Welcome to America

The fluorescent lights of JFK Arrivals hummed with a low, headache-inducing buzz, but to me, it sounded like the electricity of a new beginning. I clutched the handle of my suitcase so tightly my knuckles turned white, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I was eighteen. I was in New York. And I was terrified.

I scanned the crowd, my breath catching in my throat when I saw him. Christian. He looked exactly as he had on our webcam calls, yet somehow infinitely more vivid. He was taller, broader, exuding an air of calm authority that cut through the chaotic noise of the terminal. He wore a charcoal suit that fit him perfectly, no tie, just an open collar that suggested effortless confidence.

Our eyes met, and he smiled. It wasn’t a polite, airport smile; it was a smile that said, *I’ve been expecting you.* He walked over, his stride sure and unhurried, and I felt the knot of anxiety in my stomach loosen just a fraction.

“Mary,” he said, his voice smooth, deeper than I remembered. “Welcome to America.”

“Christian,” I breathed, suddenly feeling very small in my oversized travel sweater. “It’s so good to finally meet you.”

“You look even more poised in person than you did on camera,” he said, taking my suitcase from my grip before I could protest. “Come. The car is waiting.”

I followed him out of the terminal, the humid New York air hitting me like a physical weight. I was used to the crisp, clean chill of Oslo, but this was heavy, scented with exhaust and something sharp I couldn’t place. He led me to a sleek black town car waiting at the curb. The driver hopped out to load my luggage, but Christian already had my bags in hand, his grip firm.

As we merged into the flow of traffic, I pressed my nose against the tinted glass, trying to take everything in. The city was a monster of steel and concrete, a sprawling, living thing that made me feel incredibly small. I watched the graffiti on the subway walls and the crowds of people rushing nowhere, my stomach doing flips. I had left my parents, my friends, and everything I knew back in Norway. It was a massive gamble.

Christian sat beside me, calmly scrolling through emails on his phone, seemingly unbothered by the chaos outside. He felt my gaze and looked over, his eyes softening.

“You’re quiet,” he observed, putting his phone away.

“I’m just… trying to believe it’s real,” I admitted, gesturing vaguely at the skyline. “It’s so much bigger than Oslo.”

“That’s why you’re here, Mary,” he said smoothly. “To be big. To be seen.”

“We’re here,” Christian said sometime later as the car slowed.

I looked out the window, bracing myself for a shoebox in a sketchy neighborhood—the reality of the ‘modeling industry’ I’d read about online. But instead, we pulled up in front of a modern, brick building in the Lower East Side. It had a clean, manicured entrance and a doorman standing under a sleek awning. It wasn’t a penthouse in the clouds, but it was miles away from the cramped student housing I was used to back in Oslo.

Christian led me inside, greeting the doorman by name, and we took the elevator up to the fourth floor. When he unlocked the apartment door and ushered me in, I stopped dead in my tracks.

The apartment was bathed in natural light from large, unobstructed windows. It was an open-plan studio, with gleaming hardwood floors and a kitchenette that looked like it had never been cooked in. There was a plush gray sofa, a queen-sized bed with a white upholstered headboard that looked far too big for just me, and even a small balcony overlooking the tree-lined street below.

It was clean, modern, and safe. Everything I wasn’t expecting.

“So,” he continued, checking his watch, a heavy silver thing that caught the light. “You can live here for three months. Rent-free. Consider it a grace period to find your feet in the city.”

I blinked, stunned. “Three months? Christian, that’s too generous.”

“It’s business,” he corrected, his tone firm but not unkind. “If we’re satisfied with your work—and I have a feeling we will be—and you still want to stick with us, then we’ll negotiate a fair rent after that. But right now, I need you focused. I don’t want you worrying about groceries while you’re supposed to be learning the industry.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, feeling a lump form in my throat. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t,” he said, his eyes lingering on mine for a second longer than necessary. “Now, get some rest. You’ve had a long flight. But not too long.”

He checked his watch again, calculating.

“I’m taking you to a party tonight,” he announced, his tone shifting from benevolent boss to commander.

My eyes widened, and I reflexively touched my hair, which I was sure was a flattened mess from the plane ride. “Tonight? But I’ve been traveling for hours, Christian. I look exhausted.”

“You look fresh,” he countered, walking over to a small, sleek box sitting on the kitchen counter that I hadn’t noticed earlier. He slid it across the marble surface toward me. “More importantly, this is an opportunity. One of our biggest investors is hosting. There will be photographers, other models, and clients with very deep pockets.”

I opened the box with trembling fingers. Nestled inside layers of white tissue paper was a dress. It was a deep, plunging crimson, made of a fabric that looked like liquid mercury. The straps were impossibly thin, and the neckline dipped far lower than anything I had ever worn back in Oslo. In Norway, we dressed for the wind and the snow, practical and covered. This dress was for none of those things. It was for being looked at.

“I… I’m not sure I can wear this,” I stammered, holding it up against myself. It seemed to scream for attention, while I just wanted to hide.

Christian stepped closer, his presence overwhelming in the small entryway. He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my cheek. The touch was electric, sending a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

“You are a model, Mary,” he said softly, his eyes locking onto mine, dark and intense. “Your job is to be seen. To be desired. This dress isn’t just fabric; it’s a tool. It tells the world you are confident, that you are unafraid. You want to work in this industry? You have to learn to own the room before you even speak a word.”

His hand dropped from my face, but the heat of his touch remained. I looked down at the red dress, then back at him. I didn’t want to disappoint him. He had given me this apartment, this chance. He believed in me when I was just a girl in Oslo dreaming of something bigger.

