A D R I A N

The ocean knows how to flatter, tossing shards of light across the water that shimmer behind my boardroom like a throne already promised. The quartz table glints like a weapon, the chairs sleek and predatory. Seraphine sits twenty floors below, silent and compliant. The board watches me for orders. That’s the flaw of a room that’s learned me too well: no one argues unless I make them.

“Agenda item three,” I say, voice smooth enough to butter steel. “Clinic expenditures. Our new doctor proposes tripling the budget.” I let the numbers separate like ribs, then press. “Six AEDs, epinephrine at every kiosk, heat tents, additional night staff. Overkill for optics during our highest‑revenue month.”

As expected, a wave of disapproval rolls across the table. Procurement leans in, ready to echo whatever I say. An investor jots something down, no doubt a reminder that panic is bad for profits. Marina’s coral-painted smirk curves in a way that makes me want to erase it. I swipe to the next slide—charts, margins, sponsor concerns, Lantern Tide deadlines. Numbers never argue with me; they show up, obedient, and I decide what they mean.

The door opens. She walks in.

Dr. Elara Quinn doesn’t posture. Scrubs beneath a blazer, hair pulled back, eyes steady gray‑green that don’t blink at the ocean view. She takes the empty chair opposite me without asking. Calm like a scalpel.

“Doctor,” I say. “We were just discussing responsible spending.”

“No,” she answers, voice even. “You were discussing optics. I’m discussing survival.”

A small scoff from Marina. “Here we go.”

I pivot the slide. “We’ve had ten years without a fatality. Serenity sells. Panic does not.” I give the room my most reasonable heir smile, the one that greases donations and silences doubts.

Elara doesn’t look at the slide. She sets a folder on the table, not theatrical—thorough. “Case packet. You like numbers? Let’s do numbers.”

Under the table, my watch buzzes. I ignore it—until the name flashes. Isabella: Listen to her.

Elara speaks on, unhurried. “Case one: adult male, thirty‑eight. Shrimp anaphylaxis. Collapse en route. Six minutes to the clinic from Skybridge if he’s lucky. Airway closes in three.” She looks at me, then at the board. “Do we have epinephrine within thirty seconds of his throat sealing? No. Do we have an AED if his heart stops while he’s still walking? No.”

The room stills. She lets the silence do the work.

“Case two,” she continues, sliding a sheet to the CFO. “Seventeen‑year‑old female, heatstroke at last year’s Lantern Tide rehearsal. Radios were down. Water stations hidden behind floats for optics. Towel carts blocked the EMT corridor. She survived. Luck.”

Procurement clears his throat. “Housekeeping was understaffed that day.”

“Understaffed is not an alibi,” Elara says. “It’s an indictment.”

A few heads swing to me, searching for the gravity I usually provide. I keep my jaw still. “Is there a point to this grim parade?”

“Yes. Luck expires.” She taps the packet. “Six AEDs, EpiPens staged in every station, heat protocols, night staffing doubled. Training begins immediately. Full readiness before Lantern Tide.”

Marina lifts her chin. “Optically—”

“Optically, it tells your guests you want them alive,” Elara cuts in, not unkind. “They’ll relax when they know we’re prepared.”

The CFO studies her numbers as though they’ve insulted him and he’s deciding whether to forgive them. “These projections are… not unreasonable,” he concedes. “If procurement can rush.”

“They can,” I say before procurement can complain. Control is choosing which battles to lose. My mother’s text warms my wrist like a brand. Listen to her. I look at Elara and see the one thing I can’t coach into a room: conviction that doesn’t need an audience.

“Suppose we approve,” I say. “Timeline?”

“Orders today,” she replies. “Rush shipping, five days for most. Drills daily. If we start now, we’ll be ready.”

“You’re ambitious.”

“I’m necessary.”

Her gaze touches mine for a beat too long. Not challenging—expectation. Then she gathers her folder. “I’ll keep the originals.”

“Leave copies,” Marina says sweetly.

“I’ll email them,” Elara answers, sweeter. The board coughs a quiet laugh into their sleeves.

Half the board corners me in the hallway with perfectly reasonable questions, and I give them perfectly reasonable answers. The rest scroll through their phones, pretending independence they don’t actually have. Marina matches my stride, her perfume a mix of sweetness over something sharp.

“She’s good at the hard truth,” she murmurs. “If we’re not careful, she’ll convince the board to admire their own fear.”

“They already do,” I reply. “They just like hearing it from me.”

My watch buzzes again. Isabella: If you can’t choose the right thing, choose the brave one. I slip the message into my pocket like a stone I refuse to acknowledge.

My suite breathes the ocean on three walls. I don’t eat lunch. I strip my tie, unbutton my throat, roll my sleeves to my forearms.

The knock is soft. She steps in—tall, lithe, a dress that could slip off with a sigh. Not a guest; I’m not sloppy. A professional who understands discretion and the economy of quiet transactions.

“Hi,” she says, shutting the door. “Rules?”

