Chapter 1: Possession

I kneel between Victoria’s legs. The early light filters through the gauze curtains, casting pale stripes across the duvet. Twin cries ripple from the next room, a rhythmic urgency that Victoria ignores, her attention fixed on the spoon in her hand. Nannies sit on the edge of the bed, their presence quiet, their eyes respectful. Victoria holds a slice of mango, brings it to her lips, chews, sets the plate down. She looks down at me, dark eyes sharp, amused. “Eat, my pet,” she says. Her hand rests on the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair, not pushing, just anchoring. I take the mango, chew, swallow. Crumbs catch on my shirt. Victoria’s other hand strokes my scalp, slow, possessive. The nannies exchange a look, one of them adjusting the pillows. Outside, the hills of Jammu stir, but in this room, the world contracts to the press of Victoria’s palm and the sound of her voice.

I lift my hand, accept another bite, the flavor of coconut and sticky rice sweet on my tongue. Victoria watches me chew, her gaze unwavering, and after I swallow she leans forward, the movement deliberate, and places another morsel against my lips. I open, take it, and she withdraws her hand, the pads of her fingers brushing my lower lip before she pulls away. The twins scream again, rising into the air, and Victoria’s eyes flick toward the door, but she does not pause her feeding. She continues, bite after bite, a rhythm that I match, my jaw working, my throat moving. Nannies shift beside us, one handing Victoria a napkin, another adjusting the duvet at the foot of the bed. The room carries the scent of brewed chai and Victoria’s perfume, a sharp floral that dominates the space and reminds me, always, of where I stand.

Victoria sets the empty plate aside. Her hand leaves my head, and she stretches, the motion languid, her torso arching beneath the silk sheet. The twins’ cries peak and then recede, leaving a hollow space in the room’s atmosphere. She turns her face toward me, her profile sharp in the morning light, and I study the line of her jaw, the curve of her brow, the way her lashes rest against her cheeks. She is the empress, the keeper, the center of an empire built on wealth and want. I am the kept man, the one who exists at her pleasure, the father of her children, the recipient of her favor. The nannies remain motionless, their training having taught them to witness without intrude, to understand that this room, this bed, this dynamic belongs to Victoria alone.

A pause settles between us. Victoria’s breathing slows, in and out, steady, and I mirror her, my chest rising and falling in time. The twins’ cries drift farther now, becoming part of the house’s background, a constant that Victoria acknowledges but does not let disrupt the stillness she cultivates. She raises a hand, runs a finger along my collarbone, traces the line to my shoulder, and stops. Her touch is light, inquisitive, and I hold my breath, waiting. She studies my face, her eyes searching, and then, without warning, her expression shifts. The softness vanishes, replaced by a sudden, sharp alertness. Her brow furrows, her jaw tightens, and she stops moving entirely.

The spoon she had been picking at rests forgotten on the nightstand. The nannies freeze, spoons halfway to their own mouths, eyes wide but trained to remain silent. Victoria’s hand, which had been stroking my scalp, halts mid-stroke, her fingers still against my hair. The room falls quiet except for the twins’ distant wails, and I sense the shift in the air, a change in the gravity of the moment. Victoria’s gaze locks onto mine, dark and unreadable, and she lifts her other hand, cupping my jaw, her grip firm, the pads of her fingers pressing into the bone just enough to remind me of ownership. She turns my face toward her, forcing my eyes to meet hers, and I hold her stare, my pulse quickening beneath the weight of her hold.

“You have eyes only for me,” she says. Her voice carries across the bed, calm but edged with a warning that settles into the space between us. The nannies go still, their training kicking in, recognizing the tone, the implications. “You look at no other woman. You belong to me. To my body, to my name, to my children. Do I make myself clear?”

I nod, the motion small against her palm. “Crystal, Vicky. Only you.”

She studies my face, searching for any flicker of doubt, any sign of hesitation, and finds none. After a beat, she releases my jaw. The hand on my scalp resumes its slow, possessive stroke, her touch grounding me once more. She smiles, but it does not reach her eyes entirely. “Good. Remember that. Every morning, every night. You are mine.” She picks up the spoon, brings it to her mouth, and consumes the remainder of the mango. The twins’ cries rise again in the distance, a backdrop to her possessiveness, and I remain kneeling, my forehead resting against her thigh, the weight of her words settling into my bones like a promise and a warning.