“Okay,” I whispered, picking up the box. “I’ll wear it.”

“I’ll send a car for you at eight,” Christian said, glancing at his watch again. “Don’t be late, and don’t wear too much makeup. You have a natural freshness that men—*clients*—pay a lot of money for.”

He let himself out, leaving me in a silence that felt heavy. I stood in the middle of the pristine room for a long time, just listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the distant honk of horns below. It felt surreal. My new home.

I spent the next few hours unpacking, folding my sweaters and jeans into the drawers that smelled faintly of cedar. It felt strange to see my mundane Norwegian clothes hanging in this closet. But eventually, I had to face the dress.

By 7:30 PM, the adrenaline of the flight had been replaced by a fresh wave of nerves. I stared at myself in the full-length mirror attached to the closet door. The girl staring back looked like a stranger. The red dress clung to me like a second skin, the fabric cool and unforgiving. It was significantly shorter than anything I owned, and the neckline plunged so low I felt a constant urge to pull the fabric up. I felt exposed, dangerously so, but when I looked at the overall effect, I had to admit Christian knew what he was doing. I didn’t look like a tourist from Oslo anymore; I looked like I belonged on a magazine cover.

I kept my makeup minimal, just mascara and a hint of lip gloss as he had instructed. When the buzzer rang, signaling that Christian was downstairs, my heart skipped a beat. I grabbed a small clutch and took a deep breath to steady my trembling hands.

Christian was waiting by the town car when I stepped out of the building. The way he looked at me made my flush rise instantly. It wasn’t a leering glance; it was a slow, deliberate assessment, his eyes scanning me from my heels to the top of my head. He nodded once, a smirk playing on his lips.

“You clean up well,” he said, opening the car door for me. “But then, we knew you would.”

He smelled incredible—expensive cologne mixed with the faint scent of leather and tobacco. As he slid into the seat beside me, the confined space of the car seemed to shrink. I felt hyper-aware of him, of the way his leg rested just inches from mine, of the way his eyes kept flicking over to the exposed curve of my neck.

“Relax,” he murmured, placing a hand on my knee. His fingers were warm, gripping me firmly. “Shoulders back. Chin up. You are the prize tonight, Mary. Never forget that.”

The drive wasn’t long, but the change in scenery was drastic. We left the quiet streets of my neighborhood and wound our way into a darker, more secluded area lined with towering trees and iron gates. When we finally pulled up to the investor’s mansion, I felt my jaw drop. It was a sprawling estate of white stone and glowing windows, looking like something out of a history book, or perhaps a movie about old money.

The party was a sensory assault that I hadn’t been prepared for. Back in Oslo, a house party meant sitting on a sofa, drinking cheap beer, and complaining about the weather with people I’d known since kindergarten. This was something else entirely. This was a battlefield of lust and ego masked as a social gathering.

The mansion’s ballroom was cavernous, lit by crystal chandeliers that threw fractured light over a sea of beautiful, predatory faces. The air was thick, tasting of expensive cigars, overpowering perfume, and the metallic tang of cocaine. I saw a waiter pass by with a silver tray of champagne, but beside him, another tray held small white powder arrangements that nobody was trying to hide.

Christian’s hand was a vice on the small of my back, guiding me through the throng. I felt naked in the red dress, exposed and terrified, but his touch was the only thing anchoring me to the floor.

“Relax,” Christian murmured against my ear, his breath hot. “You’re stiff. Smile.”

I tried, but it felt painted on. As we moved deeper into the room, I felt eyes on me—assessing, calculating. I caught the gaze of a striking girl near the bar, tall and blonde like me, but with hard, cold eyes. She wore a dress made entirely of sequins that caught the light like armor. She looked me up and down, her lip curling in a sneer that screamed *fresh meat*. I quickly looked away, feeling like an intruder in a sisterhood I didn’t understand yet.

We stopped near a group of men laughing loudly, their heads thrown back. They were older, maybe forty or fifty, with tanned skin and watches that glittered like diamonds. One of them, a man with a thick silver mane of hair and a belly that strained against his silk shirt, broke away from the group as he saw us.

He didn’t walk toward us so much as he loomed, blocking out the light from the chandelier. He smelled like stale scotch and heavy cologne.

“And who is this exquisite creature?” the man boomed, his eyes raking over me with a blatant hunger that made my skin crawl. He didn’t even look at Christian at first. He stepped into my personal space, far closer than a stranger ever would in Oslo. “Don’t tell me the agency is importing angels now.”

“This is Mary,” Christian said, his voice smooth but edged with steel. He placed a hand on my shoulder, possessive but not protective. “She just arrived from Norway. Mary, this is Mr. Vance. He’s one of our most valued investors.”

Mr. Vance didn’t seem to hear Christian’s introduction. He was too busy staring at the exposed curve of my neck. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His hand was warm and damp, and the touch lingered far too long.

I looked at Christian, expecting him to step in, to tell this man to back off, to show some professional decency.

Instead, Christian just watched. A small, amused smirk played on his lips as he swirled the scotch in his glass. He didn’t look angry at Mr. Vance; he looked like he was evaluating a painting he’d just purchased.

“She’s new to the city, Vance,” Christian said, his voice casual, almost dismissive. “Go easy on her. She hasn’t learned how to handle American generosity yet.”

Vance laughed, a sound that was more like a bark, and finally stepped back, though his eyes remained glued to my chest. “American generosity. I like that.” He winked at me, a gesture that made my stomach turn over. “I’ll be seeing you around, Mary.”

