Once the door of the private jet slides open, I am blessed with a view of the limousine waiting for us. The chauffeur in a black suit is standing by the side, a hand on the door handle, ready to open up. I chuckle at the sight, I have never had a chauffeur, I don’t even have a car and I can’t help but think about how much my husband is worth.

Brandon’s hand comes around my waist to steady me as we walk down the short stairs and a small smile flits to my lips. As soon as my feet lands on the pavement, I tap his shoulder. His head turns in my direction, eyebrow arched and I place a chaste kiss on his lips which stops him in his track.

His surprise is barely concealed, I giggle and drag him gently for us to resume the journey to our car so I can avoid explaining myself. I have no idea why I did that too.

The driver sends a nod our way when we approach him, his lips pull into a straight line, then he opens the door. I go in first and Brandon joins me. He pulls me closer so there’s no space left between us and his hand palms my hip. Once Brandon gives the driver our location, a small window slides up to provide us with privacy and I smile.

His fingers work their way into my curls, he tugs on the bun and my hair cascades down to my chest. I bite my lip when he starts massaging my scalp, something about it sends a chill up my spine, which spreads throughout my body. It is comforting, not in a sexual way but in a way that makes my body relax and intensifies the urge to take a nap. I want to wrap my arms around him.

“Have you been to France?” he asks

Moans of contentment slip from me at his delicate touch, this is the best scalp massage ever and I manage to shake my head. I don’t want to tell him that though I haven’t been here, I had envisioned us coming here for our honeymoon in hopes of us falling in love with each other, just like my parents did. Paris helped with their poor love life.

My eyes part open and I angle my head in his direction, he’s already staring at me. I can’t help but think of a near-future with us together as real lovers. Asides from his hate of virgins and gifts, he doesn’t treat me bad.

“Ma and Pa, they... My parents,” I quickly correct when his eyes narrow. “They had their honeymoon in Paris.” He nods, his hand moves from my scalp to my shoulder and my lips pull into a scowl. I miss the feeling of his fingers in my hair already.

Brandon lets out a laugh and squeezes me briefly, I don’t want to jinx it by making a loud observation but he seems different. We have been in this city for less than one hour and I can already spot a difference in his demeanour. He’s calmer, more forgiving.

On the jet, when he looked right through me, I had feared for my status as his wife. I had believed it was over until his request.

We drive past buildings of different sizes; tall, gigantic and medium. Beautiful and mundane looking, each of them holding my attention captive for a few seconds before I move on to the next building of interest. A couple holding hands step out of a store, the man kisses the lady without notice and her cheeks light up in the faintest shade of pink.

Her words are lost on me as our car speeds past them and I sigh, my shoulder sags, it is too early to hope for anything but if I am lucky, some of the love floating in the air might creep into Brandon’s cold heart.

My head is now resting on his shoulder, if I’m causing him any sort of discomfort he doesn’t act like it. As usual, he keeps his cool and a part of me looks forward to seeing him lose complete control. He will be fun to watch when that happens; I can’t wait for it.

“Do you believe in love?” I ask after seconds of silence.

His answer takes a while to come, when it does, it shows he has thought long and hard about it. Either that or, this is a question he has been asked one too many times.

“Yes,” he murmurs and my head raises, that’s a surprise. “But I don’t believe it is for me.”

The butterflies that started dancing in the pits of my belly at his first utterance fall back to a deep slumber and my heart sinks. If Brandon doesn’t believe love is for him, I am almost certain he will make efforts to fight it but not to worry, I have been told about my doggedness, I will fight for both of us. Maybe our love story will start here too.

“What if you find yourself falling in love?”

“It can’t happen,” he says without mincing words. A moment of silence passes, his conviction has got me gobsmacked. “What about you, Elna, do you believe in love?”

Now that I know he’s no longer angry with me, hearing my full name from his lips lights up a fire inside me. The butterflies in my belly flutter just enough to let me know they are still present. I like the sound of it when it’s coming from him, makes me feel special. He’s the only one who calls me Elna.

