Back to Work

The glass walls of the executive suite sparkled with the late-morning sun, casting subtle reflections across the polished floor and mirrored surfaces. Euphorica’s headquarters was always immaculate—sleek, white, perfumed with soft florals and just a hint of vanilla musk. It smelled like control. Like curated elegance.

And Kiara Laurent fit right in.

She sat at her desk, legs crossed at the knee, fingertips tapping lightly over the touchpad as she reviewed the day’s financials. Her blouse—a sheer blush silk with pearl buttons—was tucked into a high-waisted white pencil skirt that hugged her softened hips and sat smoothly over her tucked, caged form. The boning of the corset underneath kept her spine straight, shoulders gently pulled back. Her nude stilettos matched her manicure. Her lip color was a muted rose gloss that shimmered when she smiled. Mascara lifted her lashes skyward. Her brows were sharp but feminine. And not a single hair was out of place.

No one could tell that Kieran was underneath.

That was the point.

Seraphina entered with a light knock, hips swaying, tablet in hand. “Morning, boss babe.”

She looked like a perfume ad come to life—dark caramel curls piled on her head, a curve-hugging emerald dress that dipped just low, and glossy black stilettos. She smelled like sandalwood and secrets. Her nails were painted oxblood. Her lip gloss matched.

Kiara smiled without missing a beat. “You’re late.”

Seraphina rolled her eyes playfully and dropped into the chair across from the desk. “Five minutes. I had a wardrobe malfunction. My boob tape betrayed me.”

Kiara let out a delicate laugh—controlled, warm, perfectly timed. “You have one job, Sera.”

“And it’s to look fabulous while running your calendar. Mission accomplished.”

Kiara’s smile didn’t fade. But inside, Kieran was unraveling slowly, invisibly, one thread at a time.

Seraphina's curves. The way her dress clung when she crossed her legs. The way her voice dipped when she whispered something just for Kiara’s ears.

It still did things to him. She was still irresistible in that easy, confident way—the kind of girl you flirt with too long, then pretend you didn’t mean it.

But something was off now.

It wasn’t just the cage. Or the plug he’d finally removed that morning, walking bow-legged into the shower. It was the echoes.

The lingering cadence of Celeste’s voice from last night. “Moan for him.”

The weight of the wand against his cage. The way his hips moved without him telling them to.

He blinked and nodded as Seraphina started going over the Maison de Lune updates, her voice smooth and competent, totally unaware of the war happening just behind Kiara’s perfect lashes.

“So,” Seraphina said, tapping her screen, “Maison’s lawyers say we’re probably two rounds of revision away from the final contracts. Nothing major—just wording and some exclusivity clauses. Isabelle wants to meet in person before anything gets locked in.”

Kiara nodded smoothly. “Naturally. The signings should be done in person. It’ll make great PR.”

“Exactly. High heels, cameras, champagne—it’s what Maison lives for.”

Kiara laughed softly, biting the inside of her cheek as she crossed her legs again—slow, elegant, automatic. Her thighs pressed together instinctively. It was just how she sat now.

Sera tilted her head. “You good?”

Kiara blinked. “Hmm?”

“You spaced out a little.”

She smiled sweetly. “Sorry. Late night.”

“Tell me about it,” Seraphina grinned. “I was watching trash TV until 2 a.m. But you? I bet your version of a late night involves decanting wine and discussing quarterly margins with Vivienne.”

Kiara smirked. “You say that like it isn’t exactly how I unwind.”

“Oh, I know it is. You’re the only woman I know who keeps spreadsheets in her purse.”

Kiara laughed again, softer now. And for a moment, she felt normal. Just two women—one running a company, the other running her calendar—gossiping like old friends.

And then Seraphina said, “Speaking of distractions, you know who’s still cute? That guy in marketing. The one with the scruffy beard and the weird laugh?”

Kiara’s stomach twisted.

Seraphina raised her brows. “You know who I mean.”

“I don’t,” Kiara said lightly.

“Yes, you do. He brought those vegan cookies to the all-hands last month. Total dork. Married though, so... off-limits.”

Kiara smirked. “But, like, if he wasn’t?”

Seraphina's smile was tight. “I don’t know. I’m trying to stay focused right now.”

But the image had already hit.

A man. Smiling. Approaching. That casual confidence. The warmth of his voice. That look men give when they know they’re in charge of the room.

And the worst part? The part that made Kieran’s chest seize?

His body responded.

Not just mentally. Physically. A clench, a flicker of heat, a muscle memory triggered from training.

Celeste’s voice whispered in his mind: “When the right man touches you… I want your thighs to clench.”

God.

He shifted slightly in his seat, clearing his throat. “Anyway, any red flags from legal?”

Seraphina blinked, then caught the tone shift and smoothly adjusted. “None yet. Just corporate language, jurisdiction clauses, the usual dance.”

Kiara nodded. “Let’s get ahead of it. Prep the PR team for a press window early next week. I’ll write a draft statement for approval after Isabelle’s visit.”