He drifted away, swallowed by the crowd, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. I turned to Christian, searching his face for some sign of reassurance, but he was already looking elsewhere.

“Come,” he said, steering me toward the opposite end of the room. “There are people here you actually need to meet.”

We moved away from the investors and toward the terrace, where the air was cooler but the atmosphere was no less heavy. Out here, the music was a dull throb, and the smell of cigarette smoke hung in a haze over the railing.

This was where the models were. They were draped over the furniture like living art, long limbs and glossy hair catching the moonlight. A group of three girls sat on a velvet chaise lounge, passing a glass pipe between them. Their laughter was sharp, high-pitched, and brittle.

As we approached, their laughter died. The girl in the middle, a brunette with sharp cheekbones and eyes that looked too large for her face, looked me up and down. I felt the weight of her judgment immediately. It was the same look the girl in the sequined dress had given me, but more intense.

She took a long drag from the pipe, her eyes never leaving mine, before exhaling a plume of sweet, chemical smoke directly into my face. I coughed, my eyes watering, which only seemed to amuse her.

“Fresh off the boat,” she drawled, her voice husky and bored. “Christian, really? You’re bringing children to my parties now?”

“Mary is eighteen, Elena,” Christian said, his voice mild but unbothered by her hostility. “And she has more potential in her little finger than you have in your entire entourage.”

I felt like I was drowning in the noise, the smells, and the crushing weight of so many eyes on me. I needed air that didn’t taste of expensive desperation. I mumbled an excuse to Christian about finding the restroom and slipped away, pressing my back against the cool wallpaper of the hallway as soon as I was out of sight.

I just needed a minute to breathe. To remember who I was before I stepped into this dress.

But the house was a labyrinth, and every turn seemed to lead deeper into the belly of the beast. I wandered down a corridor lined with oil paintings of stern-faced men, the bass from the ballroom vibrating faintly under my heels. I pushed open a heavy oak door, hoping for a balcony or a quiet library, but instead, I walked into a scene that made me freeze in the doorway.

The room was dimly lit, a library or study with dark wood paneling that absorbed the light from the hallway. The first thing that hit me was the smell—sharp, chemical, and undeniable.

Three men were lounging on a leather sofa, their ties loosened or discarded entirely. On the low table in front of them, lines of white powder were arranged with geometric precision. But it was what was happening on the Persian rug that made my breath hitch in my throat.

A girl who couldn’t have been older than twenty was on her knees. Her dress was bunched around her waist, and she was servicing a man who sat with his head thrown back, a glass of whiskey resting casually on his knee. He wasn’t looking at her; he was laughing at something one of the other men had said, his hand tangled roughly in her hair, guiding her movements as if she were nothing more than a prop.

I stumbled back, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a gasp, but it was too late. The man with his hand in the girl’s hair turned his head. His eyes were glazed, glassy and unfocused, but when he saw me, a lazy, predatory grin spread across his face.

“Looks like we have a voyeur, boys,” he slurred, not even stopping the girl. “You like the show, sweetheart? You want to join the line?”

The heat of humiliation rushed up my neck so fast it made me dizzy. In Norway, sexuality was private, something hidden behind closed doors and drawn curtains. It was respectful. This… this was a performance. It was dirty and public and utterly devoid of intimacy. I felt like I needed to scrub my eyes just from looking at it.

I turned and fled, the sound of the man’s wet laughter chasing me down the hall. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I didn’t stop until I burst through the heavy oak doors of the ballroom, the sudden wall of noise and heat hitting me like a physical blow.

I scanned the frantic, writhing crowd, desperate for a lifeline. I spotted Christian near the center of the room, engaged in what looked like an intense conversation with a man in a sharp suit. I pushed my way through the tangled limbs and spilling drinks, my vision blurring. I just wanted to go home. I wanted to take off this dress that felt like a target on my back.

Christian’s eyes didn’t widen in surprise. If anything, the calmness there deepened, settling into something reassuring yet undeniably controlling. He placed a hand over mine where it gripped his sleeve, his palm warm and firm.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping in closer so that his body shielded mine from the prying eyes of the room. “Breathe, Mary. Just look at me.”

I obeyed, focusing on the sharp line of his jaw and the steady rhythm of his breathing, trying to block out the chaotic thumping of the bass and the hazy, chemical air.

“You’re overwhelmed,” he stated, his tone not judgmental, but assessing. “It’s a lot to take in. The first time always is.”

I nodded, my throat tight. “It’s just… so different from home. In Norway, this kind of thing… it’s hidden. And those men, the way they touched me, the things they said… and the girl in the other room…” I trailed off, unable to voice the degradation I’d witnessed. “I felt like I was doing something wrong just by being here.”

Christian sighed, a sound of exaggerated patience, and reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers grazed my cheek, lingering there. “Mary, Mary. You’re too innocent for your own good. That’s why you’re perfect. But you have to understand the difference between wrong and… necessary.”

“You saw a side of the business that is… raw,” Christian said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the thumping bass of the music. “But you can’t judge it by Norway’s standards. This isn’t a social gathering in Oslo. This is the engine of the industry, Mary. The money that pays for that beautiful apartment you’re sleeping in tonight comes from these men. The champagne, the clothes, the life you want—it’s all fueled by this.”

He cupped my chin, tilting my head up until I had no choice but to look into his dark, unreadable eyes.