“Yeah, I do,” I nod and giggle when his shoulder tenses. “I am in love with love.” A low chuckle escapes him. “My parents love story started here in Paris, thirty years later and they are still in love. I want that too.”

Ma calls me her miracle baby; it took her a long while to conceive me. After six years of having miscarriages, they gave up, only to have me make my surprise entrance months later. Ma didn’t even know she was pregnant.

The reminder makes me smile, I know the story all too well, Ma’s struggles and prayers to make me stay, it was told to me as my bedtime stories. I was reminded each time I messed up and now, I will do anything in my power to make them happy.

“El...” Brandon starts and my heart tightens, his tone promises bad news. “I can’t love you.”

“I like it when you call me Elna,” I say. “Why did you pick us; why did you marry me?”

Brandon’s fingers run up and down my arm, leaving a spark of electricity in its wake. I freeze while waiting for his response, my whole being eager to hear what he has to say. There has to be something about me, about us that piqued his interest. If he doesn’t want love, if he can’t afford to love me, why did he pick me?

The car slows to a stop, the door bursts open, putting a stop to whatever Brandon planned to say. I frown and clutch the robe around myself as we step out. Just a little more time, a few more minutes and I might have gotten my answers. Damn the chauffeur.

Our chauffeur nods at us one last time, shuts the door then drives off shortly after. I cup my palm over my eyebrows, chin tilted in the direction of the sky as I try to make out the top of the skyscraper we are standing in front of us but it’s no use. With an arm around my waist, Brandon starts to guides me to the entrance and my head turns to our luggage standing behind us.

“What of our bags?” I ask in a panic-stricken voice.

“Someone will get it.”

No words leave my lips after that and he seems to find it okay. We step into the building and I see it’s a hotel, a big, fancy hotel with no one in the corridor except for the pretty receptionist. Her face lights up in a smile as she walks over to hand Brandon a key card without a word spoken to me or an acknowledgement of my presence.

A strange urge takes over me, the need to shout it out to her and anyone who cares to listen that I am his wife and he has eyes for no other females but me. I remain mum by his side, counting under my breath for the damn elevator to open so I don’t have to spend another second looking at that female behind the counter. I hate that she’s white and pretty. She’s also rude.

“Elna, I don’t sleep with the staff,” Brandon says when we step into the elevator.

“You didn’t introduce me,” I explain.

He pries my hands open and brings them to palm his cheeks, they are warm. The hairs on his jaw scratch the surface of my palm in a ticklish way and giggles spill from my lips. We stay that way, eyes trained on each other until the metallic door slides open.

The moment we step inside our room, I can already tell it’s the VIP suite, the whole place screams luxurious. I move to stand in the middle of the spacious room, discard my robe and stretch out my hands to the sides. A small laugh escapes my lips as I begin to spin in circles, my hair lashes out at my face but I don’t mind. I don’t care.

“You are happy.” Brandon’s voice causes me to stop spinning and the room dances around me for a bit. He comes to stand behind me, his hands come to rest on my waist and he whispers into my ear, “I like it.”

Fits of giggles escape me and I nod, at a loss on what to say. I am happy to be here with him. He leaves me for a moment then I hear the sound of his voice and since his words are not directed to me, I assume he is on the phone with someone below his status.

“I do not want to be disturbed,” he mutters.

“Who was that?” I ask when he returns to stand in front of me, his eyes on my chest.

He has also discarded his shirt and my gaze comes to rest on his nipples. They are so tiny and my fingers itch to touch them. Will he moan if I squeeze or suck them?

“The receptionist,” he replies and takes me by the hand to stand at the foot of the massive bed in the bedroom that looks fit for royalty. “Kneel.”

His command stops my eyes from roaming the bedroom to fully admire it. “What?”

“It’s time for your punishment,” he answers and my eyes grow large. “You slapped me.”

