Submission

The "guest suite" was a contradiction in terms. Despite its elegant decor—cream walls, plush carpeting, and tasteful artwork—it was unmistakably a prison. Ella discovered this when, after Martha had left her alone, she tried the door. Locked. The windows, which offered a breathtaking view of the city below, were sealed shut, the glass clearly reinforced.

She stood in the center of the room, arms still wrapped protectively around her nearly naked body, shivering despite the comfortable temperature. The lingerie Adrian had selected offered no warmth, physically or emotionally. Its sole purpose was to humiliate, to remind her with every movement of her complete vulnerability.

A soft knock at the door made her jump. Martha entered carrying a silver tray, her eyes carefully avoiding Ella's exposed form.

"Your dinner, miss," she said, placing the tray on a small table by the window. "Mr. West thought you might be hungry."

As Martha turned to leave, Ella found her courage. "Please—are there any clothes I could wear?"

The older woman hesitated, then gestured to a door beside the bathroom. "There's a closet of items selected for you."

Hope flickered briefly as Ella hurried to the closet, but died as soon as she opened it. The hanging rack was filled with outfits that could barely be called clothes—micro-miniskirts, transparent tops, dresses with strategic cutouts that would expose more than they covered. Not a single item offered any real modesty. They were clearly designed for indoor use only, the kind no woman would wear out in public.

"These aren't clothes," Ella whispered, horror dawning as she realized these would be her only options moving forward.

Martha's expression remained professionally neutral. "Mr. West was very specific about your wardrobe requirements."

"Can you at least tell me what he wants from me?" Ella asked, desperation creeping into her voice.

Martha's expression became carefully blank. "It's not my place to speak for Mr. West." She paused at the door. "If I may suggest, miss—acceptance comes easier than resistance in this house."

With that cryptic warning, she left, the lock clicking into place behind her.

Ella sank onto the edge of the bed, reality crashing down on her. There was no escape, no negotiation, no way out that wouldn't put her mother at risk. The realization brought with it a numbing resignation. She was trapped, completely at Adrian West's mercy.

She ignored the food, having no appetite. Instead, she curled up on the king-sized bed, pulling the silken comforter around her body, grateful for any covering, no matter how flimsy.

Sleep claimed her before she could process the full horror of her situation.

The sound of the door opening jolted Ella awake. The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of city lights through the windows. Adrian's tall figure stood in the doorway, his face in shadow.

"I see you've made yourself comfortable," he said, his voice unnervingly calm as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

Ella sat up sharply, clutching the comforter to her chest. The digital clock on the nightstand read 1:24 AM.

"What do you want?" Her voice came out smaller than intended.

Adrian didn't answer immediately. He removed his suit jacket, draping it carefully over a chair, then loosened his tie. Each deliberate movement sent a new wave of fear through Ella.

"I believe our arrangement was quite clear," he finally said, approaching the bed. "You belong to me now."

Ella pressed herself against the headboard, the comforter clutched like a shield. "Please," she whispered, hating the tremor in her voice. "Don't do this."

Adrian's laugh was soft, devoid of warmth. "Begging already? I expected more resistance." He reached out, gripping the edge of the comforter. "Let go."

For a moment, Ella held tight, some last shred of defiance making her fingers clench the fabric. Then the image of her mother—confused, abandoned in some squalid state facility—flashed in her mind, and her grip loosened.

Adrian yanked the comforter away in one swift motion, leaving her exposed in the flimsy lingerie. The cool air raised goosebumps across her skin, or perhaps it was fear.

"Stand up," he commanded.

Slowly, Ella obeyed, her legs shaking beneath her. Adrian circled her, his gaze unexpectedly intense. For a brief moment, something like genuine desire flickered in his eyes, quickly masked by his usual coldness.

"You have no idea, do you?" he murmured, more to himself than to her.

"No idea about what?" Ella asked, confused by his sudden shift in tone.

Instead of answering, Adrian reached out, tearing the delicate lingerie from her body with one brutal motion. The sound of ripping fabric seemed impossibly loud in the silent room.

Ella gasped, instinctively trying to cover herself, but Adrian caught her wrists, forcing her arms to her sides. "Don't hide what belongs to me," he growled, his voice rougher than before. "I want to see exactly what I've purchased."

His eyes traveled over her naked form with unwavering intensity. "I must admit," he said, his tone shifting to something almost appreciative, "you're exquisite. Far more so than I anticipated."

The unexpected compliment, delivered in such cold circumstances, confused Ella more than an insult would have. Adrian seemed to notice her bewilderment and smiled, the expression predatory.

