velvet chain

The room smelled like jasmine and secrets. Alina’s eyes blinked open, dazed and dry, the silk sheets soft against her bare skin. She tried to move, but her wrists tugged gently against restraints—not metal, but velvet. A sound—a sigh, maybe a whisper—slipped past her lips before her memories could catch up. Her heart began to race. Where am I? The walls were cream and gold, everything glowing in soft candlelight. A storm rumbled beyond the glass-paned windows, waves crashing in the distance. She wasn’t in the city anymore. This place felt... untouched. Intimate. Dangerous. And then she saw it—etched delicately onto her inner thigh in crimson ink. V. C. Her breath hitched. The letters matched the invitation that had appeared mysteriously in her inbox two weeks ago. An all-expense-paid retreat to a private island, promising indulgence, luxury, and liberation for "those who dare." She’d thought it was a scam. But the tickets arrived. First-class. Then the private jet. The champagne. The man in the mask who whispered, “Everything you desire lives here. If you’re not afraid to burn for it.” Now, lying in this golden cage, Alina knew one thing for certain. She had crossed a line. And there was no going back.