Chapter 2
The text message arrived at 7:58 AM on Monday. Be in the lobby at 9:00. Sharp.
No signature was needed. The week of waiting was over. Julian felt a surge of adrenaline so potent it made his hands tremble as he tied his shoes. He chose his nicest pair of black chinos and a crisp blue button-down, the best he had. He felt a pang of insecurity about his wardrobe, Andre’s critique from the party still echoing in his mind.
He arrived at the Silva & Arc tower at 8:50, the early morning sun glinting off its dark glass. The same serene receptionist greeted him with a nod, and this time, the elevator ride felt different. He wasn't a visitor anymore.
Andre was standing by the massive drafting table, dressed in a tailored navy suit that seemed to radiate authority. He looked up as Julian approached, a faint, unreadable smile on his lips.
“Julian. You’re early. I like that,” he said, his voice a low baritone that seemed to command the very air in the room. “Your desk is over there.”
He gestured to a small, minimalist workstation positioned diagonally from his own drafting table. It was perfectly placed for Andre to see Julian’s screen and monitor his every move, but far enough away to enforce a sense of isolation. There was no clutter, no personal items. It was a blank slate.
“Your first task,” Andre continued, not even giving Julian a chance to reply. “The Cliff House. The client has requested a minor revision. They want to explore a different material for the interior walls. I want you to generate three distinct material palette studies. Polished concrete, blackened steel, and reclaimed barn wood. Render them. Have them on my desk by noon.”
Julian’s heart leaped. This was it. Real work. On the Cliff House. “Yes, sir. Right away.”
He sat down, powered on the high-end computer, and dove into the project. The software was intuitive, the files were impeccably organized. He was in his element. For three hours, he lost himself in the work, his fingers flying across the keyboard, manipulating textures and light. He was good at this. He knew he was. By 11:45, he had three stunning, photorealistic renderings. They were clean, professional, and exactly what was asked for. He felt a swell of pride.
He saved the files, sent them to the large-format printer in the corner, and carefully collected the warm, crisp pages. He walked toward Andre’s desk, his step light with confidence.
Andre didn’t look up from his own work as Julian approached. He simply held out a hand. Julian placed the renderings on it.
Andre spent exactly thirty seconds looking at them. He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He simply tapped one finger on the polished concrete rendering. “This one is acceptable.”
He then pushed the other two. Julian’s personal favorites, the ones he’d spent the most time on. “These are sentimental. Barn wood belongs in a farmhouse, not a brutalist sanctuary. Blackened steel is a cliché. You gave the client what they asked for, not what they needed. You designed for their taste, not for the integrity of the structure. Do you understand the difference?”
Julian’s pride curdled into a hot flush of shame. “I… I was just exploring the options.”
“Exploration is for children. Architects provide solutions,” Andre said, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet level. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes pinning Julian in place. “Your technical skill is adequate. But your judgment is flawed. It’s tainted by a desperate need to be liked, to be praised. You’re still designing for your mother’s approval. That mindset has no place here.”
The words were a physical blow. Andre saw right through him, past the architecture and into the hollow, needy core of his being.
“Your work today is a reflection of your life, Julian,” Andre continued, standing and walking around the desk until he was standing directly in front of him. He was close enough that Julian could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne. “You try to please everyone, and in doing so, you please no one. Least of all yourself.”
He paused, letting the silence stretch, thick with judgment. “We will fix this. But the problem isn’t in your hands. It’s in your head. You need to learn to make a decision and own it, without seeking validation. You need to learn to impose your will.”
He looked Julian up and down, a slow, deliberate assessment. “I have a new task for you. It’s due tonight. It has nothing to do with renderings,” he says while getting up.
Julian’s breath hitched.
“Tonight, you will be with your girlfriend Alice,” Andre said, his voice dropping to a confidential, conspiratorial whisper that was more terrifying than any shout. “You will fuck her.”