"Does it surprise you that I find you attractive? That I might actually desire what I own?" His hand trailed down her bare shoulder, fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Trust me, it surprises me as well. I didn't expect my body to betray me this way."

Without warning, he pushed her back onto the bed, pinning her with his weight. "But don't mistake desire for mercy," he whispered against her ear. "This changes nothing."

His hands moved roughly over her body, exploring with clinical detachment despite the heat in his eyes. When his fingers slid between her legs, he paused, a look of surprise crossing his face.

"Well, well," he murmured, something like dark satisfaction coloring his voice. "A virgin. How... unexpected."

Ella's face burned with humiliation as she turned away, unable to meet his gaze.

Adrian gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. "This is a delightful development," he said, his smile cruel. "I had assumed a pretty girl like you would have given it away long ago. Now I get to be the first—and possibly the only man to ever have you."

The possessive claim sent a chill down her spine. There was something almost ceremonial in the way he positioned himself above her, as if fully appreciating the significance of what he was about to take.

"Please," she whispered, one last desperate plea. "Not like this. Not my first time."

"Especially like this," Adrian replied, his voice hardening. "What better way to mark my ownership?"

What followed was not passion but conquest—Adrian taking what he wanted with bruising force, unconcerned with her comfort or consent. His hands gripped hard enough to leave marks, his mouth cruel against her skin.

The pain of the first intrusion was shocking, a tearing sensation that made Ella cry out sharply. Her body instinctively tried to recoil, but Adrian held her firmly in place.

"Open your eyes," he commanded sharply when she squeezed them shut against the pain. "I want you to remember who's doing this to you. Who took this from you. Who you belong to now."

Ella reluctantly opened her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks as pain tore through her. The savage intrusion felt like being split apart, a burning, tearing sensation that made her sob with each movement.

"Yes," Adrian hissed, seeming to take pleasure in her pain. "That's it. Let me hear you."

Her cries seemed to drive him to greater ferocity, his rhythm punishing. "Is this what you expected when you signed your life away?" he taunted between harsh breaths. "Did you think it would be gentle? Romantic?"

Each thrust emphasized his words, punctuating her humiliation. "This is what happens to little girls who sign contracts they don't read," he continued, his voice a dark whisper against her skin. "They become toys for men like me."

Through her tears, Ella caught glimpses of his expression—a mixture of cruelty and something else, an intensity that seemed almost against his will. Despite the brutality of his actions, his eyes reflected a disturbing fascination.

When it was finally over, Adrian remained above her for a moment, his breathing heavy. Something strange crossed his face as he looked down at her tear-streaked cheeks—not remorse, but a sort of confusion, quickly masked.

He rolled away and stood, straightening his clothing with methodical precision. Ella curled into herself, pain radiating through her body, feeling something warm trickle down her thighs. When she glanced down, she saw smears of blood on the pristine sheets—undeniable evidence of what had been taken from her.

Adrian followed her gaze, his expression unreadable as he observed the blood. "A memento of our first night together," he said, his voice oddly distant. "I hadn't expected such... intimacy in our arrangement."

He watched her for a moment longer, his expression now carefully controlled. "You're more... responsive than I expected," he said, and Ella couldn't tell if he meant it as compliment or criticism. "There's something about you that's..."

He trailed off, seeming almost disturbed by whatever thought had crossed his mind. Then his mask of cold control returned.

"Clean yourself up," he said, his voice devoid of emotion once more. "This is just the beginning of your education."

He left without another word, the door locking behind him.

Ella lay motionless, too numb to cry, too exhausted to move. The reality of her situation had been brutally clarified—she was not a guest, not even a prisoner with rights. She was property, existing solely for Adrian West's satisfaction.

The realization brought with it a strange, hollow acceptance. Fighting would only make things worse. For her mother's sake, she would endure.

—

Morning came with harsh clarity. Ella's body ached, evidence of the night's violation mapped in bruises across her skin. She had eventually dragged herself to the bathroom, standing under the shower's scalding spray until her skin turned red, yet feeling no cleaner. The soreness between her legs was a constant reminder of what had happened—her innocence taken as just another form of possession.

Martha arrived precisely at 7 AM, her expression carefully neutral as she took in Ella's bruised appearance.

"Mr. West expects you to be dressed and in the kitchen in thirty minutes," she said. "You'll be assisting with breakfast service."

"Dressed?" Ella asked bitterly, gesturing to the closet of revealing outfits.

Martha's eyes flickered with something like sympathy. "The pink dress might be the most... practical for kitchen work."