I appreciate efficiency. “No kissing. No eye contact. You do exactly what I say.”

Her pupils dilate. “Yes, sir.” Her voice is eager, already turned on by structure.

I sit on the edge of the bed. “Come here. On your knees.”

She sinks between my thighs immediately, hands at my belt. When she frees me, she moans like the first taste is a reward she’s been waiting for. “Fuck, you’re thick,” she says, voice already porn‑dirty. “I’ve wanted this.”

I fist her hair at the nape and guide her. “Open wider. Take me deeper.”

She tries, gags a little, then breathes through her nose and pushes down until I feel the clutch of her throat around my head. She moans around me loud, shameless, a soundtrack engineered to flatter. “Mmm—yes—use my mouth, use my throat—don’t stop.”

“Good.” I keep my tone even, instructive. Drool threads down her chin; she rubs her thighs together, desperate.

“Messy girl,” I say, not unkind. “You like being used?”

“God, yes,” she gasps when I lift her off to breathe. “Use me—please—make me your toy.”

“Take your dress off.”

She shimmies out of it fast, no shame. No need for it. Black lace panties soaked through; when I drag them aside with my thumb, slick heat kisses my skin.

“Up,” I say, standing. I push her onto the bed and spread her knees with my hands. “Hold yourself open.”

She hooks her fingers under her thighs, prying herself wide without hesitation. “Do you like it?” she asks, breathless. “I’m dripping for you, taste me, please.”

I kneel between her legs and run my tongue up her, slow and clinical. Her whole body flinches like I’ve plugged her into a live socket. She cries out, loud enough to bounce off the glass. “Oh my god, yes! More! don’t stop, lick me—right there.”

I flatten my tongue and work in measured strokes, then circle her clit with the tip until she’s shaking. Two fingers slide into her easily—she’s soaked, clenching around me. “Fuck,” she babbles.

“You’re so good, please, please, make me come on your tongue, don’t stop, fuck! yes!.”

“Eyes on the ceiling,” I say, because eye contact is intimacy and intimacy is not on offer. I curl my fingers and suck her clit, steady rhythm, no tenderness. Performance calibrated to result.

She breaks with a ragged scream, hips jerking hard enough to lift me. “I’m coming, oh fuck! I’m coming, don’t stop!”

I don’t until she spasms around my hand and floods my wrist. Then I withdraw, wipe my hand on the sheet, and flip her with a palm on her hip. “On your knees. Ass up.”

She scrambles into position, face down, back arched, wet and open. She looks back over her shoulder, eyes glazed, mouth slick. “Please fuck me. I need you so bad!, Adrian.”

I line up and push in with one steady thrust until I’m buried. Tight heat clamps around me. She screams for me again—loud, porn‑loud, the kind of sound designed to crown a man. “Yes! Yes! Harder! fuck me harder! use me! don’t stop!”

I grip her hips and set the pace, sharp and controlled, refusing to let her move me. “You take what I give you,” I tell her, voice flat. “Not more.”

“Yes, daddy! anything,” she pants. “Give it to me! Deeper! Ahhh..! uhhmm.! keep fucking me, daddy!”

I angle her hips a fraction and feel her tighten, squeezing rhythmically. She’s good at this. She knows how to milk a man and give him the illusion of being worshiped. I watch the window instead of her body, the ocean throwing squares of light on the floor like a heartbeat trying to be heard.

“Hands behind your back,” I say. She obeys; I catch both wrists in one hand and hold them, pulling her onto me, using her body like leverage. “Harder! don’t stop! Ahh..! make me come on your cock, please! ”

It should feel like power. Power usually does. But this is just friction and sound. A play I’ve performed too many times to believe.

“On me,” I say, pulling out. I drop back to the mattress. “Ride.”

She climbs on fast, slick thighs bracketing my hips. She sinks down to the hilt with a broken groan. “Oh god! So hard! ” She bounces, breasts slapping lightly, hands on my chest for balance, head thrown back in pretty ecstasy.

“No kissing,” I remind her when she leans forward. “Eyes up.”

“Yes, daddy!” she moans, finding a grinding roll that would wreck a less disciplined man. “Make me your good girl, tell me when to come, say it!”

“Not yet.” I place my hands on her waist and set the cadence. She whimpers and obeys, working herself, chasing the edge I control. The ocean keeps glittering like it’s judging us.

I let my body finish because bodies do. I hold her down hard when I crest, watch her mouth drop open, watch sound spill out of her. She shudders and comes a second later with a high, ragged cry, soaking my stomach.

I tap her hip twice, signal. She lifts off, panting. “Bathroom’s through there,” I say, already moving. Towels. Water. Recovered control.

She slips off the bed on shaky legs, mascara smudged in a way that would look romantic if I had any interest in pretending. “That was so good,” she says, dazed, satisfied. “You’re unreal.”

I don’t answer. When the door closes behind her, the suite smells like sex, but I’m untouched. Control hums under my skin, electric and hollow. The performance did what it always does, used energy, left nothing.