Christian’s thumb stroked my cheekbone, his touch possessive. “You could never disappoint me, Mary. You didn’t break. You came to me.” He dropped his hand, his gaze sweeping over the party one last time with a look of cool detachment before settling back on me. “Let’s get you out of here. You’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

The drive back to the city felt longer than the way there, the silence in the car heavy and thick. Christian didn’t turn on the radio. He just drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the center console, his fingers drumming an erratic rhythm. I curled into the leather seat, hugging my arms around myself, trying to suppress the shivering that had taken hold of me.

The drive back to the city was a blur of streaming lights and shadow. The silence in the car was heavy, no longer filled with the easy anticipation of the ride to the party. Christian didn’t attempt to make small talk, and I didn’t dare speak. I felt fragile, like glass that had been rattled too hard, and I was terrified that if I opened my mouth, I would shatter.

When the car finally pulled up to the modern brick building where my new apartment was located, the sight of it brought a wave of relief so intense it made my knees weak. It wasn’t a mansion filled with predators and smoke; it was just a building. It was neutral ground.

Christian opened the car door for me, his hand lingering on my lower back as he steered me inside. The doorman nodded respectfully at him, and we rode the elevator up in silence. The mirrored walls reflected us—a towering, confident man in an expensive suit and a scared girl in a red dress that felt too tight, too revealing, too much.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing the quiet, sterile hallway of the sixteenth floor. I fumbled with my keys, my fingers clumsy and numb, but Christian didn’t rush me. He just stood there, a solid presence behind me, radiating a heat that seeped through the thin fabric of my dress.

Finally, the lock clicked. I pushed the door open and stumbled inside, kicking off my heels. The relief of being off my feet was instantaneous, but it did nothing to settle the turmoil in my chest.

Christian closed the door behind us, engaging the deadbolt with a sharp, definitive click. The sound echoed in the silence of the apartment.

I walked straight to the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the city. The lights of Manhattan stretched out endlessly below, a sea of gold and white that looked beautiful from this height but felt cold and distant. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to rub away the goosebumps that had risen on my skin. The apartment was perfectly climate-controlled, yet I felt chilled.

I heard the soft clink of glass against marble. Christian had moved to the kitchen area.

“Good girl,” Christian murmured, stepping closer until I could feel the heat radiating from his body. He was standing so close that his scent, a mix of expensive leather, sandalwood, and that distinct musk that was just him, overwhelmed the smell of the drink. “You were incredible tonight. I know it was a lot. Most girls would have run for the airport or collapsed in a corner sobbing. But you? You held your head high.”

“I wanted to run,” I admitted softly, staring at his reflection in the darkened glass of the window. “I felt like I didn’t belong. Like everyone was staring at me, waiting for me to make a mistake.”

“They were staring,” Christian admitted, his voice low and raspy against my ear. He didn’t step back; instead, he pressed closer, the front of his body molding against my back. I could feel the hard planes of his chest and the buckle of his belt digging into my spine. “But they weren’t waiting for you to fail, Mary. They were staring because they’ve never seen anyone like you before. You have a light that this city hasn’t managed to put out yet.”

I took another sip of the drink, the whiskey warming my blood, making my limbs feel heavy and loose. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that I wasn’t just a naive girl from the suburbs who had stumbled into a lion’s den. “It felt… predatory. The way Mr. Vance looked at me. And that girl, Elena…”

“They are predators,” Christian said simply, his hand moving from my shoulder to trace the line of my jaw, tilting my head back against his shoulder. “This industry eats the weak. But you aren’t weak. I saw it in your eyes. You were terrified, yes, but you didn’t break. That kind of resilience… it’s rare. It’s what makes you a star.”

His praise was a drug more potent than the whiskey or the fumes in that mansion. I leaned back against him, my legs feeling unsteady, grateful for his solid strength behind me.

“Thank you,” I whispered, the words trembling on my lips. “I was so scared I’d embarrass you.”

Christian let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated against my back. “Embarrass me? Never. You were the most beautiful thing in that room. Every man there wanted you, and every woman there wanted to be you. That is power, Mary. And the best part? You were mine. I brought you there.”

“You were mine,” he repeated, the words dropping like stones into the deep, quiet pool of the room. “I chose you. I arranged this. While they were just looking, I was the one holding your hand. I was the one who brought you home.”

His hand slid from my jaw down the column of my neck, his fingers tracing the frantic flutter of my pulse. It was intimate and overwhelming, but the whiskey had warmed my blood, turning my fear into a hazy, heavy desire to be exactly what he said I was—his.

“Turn around,” he commanded softly.

I turned slowly, the fabric of the red dress swishing around my legs. The alcohol was hitting me now, a warm, swirling fog that blurred the sharp edges of my fear and made the lights of the city outside the window seem like distant stars.

Christian was looking down at me, his expression no longer the calm, professional mask he wore at the party. His eyes were darker, burning with an intensity that made my breath hitch. He reached out, his fingers tangling in my hair, tilting my head back further, exposing my throat.

“You have no idea what you do to me, Mary,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, rough and primal. “Watching you walk through that crowd… watching them want you, knowing I was the one who brought you… it drove me crazy.”

He didn’t wait for a response. His mouth crashed down on mine, hungry and demanding. There was no gentle testing of the waters, no tentative exploration. His kiss was a claim, branding me as his territory. I gasped against his lips, the taste of whiskey and his own unique flavor flooding my senses.

My body reacted before my mind could catch up. I melted against him, my hands finding their way to his lapels to steady myself. The fear and confusion from the party began to transmute, twisting into a desperate need for validation, for approval, for him to erase the feeling of being so small and exposed.

