Upstairs? In the master bedroom?

TW: Mild physical ****.

Owen moved quickly down the hallway, bare feet silent on the marble. He found a wide staircase at the end, curved, grand, with a wrought-iron railing that looked like it belonged in a museum. He took the steps two at a time, heart slamming against his ribs. The house felt eerily silent up here. No footsteps, no low voices, no clinks of dishes or soft moans drifting from rooms. All the activity, the statues, the cleaners, the dispensers, the human furniture, seemed confined to the ground floor. Upstairs was quiet. Too quiet. He crept along the upper corridor, passing closed doors with small brass plaques: GUEST SUITE 1, GUEST SUITE 2, LIBRARY, GYM. None of them felt right. He kept going, turning corners, checking every label until he reached the end of the main hall.

Double doors. Tall, dark wood, carved with subtle patterns stood in front of him. Above them, a small gold plaque screwed into the frame: MASTER’S BEDROOM.

Owen’s pulse jumped. This was it. Garrett’s space. If Paige was anywhere, it would be here. He hoped.

He pressed his ear to the door first. Nothing. No voices, no movement. He turned the knob slowly, unlocked and slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

The room was massive. A King sized bed with black silk sheets, floor-to-ceiling windows draped in heavy curtains, a sitting area with leather chairs and a low table. Dim light from wall sconces. Smell of expensive cologne and sex hanging in the air.

His eyes went straight to the side table near the bed.

A woman squatted there, naked, thighs spread wide, balanced on the balls of her feet like she’d been posed that way for hours. Early forties maybe. Dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail, face calm and vacant, serene smile fixed in place. Bills stuffed into her mouth, crisp hundreds protruding between her lips like a gag. More stacks pushed into her pussy, fanning out slightly, the edges visible against her shaved lips. A few loose twenties tucked under her arms, held in place by the way her elbows pressed in.

On the back of her right hand, in bold black marker it said: WALLET.

Owen froze. This was her. The woman Garrett had been with yesterday, the one he’d called “just my wallet” while groping her tits right in front of Paige. The same woman Paige had tried to ask for help before the tape hit her forehead.

She didn’t react to him at all. Didn’t blink, didn’t shift her squat, didn’t make a sound around the money in her mouth. Yesterday she’d been walking around downtown, carrying bags in public like it was nothing. Today she was an object. A literal wallet. Clearly Garrett could change their roles on a whim somehow. He had to figure out how.

Owen tore his eyes away. The bedroom looked empty otherwise, no other women, no signs of struggle. Just quiet luxury.

Then he heard it.

Water running. A steady hiss from behind the half-open door to the master bathroom.

He moved fast, crossed the room in three strides, pushed the door wide.

There she was.

Paige.

The love of his life.

Sitting on the tiled floor under the rain showerhead, knees drawn up loosely, arms limp at her sides. Water pounded down on her nonstop, the spray hitting her shoulders, running in rivulets over her breasts, down her stomach, pooling around her ass before draining away. Her fiery red hair hung in wet, tangled clumps, plastered to her face and neck. No attempt to shield herself. No flinch. Just that same serene, distant smile.

Garrett had been rough. Bruises bloomed across her tits, dark purple fingerprints around the nipples, a handprint on the underside of one breast. More on her face: red marks on her left cheek like open-palmed slaps, a faint swelling under her right eye, a split at the corner of her lip that had stopped bleeding but still looked raw. Her pale freckled skin made the damage stand out worse.

On her left cheek, in thick black marker: MASTER’S PERSONAL STRESS RELIEVER.

Owen’s vision blurred. Tears burned hot and sudden. He choked on a sob, stepped forward, reached up and twisted the shower knob off. The water cut to a drip.

He dropped to his knees beside her, scooped her up, wet skin sliding against his shirt, hair dripping onto his arms. She was limp, pliant, no resistance. He carried her out of the bathroom, water trailing behind them, and laid her gently on the black silk sheets of the master bed.

She settled there, legs slightly parted, arms falling to her sides, smile unchanged. Water still beaded on her skin, pooling in the hollows of her collarbone, trickling down between her bruised breasts.