she thought she could play hard to get, I'd show her just how hard I could be.

On day 30, I texted her, "Meet me at Le Bistro tonight. 8 PM. Dress to impress." It was simple and to the point, leaving no room for argument or misunderstanding.

As the clock ticked closer to 8 PM, I sat at the best table in the house, dressed to the nines. The dim lighting and candles cast a warm glow across the room, creating an intimate atmosphere that was mocking my current mood. I checked my watch for the hundredth time. 09:39. She was an hour and 39 minutes late.

My jaw clenched as I took a sip of my whiskey, the smooth liquid doing little to ease the knot in my stomach. The anticipation of seeing her again was palpable, and I couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance that she was making me wait. But then again, that was the point of our little game. To push each other's boundaries, to see who would break first.

Her heels echoed through the restaurant, and every head turned as she entered. She was dressed in a figure-hugging red dress that left little to the imagination, her hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of chocolate. The sight of her took my breath away, and I knew that she had chosen the outfit deliberately to challenge me and make me want her even more.

As she approached the table, I took in her beauty with a mix of frustration and desire. She had stood me up, but she had also shown up, dressed to seduce. The message was clear: she was playing by her own rules.

When she finally sat down, she didn't bother to apologize. "So you're still upset with me, I'm assuming?" I said calmly.

"Yes."

Her voice was like a whisper, barely audible over the clinking of silverware and the murmur of the other patrons. She didn't look at me, instead focusing on the menu as if it contained the universe's secrets.

"I see," I said, my voice even. "I've been waiting for you."

She finally met my gaze, her eyes filled with a challenge. "You're not the only one who can play games, Remmy."

The waiter approached, and she confidently ordered, not bothering to ask for my opinion. I couldn't help but smile at her audacity. She was playing hard to get, only making me want her more. I leaned back in my chair, watching her every move with hungry eyes.

The tension between us was thick, and the air was charged with unspoken words and unfulfilled desires. Every time she took a sip of her wine and licked her lips, it was like a silent taunt. I wanted to reach across the table, claim her, and show her who was in charge. But I knew that would only push her away.

As the meal progressed, I kept the conversation light, avoiding any mention of that night. Instead, we talked about her book, her ambitions, and her life in Chicago. With each passing minute, I became more intrigued by this complex woman who was fiercely independent and desperately craving submission.

Finally, the moment came. She leaned in, her breasts pressing against the low neckline of her dress. "Take me home, Daddy," she whispered a seductive purr that sent a shiver down my spine.

Mr. Thornton!. Alisha said sternly. I jolted out of my haze. "Your last patient is here." "O-Oh, okay, thank you. send them in five." I said, trying to get my shit together. "Are you okay, Remmy?" As bad as I wanted to say, 'fuck no, I'm not alright. The love of my life stood me up last night. She hasn't even considered checking on a muh'fucka in 31 days.' I lied instead, "Just tired, that's all." I offered a weak smile. She slowly nodded.

I was touched by her sentiment. I know I haven't been myself. Victory seems to have cut me off permanently. She won't answer my calls or return my messages. The thought of me losing her has me reflecting deeply. I pushed her too hard, too fast.

I'm an idiot

The fact remains. I can't get her out of my head. She's everywhere I go, in every thought and beat of my heart.

Fionna, my last patient of the day, walked in with her usual air of unpredictability. She was a tall, lanky woman with wild, curly hair that looked like it hadn't seen a brush in weeks. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for something only she could see. Her clothes were a mismatched array of patterns and textures that clashed violently as if she had raided a thrift store during a tornado.

"Dr. Thornton," she said, her voice a low, trembling whisper. "I've had another vision."

Fionna was a peculiar case. She was a 35-year-old artist who swore she saw the future in her dreams. A good portion of her art adorns the walls in this very office building. Some days, she was as sharp as a tack, others as scattered as a handful of marbles on a hardwood floor. Her "visions" were the reason she came to me, and I was equally fascinated and frustrated by her.

I nodded, gesturing for her to take a seat on the couch. "Tell me about it," I said, trying to keep my tone even and professional.

Fionna began to recount her latest vision, her words a jumble of metaphors and symbols that I had come to expect. But as she spoke, my mind drifted back to Victory—the night at the club, the way she tasted and called me "Daddy." It was a heady mix of anger and desire that had me on edge.

Fionna's voice grew louder, more insistent. "It's important," she said, eyes boring into mine. "You have to listen."

