By the fifth night, the collar had become part of me. The leather no longer chafed — it felt like skin. The key hung between my pecs on its thin chain, cold against my chest every time I breathed. Work was torture. Riya wore a deep-neck top today, her boobs almost spilling out when she bent to pick up a dropped pen. She made sure I saw. Made sure I suffered in silence. No texts during the day. Just one at 7:55 PM:

“Door open. Strip in hallway. Walk to bathroom naked. Face the mirror. Hands behind back. Wait.”