The word hit Julian like a slap. He stared, his mouth agape, certain he’d misheard. Before he could
“But you will not do it as the kind, devoted boyfriend she thinks you have,” Andre continued, his gaze unwavering. “You will not make love. You will not be gentle. You will not ask her what she wants. You will go to her, and you will use her. You will be selfish and dominant. You will take what you want, and you will give nothing back but the act itself. When you are finished, you will get up, shower, and go to sleep. You will not cuddle. You will not kiss her goodnight. You will turn your back to her and you will think of the structural integrity of the Cliff House.”
The room felt like it was tilting. This was insane. It was cruel. It was a violation of everything he was.
“What?” Julian choked out, the word barely audible. “Sir, I do not believe this is profes-”
“Architecture is not about pretty pictures, Julian,” Andre cuts him off. “It is about imposing a will upon space. It is about dominance. It is about creating a reality and forcing others to live within it,” Andre said, his voice intense, almost religious. “If you cannot even dominate the woman in your own bed, how can you ever hope to dominate a landscape? How can you bend steel and concrete to your vision if you cannot bend one person to your will?”
He leaned in even closer, his lips nearly brushing Julian’s ear. “This is not about her. This is about you. I need to know that you are capable of making a choice that serves only you. I need to know that you can follow an order, no matter how… unconventional. Prove to me you can be the architect of your own life, not just the handyman for everyone else’s.”
He straightened up, his expression returning to one of cool authority. “You have your assignment. Do not disappoint me again.”
He turned and walked back to his drafting table, leaving Julian standing there, the rejected renderings clutched in his hand, his world completely and utterly upended. “You may leave, we have no more use for you today.”
The walk to Alice’s apartment was a blur. The ten blocks from the metro station felt like a march to his own execution. The rejected renderings were crumpled in his hand, the sharp edges of the paper digging into his palm. Andre’s words echoed in his skull, a relentless sermon on dominance and will. You will be selfish and dominant. You will take what you want. The very thought was alien, a parasite invading the host of his own personality.
He let himself in with his key. The apartment smelled of lavender and the tomato sauce she’d simmered for dinner. It was the scent of home, of comfort, of everything he was about to violate.
Alice was curled on the couch, a textbook in her lap, looking up with a smile that was pure and unguarded. “Jules! You’re early. I thought you’d be stuck at the office all night.”
He didn’t smile back. He just stood there, his keys still in his hand, the silence stretching into something uncomfortable. He saw the flicker of confusion in her eyes.
“Work was… intense,” he managed, his voice a rough monotone.
He walked toward her, his movements feeling stiff and rehearsed. He stopped in front of the couch, looking down at her. This was the moment. He could sit, he could explain, he could be the Julian she knew. Or he could be the man Andre demanded he become.
He chose.
He reached down, not for her hand, but for the textbook. He closed it, placed it on the coffee table with a definitive thud, and then took her wrist. His grip was firm, not bruising, but unyielding. It was a grip that asked for nothing, it simply took.
“Jules?” Her voice was small, uncertain.
He pulled her to her feet. He didn’t say a word. He just led her toward the bedroom, his hand locked around her wrist like a shackle. Her confusion was palpable, a nervous energy thrumming from her skin into his. He could feel her trying to catch his eye, but he kept his gaze fixed forward, on the door to the bedroom.
Once inside, he released her. He began to undress himself, not with seduction, but with a cold, methodical efficiency. His shirt, his pants, his boxers, each piece shed and dropped to the floor. He was naked, his body lean and tense, a tool prepared for a function. He was no longer Julian, the loving boyfriend. He was an instrument of Andre’s will.
He turned to her. She was still fully clothed, her arms wrapped around herself in a protective gesture. Her eyes were wide, searching his face for the man she loved and finding a stranger.
“Undress,” he said. The word came out flat, an order, not a request.
He saw the hurt flash across her face, but beneath it, something else. A flicker of intrigue, of submission to this sudden, shocking authority. She hesitated for only a second before her fingers went to the hem of her shirt. He watched as she exposed her body to him, her movements slow, shy. He felt nothing. No desire, no tenderness. Just a hollow, thrumming purpose.