Seraphina tilted her head again, this time more curious. “Everything okay, K?”

Kiara looked up, serene. Polished. Not a hair out of place.

“Perfect,” she said. “Everything’s under control.”

And it sounded true.

But inside, Kieran was already counting the hours until the sun went down.

What would it be tonight? More of the same?

Or would Celeste push further? New content? Higher settings? Would she speak softer, touch more, guide his voice even lower?

He didn’t know. He never knew.

He just knew that at 9:00 p.m. sharp, he’d have a knock on her door. And he'd ben his robe. Prostate stimulator inserted. Lotioned. Lip gloss applied.

And he’d say, “Which file tonight, Celeste?” like always.

Because that’s who he was now.

CEO by day. Obedient little sister by night.

And no matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise… Kiara was winning.

Ding.

The sound was crisp and mechanical, barely louder than the soft clicks of Kiara’s manicured fingers on her laptop keyboard. A notification in the corner of her screen. Microsoft Teams. Message received.

She glanced toward it with the nonchalance of a woman who knew how to multitask while keeping her lips glossed and her ankles crossed. But as her eyes caught the name next to the message icon, a quiet exhale slipped from her nose.

Lucian Devereaux.

Kieran groaned internally.

Of course.

He already knew what this would be. Something about deliverables, maybe a clarification about the budget wrap-up, a bullet point or two about timelines—and then, inevitably, the shift. Lucian was smooth like that. Start with business, slide into a compliment. A comment about her dress at the last meeting. Her poise. Her voice.

He was never inappropriate. Not exactly. Just warm. Friendly. Confident. The way men flirt when they know you’ll flirt back. The kind of tone that made the back of Kieran’s neck itch, because responding wrong would feel wrong—but responding right would mean...

Well. Obedience.

He clicked the message.

Hey Kiara—hope you're having a manageable day up there in the big chair. Quick question re: the Vireluxe projections. Just got the latest from analytics, and I think we need to revisit the Year 2 assumptions on their rebrand initiative. Can I send you my notes for feedback before tomorrow’s exec review?

Kieran blinked.

Business. Not even a smiley face.

He almost laughed. Almost.

Of course it’s business. He’s good at this. Just like you’re supposed to be.

Kiara straightened in her chair and took a slow breath, letting the rhythm of her typing guide her. A few seconds later, she sent the reply:

Hi Lucian! Always manageable when I’ve got brilliant minds in Strategy flagging blind spots before they hit the review table. Absolutely, send your notes—I’ll prioritize them ahead of the 10 a.m. alignment.

(P.S. You’re either very responsible or very sneaky for saving your asks until midday. Let me guess: espresso-fueled burst of brilliance?)

Professional. Efficient. Flirtatious—but just barely. Enough to be seen as warm. Open. Curious.

Exactly what they’d want.

He didn’t have to ask Celeste what to say.

Didn’t have to send a draft to Vivienne for tone.

Didn’t second-guess himself.

Because he already knew.

He knew how Kiara was supposed to respond to Lucian. How she was meant to carry herself—not just in press photos and campaign videos, but in the little things. The private chats. The follow-up emails. The pauses in her tone when she said “thank you.”

He knew because they’d made sure he knew. He was being transformed in a completely different way than he thought.

Not through instructions.

But through expectation.

And that, he realized with a cold wave of nausea, was the most terrifying part.

No one was pulling his strings right now. No headset. No plug. No Celeste perched behind him with a clipboard and a remote.

Just him.

Just Kieran, performing Kiara like second skin, navigating the minefield with a smile and a perfectly-timed emoji.

Because they trusted him to be perfect.

They trusted him to be her.

To carry Euphorica. To protect Jean’s legacy. To be the brand. The face. The story. The woman.

And that trust was the heaviest thing he had ever worn.

He could feel it sitting across his chest like a corset that never loosened—tightening with every decision he made on his own.

“We’re not going to micromanage you, darling. You’re smart. You understand what’s at stake.”

“I don’t need to monitor your messages. You know how she would respond, right? How you would respond?”

They didn’t need to orchestrate his every move anymore.

Because he did it himself.

He was guiding his own feminization now—on autopilot.

Because it was expected. Because it was necessary.

Lucian replied a moment later.

Espresso-fueled brilliance, guilty as charged. Sending the deck now—thanks for the assist, Kiara. You’re a lifesaver.

Kieran stared at the screen, expression still, lashes still lifted in the soft curl of workplace beauty.

Kiara Laurent. CEO. Flawless. Graceful. Feminine. Reliable. Desired.

He replied with a soft smile emoji and closed the chat.

Then exhaled. Slowly. Carefully.

Because tonight, the performance would continue.

And in the quiet of his room, with the VR headset and the wand and the scripts of obedience already memorized, he wouldn’t even need Celeste to speak the instructions out loud.

He already knew what to do.

And that was the problem.

He knew.