Christian groaned low in his throat, one hand tangling roughly in my hair, tipping my head back to deepen the kiss, while the other arm wrapped around my waist, crushing me against his hard chest. The buckle of his belt dug into my stomach, a sharp reminder of the power dynamic between us, but in that moment, it didn’t feel frightening. It felt like an anchor.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and dilated. A thin strand of moisture connected our lips before it snapped. He looked at me like he was starving, and I was the only thing that could satiate him.

“You’re trembling,” he whispered, but he didn’t sound concerned. He sounded pleased.

“I’m nervous,” I admitted, my voice barely audible.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice a dark vibration against my lips. “Nervous means you’re alive. It means you feel this.”

He didn’t give me time to process the words. His hand moved from my waist to my hip, gripping me with a bruising force, and suddenly the room was spinning. He walked me backward, steering me blindly until my legs hit the edge of the beige sofa. He didn’t ask me to sit; he simply pressed down on my shoulders, a silent command that my body obeyed instantly.

I sank into the cushions, looking up at him. He towered over me, a silhouette blocking out the city lights, his expression unreadable save for the hunger that darkened his eyes. He reached out, his fingers tracing the strap of the red dress, his touch almost reverent, but the look in his eyes was anything but.

“Christian,” I breathed, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The apartment felt suddenly very small, the air charged with a tension that was terrifying and electric all at once.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he gripped the fabric of my dress at the waist, his knuckles grazing the skin of my stomach, and with a swift, decisive tug, he pulled the red material down. The silk pooled around my hips, leaving my upper body exposed to the cool air of the room and the scorching heat of his gaze.

I instinctively moved to cover myself, my arms crossing over my chest, a flush of shame and modesty rising to my cheeks. In Norway, this was private. This was for the dark, for quiet moments, not for a man I had only known in person for a few hours.

“Don’t,” Christian commanded, his voice sharp enough to cut through the haze of alcohol. He caught my wrists, his grip firm and unyielding, and pulled my arms away, pinning them to my sides. “Never hide from me. I want to see you.”

The authority in his voice made me freeze. It was the same tone he used when he spoke about the agency, about my career—absolute, confident, expecting obedience. I let my arms fall limp at my sides, my breath hitching in my throat as his eyes raked over me. The cool air of the apartment pricked my skin, raising goosebumps, but under his gaze, I felt like I was burning.

“Perfect,” he murmured, almost to himself. He reached out, his hand skimming up my ribcage, his touch sending jolts of electricity through me. “You have the body of a woman, Mary, but the reactions of a frightened little girl. We’re going to have to fix that.”

I bit my lip, my eyes squeezing shut as his hand continued its slow, possessive exploration. I felt exposed, not just physically, but emotionally. I was laid bare before him, a tangle of Nordic reserve and adolescent longing, and he was dissecting me with surgical precision.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

My eyes flew open. He was watching my face intently, cataloging every flutter of my eyelids, every shallow breath. It was terrifying, but it also grounded me. As long as he was looking at me, I didn’t feel like I was drifting away into the overwhelming chaos of the city.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over my lower lip until it parted instinctively. “Everything you feel is written right here. You can’t hide it.”

He released my wrists, but the freedom was illusory. His presence alone was enough to pin me in place. I sat there, exposed from the waist up, the cool air of the apartment battling with the heat flushing my skin. I felt small, strangely fragile, and yet entirely seen.

Christian stepped back slightly, just enough to allow his gaze to sweep over me again, a predator admiring the lines of his prey. He reached for the tumbler I had set on the coffee table and took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Please,” I whispered, the sound barely escaping my throat. The plea was vague—to stop, to continue, to tell me what to do—but it hung in the air between us, heavy with implication.

Christian didn’t ask what I meant. He didn’t need to. He set the glass down with a deliberate clink, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Then, with a controlled strength that terrified and thrilled me, he gripped my hips and yanked me forward. My back slid down the cushions, until I was lying flat, looking up at him. The angle made him seem even larger, a monolith blocking out the light from the window.

He knelt on the sofa, one knee between my legs, pushing them apart. The position was aggressive, dominant, leaving me completely open to him. I felt a spike of panic, a primal instinct to scramble away, but the weight of his gaze held me pinned more effectively than his hands ever could.

“Ssh,” he soothed, though the sound was rough, scraping against the quiet of the room. He brought one hand to my chest, right over my racing heart. “Do you feel that? That’s fear, Mary. But fear is just energy. You just need to learn where to put it.”

His hand didn’t stay there. With agonizing slowness, he traced the valley between my breasts, down the plane of my stomach, his fingers leaving a trail of fire in their wake. My breath hitched, my muscles locking up under his touch. I was torn between the urge to shy away and the desperate need to be closer to him, to dissolve into his certainty.

He reached the fabric of my dress still bunched around my hips. Without a word, he hooked his fingers into the material and tugged. I lifted my hips instinctively, letting him slide the red silk down my legs and toss it carelessly onto the floor. I lay there in nothing but my underwear, the cool air raising goosebumps across my skin, feeling more naked than I ever had in my life.

I lay there shivering, not from cold, but from the sheer intensity of his gaze. I had never been looked at like this before. In Norway, sex was natural, often casual—a mutual exploration in the dark with boys I knew, boys who were gentle and hesitant. But this was different. This wasn’t about the body; it was about the power. Christian looked at me like he was unwrapping a gift he had already paid for, examining the merchandise for flaws before he took it for his own.