He pushed her back onto the bed. It wasn't a fall; it was a placement. He followed her down, his weight a deliberate pressure that stole the air from her lungs. He didn't kiss her mouth. Instead, he bit the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder, a sharp, possessive nip that made her yelp. But the sound was followed by a low, breathy moan.
His hands were not caressing; they were claiming. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to leave bruises, and flipped her over with a single, decisive movement.
“On your knees,” he commanded, his voice a low growl he didn't know he possessed.
Alice froze, her breath catching. For a terrifying second, Julian thought she would tell him to stop. But then, a shudder ran through her body, and she complied, her movements slow, deliberate, as she positioned herself on all fours. The vulnerability of the posture was absolute. He knelt behind her, the head of his cock nudging against her entrance, slick and insistent. He gave no warning, no gentle preparation. He drove all 8 inches of him into her in one hard, deep thrust that forced a guttural cry from her throat.
The sound was ugly, raw. It was the sound of being taken. He set a brutal rhythm, his hands holding her hips in a bruising grip, pulling her back to meet each punishing stroke. The slap of skin on skin was loud in the quiet room, a percussive beat to his conquest. He was watching the physical evidence of his domination: the way her body arched and strained under his, the flush spreading across her back. He heard a sound escape her—a choked sob, but it was laced with a pleasure so intense it sounded like pain. She was pushing back against him, meeting his rhythm, lost in it.
He felt her body begin to tighten around him, the involuntary clenching of her muscles signaling an orgasm that ripped through her, leaving her limp and panting against the mattress. The sight of it, the feel of her complete surrender, was the only permission he needed. He gave a final, brutal thrust, burying himself as deep as he could go, and came with a harsh, silent groan. The release was a physical convulsion, a draining emptiness that offered no pleasure, only the stark finality of a completed job.
He stayed inside her for a moment, the silence in the room broken only by their ragged breaths. He pulled out and rolled off her, the script from Andre playing in his head: Get up, shower, sleep. He stood, his body glistening with sweat, and took one step toward the bathroom.
But then he heard her whimper.
He froze. He looked back. Alice was curled into a ball, her body trembling. In the dim light, he could see the tear tracks on her cheeks. But she wasn't crying in sadness. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, and she looked… shattered. And blissed out.
The old Julian, the real Julian, surged forward. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering over her back, unsure if he was allowed to touch her. "Alice?" he whispered, his voice cracking.
She flinched at the sound of his name, then slowly uncurled, turning to look at him. She searched his face, her expression a mess of confusion and lingering ecstasy. She pushed herself up, her hair a wild mess around her shoulders. Her eyes, still glassy with pleasure, locked onto his.
A slow, dazed smile spread across her lips. "Jules..." she breathed, her voice husky. "I... I loved it."
Julian stared, his mind a blank wall. He had expected tears, anger, confusion. He had prepared for an apology, for a fight. He had not prepared for this.
She reached out, her fingers tangling in the hair on his chest, a gesture so familiar and yet utterly foreign in this new context. She twirled the coarse hairs, her eyes wide with wonder. Then her hand drifted down, her fingers lightly tracing the line of hair that led from his navel to below the sheet.
"I didn't know... I didn't know it could feel like that," she whispered, her gaze following her own fingers as they mapped his body. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a terrifying, newfound reverence.
The question hung in the air, a guillotine poised to drop. He had done exactly as Andre commanded. He had been dominant, selfish, and cruel. And in doing so, he had unlocked a door in his girlfriend of three years that he never knew existed. He had given her the best sex of her life by erasing himself completely.
He had no answer. He couldn't tell her the truth. That the man who had just fucked her senseless wasn't him, but a phantom constructed by another man’s cruel command. So he just sat there, speechless, as Alice leaned in to kiss him, a soft, reverent kiss that felt like a brand on his soul. He had followed his orders. He had not disappointed Andre. And in the hollow ache of his own betrayal, he had never felt more trapped.
