Naomi dreamt in velvet.
She dreamt of darkened rooms and silk bindings that moved like snakes, of laughter that wasn't hers and lips whispering secrets into her skin. The dream pressed her down—not into sleep, but into surrender. When she woke, her body still buzzed. Her thighs were wet. Her heart was a drumbeat behind her ribs.
She was alone again in Room 403, tangled in red sheets, the taste of Vera still ghosting her mouth.
There was no note this time. No envelope.
Only a rose.
Black, thornless, placed on her pillow like a benediction.
Naomi sat up slowly, the ache in her core a bittersweet echo. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair and walked barefoot to the mirror.
She studied herself.
Her lips were bruised. Her collarbones marked by teeth.
And her eyes… weren't the same.
Something inside them had uncoiled. Something feral.
---
Later that day, Naomi tried to paint. She set up the canvas, dipped the brush in crimson, and stared for nearly an hour.
But her hand refused to move.
She knew now that what she wanted to paint wasn't a scene, or a face.
It was sensation. The way Vera's voice made her spine melt. The smell of that hidden chamber. The hunger of dozens of eyes watching her come apart.
But how did one paint possession?
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
"It's time to listen, not look. Room 7. No mask. No voice."
Room 7?
She hadn't seen anyone living there. No sounds, no footsteps. But the door existed. She remembered it in passing. Black wood. No nameplate.
---
Nightfall. Room 7.
Naomi wore only a black slip beneath a trench coat. She didn't knock. She opened the door and stepped into darkness.
The air inside was thick with perfume and humidity. Strings of deep purple light traced the ceiling like veins. The only furniture: a large velvet armchair, and a gramophone playing a low, crackling melody—Debussy's Clair de Lune, warped and slowed, like a lullaby for the damned.
A voice spoke from the shadows.
"Strip."
Naomi swallowed. Her fingers moved without resistance. The coat fell. The slip followed. Naked again, she stood under that light, waiting.
"Sit."
The velvet chair embraced her like a lover.
She heard footsteps then. Slow. Deliberate.
A woman emerged. Tall, statuesque, dressed in all black. Leather corset. Veil over her face. Bare feet. She carried no weapon, no whip—but the energy around her made Naomi's skin tighten.
"I am called Lucienne," she said. "And I have been asked to test your silence."
Naomi nodded once. She didn't dare speak.
Lucienne stepped closer, then behind her. Naomi shivered.
A blindfold was slipped over her eyes.
Darkness again. But now, touch replaced sight.
Lucienne's fingers dragged up Naomi's inner thighs, stopping just short of her heat. Then… away. Then back again. Her mouth hovered near Naomi's ear.
"I can taste your breath, Naomi."
Naomi exhaled—barely.
Then came the first real touch. Not gentle, not cruel. Just deep. Lucienne's fingers pushed into her slowly, deliberately, as if counting her heartbeats. Naomi gasped—but remembered the rule. No voice.
A second finger.
A third.
Lucienne's other hand reached around and held Naomi's throat—not to choke, but to anchor. Naomi's hips bucked. The chair creaked beneath her, velvet and flesh meeting in a rhythm that demanded devotion.
Still, she said nothing.
But her silence screamed.
---
Lucienne removed the blindfold. Naomi blinked in the low light.
"You lasted longer than most," she said.
Naomi swallowed her pride. Her thighs trembled. Her cheeks burned. She felt like she had been shattered and kissed at once.
Lucienne offered no praise, only a nod.
"You're ready for the Portrait."
Naomi frowned. "Portrait?"
Lucienne smiled beneath the veil. "You'll see."
---
Two nights later, Naomi received another envelope.
Inside was a single photo. Grainy. Faded. Taken years ago, it showed a younger Vera—unmasked, wild-eyed, nude, kneeling before another woman whose face had been scratched out.
Written on the back:
"She taught me pain. I taught her surrender. Now, I'll teach you both."
Naomi's stomach twisted. The woman in the scratched-out face wore the same silver choker Vera had placed around Naomi's neck after the last session.
She was a former initiate.
And Vera's… what? Ex-lover? Creator? Victim?
The card fell from Naomi's hand. She felt dizzy, hot, undone.
She wasn't just part of the painting anymore.
She was replacing someone else.
---
That night, Naomi returned to the elevator.
There was no button this time. Just the walls. Just her reflection. She waited.
Then, the floor dropped.
She wasn't going up. She wasn't going down.
She was falling sideways.
The doors opened into The Portrait Room.
Dozens of canvases lined the circular chamber—each showing faceless women, bound, adored, broken, worshipped.
And in the center:
Naomi's portrait.
But it wasn't finished.
Vera stood before it, brush in hand.
She turned as Naomi entered, her eyes molten.
"Come closer," she said. "You deserve to see how beautiful you are when you're owned."
——