Christian didn’t wait. He settled his hips between my thighs, the rough fabric of his suit trousers grazing against the sensitive skin of my legs, scratching and abrasive. The weight of him was heavy, grounding, inescapable. He leaned down, bracing one hand on the back of the sofa beside my head, caging me in.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his eyes roaming over my face, watching my every reaction like a hawk. “Good girl.”

He didn’t kiss me again. Instead, his hand moved to the clasp of my bra. It was a simple motion, practiced and efficient, and with a snap, the fabric gave way. He pulled the straps down my arms, exposing me completely to the cool air of the room and the burning weight of his gaze. I instinctively moved to cover myself, a reflex born of years of modest living, but he caught my wrists in one hand, pinning them effortlessly above my head against the armrest.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I felt the mattress dip as he shifted his weight, and then the rough fabric of his trousers was gone as he stood up briefly. The sound of a zipper lowering in the quiet room sounded impossibly loud, like a gunshot in the silence.

My eyes snapped open at the sound. I watched, breathless and frozen, as Christian shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the armchair with careless disregard. Next came his tie, pulled loose with a sharp tug. He didn’t look at me as he undid the buttons of his shirt, revealing the pale, sculpted muscle of his chest underneath. His movements were efficient, stripped of the gentle hesitation I might have expected from a lover. This wasn’t about romance; it was about business.

He returned to the sofa, his weight dipping the cushions, and settled between my legs once more. The feel of his skin against mine was electric—a shock of heat against my feverish body. He leaned over me, supporting himself on one arm, while his free hand roamed the curve of my waist, his grip firm and possessive.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for this?” he murmured, his voice rough with suppressed hunger. His eyes bored into mine, dark and unreadable. “Since I first saw your portfolio. That innocent face, those eyes… I knew I had to have you here. I knew I had to be the one to break you in.”

He didn’t give me time to respond to the terrifying thrill of his words. His hand moved from my waist to the last barrier between us, his fingers hooking into the lace of my underwear. With a sharp, decisive tug that tore the delicate fabric, he stripped them away.

The sound of ripping lace echoed through the quiet room, startling a gasp out of me. I was completely bare beneath him, exposed to the cool air conditioning and the scorching heat of his gaze. I felt a wild, instinctual urge to clamp my legs shut, but his hips were wedged firmly between my thighs, an immovable object that denied me any retreat.

“Look at me,” he commanded again when I tried to turn my face away, burying it in the cushion to escape the intensity of his stare. His hand gripped my chin, forcing my head back, his fingers digging into my cheeks. “Don’t you dare look away. I want you to see who is touching you.”

“You need to learn to associate this feeling with success,” he murmured, his breath hot against my lips. “This pressure? This intensity? That’s what it feels like to win. To be wanted by everyone, but possessed by someone who knows exactly what to do with you.”

He didn’t wait for my agreement. He didn’t need it. With a smooth, practiced motion, he reached down, gripping himself. He stroked himself once, twice, his eyes locked on mine, gauging my reaction. The sight of him, so hard and ready, sent a fresh wave of panic laced with dark anticipation crashing through me.

“Christian,” I gasped, my hands flying up to press against his chest, not to push him away, but to anchor myself as I felt the blunt, heavy head of him press against my entrance.

“Ssh,” he hushed me, not slowing down. He caught my wrists again, pinning them effortlessly against the cushions beside my head. “Just breathe, Mary. Don’t fight it.”

Then he pushed inside.

He didn’t ease into it. There was no careful accommodation for the shock of his size. He drove forward with a force that knocked the air out of my lungs, burying himself to the hilt in one sharp, powerful thrust. A cry tore from my throat, a raw sound of shock that was instantly swallowed by the city noise drifting through the window.

My back arched off the sofa, my body instinctively trying to recoil, to escape the sudden, intrusive fullness, but his grip on my wrists was iron-clad, and his hips pinned me down, trapping me exactly where he wanted me. I gasped, my body stretching around him, the friction intense and immediate. I wasn’t the innocent girl he seemed to want to pretend I was; I knew what this was, I knew how bodies fit together. But this was different. This wasn’t the clumsy, eager fumbling in the back of a car or the polite exploration in a twin bed back in Oslo. This was a taking.

“God, you feel incredible,” Christian groaned, his voice strained but laced with dark satisfaction. He didn’t move for a moment, letting my body adjust to the sudden, overwhelming intrusion, letting the reality of the situation sink in. I was pinned beneath him, filled completely, utterly at his mercy. The sensation was a heavy, stretching pressure that made my head spin, erasing every thought from my mind but the feel of him inside me.

“Relax,” he commanded, his voice a low growl against my ear. “You’re fighting me. Stop fighting.”

“I can’t… it’s too much,” I gasped, my hands scrabbling for purchase on the smooth leather of his shoulders, desperate to anchor myself against the onslaught of sensation. The sheer size of him was a shock to my system, a heavy, dragging pressure that bordered on an ache, despite my past experiences. This wasn’t the tentative exploration I was used to; this was an occupation.

“Stop thinking,” Christian gritted out, his jaw clenched tight as he loomed over me. He shifted his weight, one hand sliding down to grip my thigh, pushing it higher, opening me up impossibly wider. The change in angle made me cry out, a sharp, broken sound that was swallowed instantly by the city noise drifting through the window. “Just let it happen. Let go.”