My mouth moves into the shape of an O. His face is back to his usual blank expression and I don’t know what to expect. My heart begins to thump, goosebumps make a home on my skin, I blink twice and make to kneel on the tiled floors when he stops me.

“On the bed. Kneel on the bed; get on all fours.”

There is a long silence after I obey his order and my breath hitches in my throat when his fingers pull my shorts down my legs. A cry burst out of my lips at the sudden impact of a strong object on my butt and my eyes water as the pain spread to my legs.

He repeats his action two more times and before the whip can land on my bare buttocks a fourth time, I collapse to the bed.

I am not allowed to dwell on the pain as I feel his lips start to litter wet kisses all over my butt, transforming the pain into slight pleasure. My nipples harden at his touch, I moan and try to push him off against my body desires, he is not allowed to hit me then do this.

A yelp escapes me when he brings one of my legs to rest on his shoulder to give him more access, then flicks a finger over my clit. I moan again as he blows air on my core, laps on my vaginal juices with his expert tongue. I try to shrug him off but he holds me in place for a moment. His words in the jet come rushing back and a sudden realisation hits me: he’s a Dominant.

“Open your eyes, Elna,” he commands. My eyelids flutter open to see him kneeling in front of me. “Let today be the first and last time you hit me. Are we clear?” I nod, close my eyes again and turn away from him amidst the screaming pain in my buttocks.

He moves away from the bed and that’s when I notice his zipper is undone, he used his belt on me. I don’t know how to feel about that. I pull the sheets to cover up the lower part of my body, a part of me hurting at the fact that he hit me over something he could have spoken to me about.

I curl into a foetal position and ask, “Will you always hit me when I do the things you don’t like?”

Silence lends volume to my words, his head whips fast in my direction and I continue, “That first night, you left me cuffed to the bed and tonight, you are hitting me.” My voice lowers to a whisper, “Why? Why do you keep doing that? My only crime is saying yes, I do, to you at the altar.”

The bed dips with his weight and a long, painful silence ensues. His fingers caress my cheek, I swat it away and my head is lifted long enough to be placed on his lap.

“Our wedding night was a mistake, Elna, I forgot. Tonight wasn’t, you deserved it.”

He carries me to sit on his legs and a frown mars his forehead. “For every action, there is a consequence. I will never hit you and I will not let you do the same to me. No,” he shakes his head, “I will not let any form of disrespect to me slide, I made that clear to you in the note I sent through your father.”

A sigh leaves my lips, he made it clear to me in the file I never bothered to read. I look away from him to my body hidden in the duvet, his reasoning is flawed. I hate it.

His palm cups my cheek. “Did I hurt you?”

“My feelings,” I say. “You hurt my feelings.”

The room grows quiet again until he says, “I won’t do it again.” It’s the sincerity in his voice that makes me nod, I believe him.

“You are a dom,” I state rather than ask a few seconds after when the ache in my butt has reduced to a dull throbbing. His gaze makes me look away. “Sophia is one of your subs, that’s what you said on the jet.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles. I expect him to follow his statement up with a promise that he won’t be going back to them anymore, after all, he said he wants our marriage to work.

“Why do you still keep her? Why do you have them? You have me now.” My voice is small; I am still avoiding his gaze. “I’m your wife and you promised you won’t cheat.”

“Sophia is a good friend and doctor,” he replies. “That’s why I keep her, she has her use.”

A lump lodge in my throat and I nod, she’s a good friend indeed, that’s why she wants us to have a threesome. She might be a good doctor but she is replaceable. I want her gone.

“What of the others?”

Brandon doesn’t reply me and the image of my husband sharing his bed with random women causes a sharp pain to pierce through my heart. I don’t want to share him with anyone. I want him for myself alone.

“Get rid of them,” I say, “let me be your sub.”

“Elna.”

I shake my head furiously to stop him from talking and lick my lips. The words rush out before I lose my confidence and in a steadier voice, I say, “I want to be your sub.”