I snapped back to reality, focusing on her words. She spoke of a storm coming, of chaos and passion intertwined. It was the kind of thing you'd expect from a poet, not a woman who was supposedly teetering on the brink of sanity. But there was something about her conviction that made me pay attention. Maybe it was because her words echoed my tempestuous relationship with Victory.

"And in the center of the storm," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "Is a woman. A woman with eyes like the sea. Sh-she's fearless."

I couldn't help but think of Victory's doe eyes full of emotion. "What happens to the woman?" I asked, leaning in despite myself.

Fionna's gaze grew distant as if she was seeing the scene play out before her. "She is claimed," she murmured. "By a man who knows her deepest desires."

My heart pounded in my chest. Could this be a message? Some cosmic coincidence?

As Fionna's session ended, I found myself lost in thought. Her words had stirred something primal and raw in me.

Victory

"Angel used the same crimson rope Sean had bound her with many times before. She bound him from his waist to his mouth with an intricate knot tied behind his back. He couldn't speak or move. He could not reach to touch himself. "Do you want me to set you free, Sean?" She whispered. He shook his head no, he lowered his gaze to the ground. Do you want me to stroke you until you come now?" She asked. He nodded eagerly. "Good boy." With unshed tears, Angel continued--"

Day 42. Sitting here staring at this chapter. I can't do this right now. I shoved the laptop away.

I checked my messages again, and Remmy's invitation to Le Bistro, with a host of other left-on-read messages in this thread, burned a hole in my screen. "Legend has it he's still sitting there trying to control the gotdamn time." I chuckled heartily.

The man was a hot mess, a walking, talking cliché of a man who thought the world revolved around his dick. He was used to women falling all over themselves to appease him, to whisper sweet nothings in his ear, and to submit to his every whim. But not me. Victory Lane didn't play that game. I'm not about to chase a nut.

But as much as I hated to admit it, he had gotten to me. The jewelry, the flowers... it was like he had a direct line to my sweet spot and was pushing all the right buttons. And when he called me "his muse" during that intense, unforgettable night at the "Den of Desire," something in me had shifted. It was like he had seen a part of me that no one else had ever noticed.

I picked up my phone and texted him, "Busy tonight, Daddy." It was a deliberate provocation, using the very word that had sent a jolt of electricity through my body when he had whispered it to me. I knew it would get under his skin, and I couldn't resist the urge to push him a little further. He texted, "Not in the country, but I'll be back tomorrow."

I felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. The anticipation of seeing him again was thrilling, but the fear of what would happen when we did was like a constant hum in my mind. As I dressed for my date with my friend, I compared him to Remmy. He is a gentleman who does well for himself. But he's missing something very important. Remmy challenges me in ways that force me to be my most authentic self. Brian is sexy as fuck, but on the other hand, he is putty in my hands. It's maddening. I signed heavily.

Later that evening. The doorbell rang, and I took a deep breath before opening the door. "Hi," I said with a forced smile.

Brian looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on the curves the dress accentuated. "Wow, Victory, you look..." He trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Thanks," I said, cutting him off before he could say something that would make me want to slap him. "Ready to go?"

Brian nodded, and we stepped out into the night. The wind was cool against my bare legs, and I shivered, suddenly wishing I had worn something less revealing. But as we walked to the restaurant, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was dressed for someone else.

As we sat across each other, sipping on our drinks, I couldn't help but think about Remmy. What was he doing right now? Was he thinking about me? Would he care that I was out with another man?

The conversation with Brian was painfully dull, filled with small talk and awkward pauses. I found myself comparing him to Remmy in every way: his looks, confidence, and ability to make me feel like I was the only person in the room. But as the night wore on, it became clear that the only thing we had in common was our mutual lack of interest in each other.

As I excused myself to the bathroom, I contemplated texting Remmy but didn't. Brian was on his phone when I returned to the table, his thumbs flying over the screen. I sipped my drink, and the wine tasted sour in my mouth. "Victory," he said, looking up with a forced smile, "I think we should call it a night."

I nodded, the relief palpable. "Yeah, I'm not feeling so well," I lied, placing my hand on my forehead for dramatic effect. "The wine must have been stronger than I thought."

He looked at me with concern, his eyes lingering on the empty glass. "Are you okay to drive?"

"I'll be fine," I assured him, pushing back my chair. "Since we walked here," I said, rolling my eyes.