I tried to obey. I tried to let my muscles unclench, to stop fighting the overwhelming intrusion, but my body was reacting on instinct, tightening around him in a futile attempt to process the intensity. He groaned at the resistance, the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine, a dark, primal noise that terrified me as much as it thrilled me.

“That’s it,” he hissed, not slowing down, his rhythm punishing and relentless. “Take it. You’re not in Oslo anymore, Mary. This is the big league. You think you know what this is? You don’t have a clue.”

He withdrew, almost all the way, before slamming back into me, the force of it stealing the breath from my lungs and making my teeth rattle. The friction was undeniable, an overload of sensation that my body couldn’t categorize. It wasn’t the gentle, rhythmic friction I was used to; this was a calculated, demanding drag against every sensitive nerve ending.

He set a pace that was utterly ruthless. There was no hesitation, no period of adjustment where he allowed me to catch my breath. He withdrew until only the head remained, pausing for a fraction of a second—just long enough for me to realize the emptiness—before driving forward again, burying himself deep with a sharp, powerful snap of his hips.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a raw, rhythmic percussion that drowned out the distant hum of the city traffic below. It was a stark, violent sound that seemed to underscore his words. I wasn’t making love to a man; I was being conquered by a force of nature.

“You thought you knew what you were getting into,” he growled, punctuating his words with another thrust that made me gasp. “You thought because you let a few boys fumble with you in the backseats of cars in Oslo that you were experienced? That you were worldly?”

He laughed then, a low, dark sound that vibrated against my chest. It wasn’t a amused laugh; it was the sound of a man correcting a foolish error. “This isn’t a game, Mary. This is business. And you are the asset.”

The word hung in the air—cold, dehumanizing, and somehow hotter than anything I had ever felt. He shifted his grip, releasing my thigh to wrap his hand around my throat. He didn’t squeeze, just held me there, his thumb resting against my pulse point. A possessive handle.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his hips never ceasing their relentless rhythm.

I forced my eyes open, the world blurring through the sheen of tears that had gathered. Christian’s face was above mine, harsh and beautiful in the dim light, his expression carved from granite and lust. He wasn’t looking at me with the soft, adoring gaze I was used to; he was looking at me like a man verifying the quality of an investment.

“You’re tight,” he grunted, the words pushed out of him with the force of his next thrust. “But not tight enough to be innocent. I knew it. I could see it in your eyes, the way you moved. You’re a quick study, aren’t you? Or maybe just… eager.”

I wanted to contradict him, to tell him that I wasn’t *easy*, that I was just a normal girl from a normal city, but the words died in my throat every time he snapped his hips forward. He was hitting a depth inside me that had never been touched before, a place that made my legs tremble and my vision white out at the edges. It didn’t matter that I had done this before; I had never been *taken* like this.

The hand around my throat tightened—not enough to cut off my air, but enough to restrict the flow just enough to make my heart hammer against my ribs like a trapped bird. The restriction sent a rush of lightheadedness through me, a dizzying high that blurred the edges of the room and stripped away my ability to do anything but feel.

“Eager,” he repeated, the word a dark taunt. He leaned down, his face inches from mine, his breath hot and ragged. “I can feel it. The way you’re squeezing me. You like this. You like the risk.”

I wanted to deny it. I wanted to tell him that I was overwhelmed, that this was too much, too fast, too rough. But my body betrayed me. My inner muscles clenched around him, a greedy, instinctive reaction that drew a guttural groan from deep in his chest.

The admission in my body’s reaction seemed to shatter the last of his control. His grip on my throat tightened fractionally, sending a fresh wave of adrenaline crashing through my veins, and then his mouth was on mine.

This wasn’t a kiss. It was an invasion. His lips crushed mine, his tongue forcing its way past my teeth with a dominant sweep that tasted of whiskey and demand. He swallowed my gasps, swallowing the very air I was trying to breathe, consuming me as completely as his body was claiming me below. I felt possessed, owned in a way that went far beyond the physical act.

“Christian,” I managed to gasp when he finally let me come up for air, my voice wrecked, barely recognizable as my own. “Please… it’s too deep.”

“Deep is where the money is, Mary,” he rasped against my mouth, his breath mingling with mine in the humid space between us. He didn’t withdraw. If anything, he pressed harder, grinding his hips against mine in a slow, agonizing circle that forced a ragged moan from my throat. “You don’t get to the top by staying in the shallow end.”

He released my throat, his hand moving to grip the back of the sofa, using the leverage to drive into me with renewed vigor. The change in angle was brutal, hitting a spot that made my vision fracture into jagged pieces of light and dark. I wasn’t floating anymore; I was drowning, pulled under by the relentless current of his body.

“You think that was rough?” he growled, punctuating his words with sharp, jarring thrusts that made the sofa frame creak in protest. “That was just the interview. I’m seeing if you can handle the pressure. If you break when things get a little… intense.”

“You’re not breaking,” he observed, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly murmur that vibrated against my sternum. “You’re thriving. God, look at you.”

His eyes roamed over my face, cataloging every flush of heat, every furrow of confused pleasure. He seemed to derive a dark satisfaction from my disorientation, drinking it in like fine wine.

“Those boys in Oslo,” he spat the word like it was a curse, his rhythm unrelenting. “They probably treated you like porcelain. Like you were fragile. Did they ask permission for every touch? Did they whisper sweet nothings and apologize if they made you feel too much?”

I couldn’t answer. The question was rhetorical, a verdict he had already passed. My breath hitched, trapped in my chest by the relentless rhythm he was setting. The mention of my past, of the boys in Oslo who had touched me with tentative reverence, felt like a different lifetime entirely.