The "pink dress" turned out to be a scrap of fabric that barely covered her essentials—a low-cut bodice that pushed her breasts up and together, a skirt so short she couldn't bend over without exposing herself, and completely backless except for thin criss-crossing straps. It was something a stripper might wear for a performance, not a garment for everyday use.

With no alternatives, Ella put it on, each movement a reminder of the previous night's abuse. The fabric brushed against her bruises, a constant reminder of her new reality.

"Assisting with breakfast?" she asked, trying to focus on practicalities rather than her humiliation.

"You're no longer a guest, miss," Martha explained quietly. "Mr. West has instructed that you're to serve, not be served."

The degradation was calculated, Ella realized. Each step designed to strip away another layer of dignity, to reinforce her new position in this household.

Following Martha through the house, painfully aware of how the dress revealed more than it concealed, Ella felt strangely disconnected from herself. It was as if she were observing someone else's humiliation from a distance.

As they passed through a corridor, two younger maids stopped their work to stare openly at Ella, their eyes traveling over her exposed body and the visible bruises on her thighs and wrists.

"I heard she signed herself over to him," one whispered, not bothering to lower her voice enough. "Five hundred thousand for her first time."

"Looks like he got his money's worth," the other replied with a snicker, eyeing the marks on Ella's neck. "Didn't waste any time, did he?"

Martha silenced them with a sharp look, but the damage was done. Heat flooded Ella's face as she realized the entire household must know what had happened to her last night—and likely what would continue to happen.

The kitchen was a gleaming expanse of stainless steel and marble, where a middle-aged man in chef's whites was preparing what appeared to be an elaborate breakfast. Unlike the maids, he didn't bother hiding his disdain, his eyes traveling over Ella's revealing outfit and bruised body with obvious judgment.

"This is Henri," Martha introduced. "You'll assist him in preparing Mr. West's breakfast."

Henri nodded curtly. "Wash your hands. Then arrange the fruit plate according to the photograph." He pointed to a printed image of an artfully arranged selection of berries and melon.

As Ella moved to the sink, Henri muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear: "At least he usually keeps his whores out of my kitchen."

Ella flinched but said nothing, focusing on the simple task of washing her hands, trying to ignore the throbbing pain between her legs each time she moved.

A young kitchen helper entered, stopping abruptly when he saw Ella. His eyes widened at her appearance, taking in both the revealing dress and the obvious bruises. Unlike the others, his expression held no judgment—only pity, which somehow felt worse.

"You're the new one," he said quietly as he moved past her to retrieve something from a drawer. "Don't let them get to you. It's not—" He caught himself, glancing nervously at Henri, and went silent.

Ella worked mechanically, arranging the fruit plate with careful precision despite her shaking hands. The normalcy of food preparation provided a momentary escape from her reality.

She was arranging the last strawberry when Adrian entered the kitchen. He was immaculately dressed in a tailored suit, looking as if he'd had a full night's rest rather than—Ella quickly shut down that train of thought.

His eyes traveled over her in the revealing dress, lingering on the visible bruises his hands had left on her skin. Something like satisfaction mixed with unexpected heat flickered in his gaze.

"Good morning," he said pleasantly, as if nothing had happened between them. "The dress suits you."

The casual cruelty of the comment made Ella's stomach turn, but she kept her expression neutral. "Thank you, sir," she replied automatically, the subservient address falling from her lips without thought.

Henri straightened immediately, his attitude transforming to professional deference. "Breakfast is ready, Mr. West. Shall I serve in the dining room?"

"No," Adrian replied, his eyes still on Ella. "She will serve me."

Something like satisfaction flickered in Adrian's eyes. "Bring my coffee to the dining room," he instructed before leaving the kitchen.

Martha handed Ella a silver coffee service. "Two sugars, no cream," she murmured, a small kindness in providing information Ella would have been punished for not knowing.

The dining room was cavernous, clearly designed for entertaining large groups, making Adrian appear almost small seated alone at one end of the massive table. Ella approached carefully, mindful of the heavy tray and her still-aching body, the soreness between her thighs making each step painful.

"Pour," Adrian commanded without looking up from his tablet.

Ella's hands trembled slightly as she filled the delicate porcelain cup. When she finished, she stepped back, unsure what to do next.

"Stand there," Adrian instructed, indicating a spot just behind his right shoulder. "Silent unless spoken to."

And so she stood, ignoring the pain in her legs, the ache between her thighs, the humiliation of being displayed in the revealing dress while Adrian ate the breakfast she had helped prepare.