“They did,” Christian answered for me, a dark smirk curling his lips as he watched the realization dawn on my face. “I can see it in the way you react. You’re waiting for the apology. You’re waiting for the pause.”

He shifted suddenly, gripping the backs of my knees and pushing them up toward my chest, folding me nearly in half. The position left me completely vulnerable, open to him in a way that made my heart hammer against my ribs.

“Christian!” The cry was torn from my throat, a jagged sound that barely resembled my own voice. The new angle allowed him deeper still, a possession so absolute it felt like he was rearranging my insides, carving out a space where only he existed.

“I know,” he gritted out, his jaw tight, a sheen of sweat breaking over his brow. “I can feel it. You’re so full of me.”

He wasn’t making love to me. He wasn’t even having sex with me in the way I understood it. He was using my body to chase his own climax, and the terrifying part was that my body was responding to it. The friction was building a fire low in my belly, a heat that was completely different from the gentle warmth I was used to. It was demanding, insistent, a coil winding tighter and tighter with every punishing thrust.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he taunted, his voice a low vibration against my chest. He didn’t sound like a lover discovering a secret; he sounded like a mechanic confirming a diagnosis. “I can feel it. You’re gripping me like a vice.”

I shook my head frantically, denying it, denying him, even as the coil in my belly wound tighter, threatening to snap. “No,” I gasped, my fingers scrabbling uselessly against the sweat-slicked leather of his shoulders. “I… I can’t.”

“You can,” he gritted out, the words punctuated by the sharp slap of skin against skin. “You have no choice. You’re here. You’re mine. Let go.”

The pressure inside me built to a breaking point, a tight coil of sensation that bordered on agony. I felt like a violin string pulled too taut, vibrating with a frequency that was about to snap. His hand on my jaw forced me to keep looking at him, to see the dark, triumphant glint in his eyes as he watched me fall apart.

My body betrayed me completely. With a sharp, broken cry that tore at my throat, the coil inside me snapped. My back bowed off the sofa, my vision flashing white as the orgasm crashed over me—violent, overwhelming, and terrifying in its intensity. It wasn’t the gentle, rolling wave of pleasure I had read about in books or imagined in the safety of my bedroom in Oslo; it was a demolition. My inner muscles clenched rhythmically around him, an instinctive, milking spasm that wrested a guttural groan from deep within Christian’s chest.

“That’s it,” he hissed, his voice a mix of triumph and exertion. He didn’t stop moving, riding out the convulsions of my body with a relentless, punishing rhythm that prolonged the pleasure until it bordered on torture. “Take it. Every. Last. Drop.”

I lay there, boneless and gasping, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird desperate to escape. The room was spinning, the stark white ceiling of the apartment blurring with the shadows cast by the city lights filtering through the window. My body felt foreign, heavy and used, marked by the roughness of his touch and the undeniable reality of what had just happened.

Christian didn’t pull away immediately. He stayed inside me for a long moment, his breathing ragged and heavy against my neck. He pressed his forehead to my shoulder, his sweat slicking against my skin, grounding me in the aftermath of the storm. For a brief second, there was a silence in the room that felt almost dangerous—a void where the only sounds were our ragged breaths and the distant, indifferent hum of New York City outside.

Then, he moved. He pulled away, the loss of his heat leaving a sudden, chilling void on my skin. I heard the sound of a zipper—rough, metallic, and final—and the rustle of fabric as he straightened his clothes.

I curled into myself, pulling my knees up to my chest as a cold, sharp wave of shame washed over me. I was naked, exposed in the center of the room while he was already buttoning his cuffs, restoring the armor of his impeccable suit. The contrast was jarring. I felt like a doll that had been played with too roughly and then discarded on the floor.

Christian walked over to the wet bar in the corner of the room, his movements fluid and unconcerned. The clink of ice against crystal cut through the heavy silence. He poured himself a drink, his back to me, taking a moment to compose himself. It was terrifying how calm he was. It was as if the storm that had just wrecked me hadn’t even touched him.

“Drink?”

I shook my head, unable to find my voice. I felt small and fragile, shrinking into the corner of the sofa while he stood tall, impeccably dressed, the picture of control.

Christian didn’t press the issue. He took a slow sip of his drink, the ice clinking softly, the sound echoing in the sudden, oppressive silence of the room. He walked back toward me, stopping just out of reach, leaning his shoulder against the white wall. He looked down at me, his gaze analytical, devoid of the tenderness I might have hoped for after such intimacy.

“You did well, Mary,” he said, his voice smooth, devoid of the roughness that had marked his passion only moments ago. “Better than I expected. Most girls would have cracked by now. They would have safeworded. They would have cried for their mothers.”

“Is that… is that what this was?” I stammered, pulling the hem of the discarded dress up to cover myself as best I could. My voice sounded thin, reed-like in the large, echoing room. “A test?”

Christian took another slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving my face. “Everything is a test. You’re in New York now. The people here, the men at the party tonight—they will try to break you just to see if you shatter. If you shatter, you’re useless to us. If you bend…” He paused, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “If you bend, you can be molded into something extraordinary.”

I felt a cold shiver trace its way down my spine, despite the lingering heat in my body. I was naked on a sofa, clutching a torn dress, while a fully clothed man discussed my marketability over a glass of scotch. I should have felt violated. I should have grabbed my bag and run for the door. But as I looked at him—at the undeniable power radiating from him, at the way he looked at me not just as a body, but as a project—I realized with a terrifying jolt that I didn’t want to run.