Skin in the Game
Copyright© 2025 by Danielle Stories
Chapter 7: The First Year
I woke up knowing it was the anniversary. Not with a jolt, but with a quiet, deep certainty. One year ago today, I walked into that bathroom, placed my old life in a safe, and walked out as Angelica’s shadow.
The panel chimed.
Your presence is required in the main living area.
I rose and performed my morning ritual. In the bathroom mirror, my face looked older. Not in a bad way. The soft, uncertain edges of the girl I had been were gone, replaced by a calm definition. My eyes held a stillness that hadn’t been there before.
I opened my door and walked into the main living area of our penthouse in New York. We’d been here for a month. The view was different, but the routine was the same.
Angelica was standing by the window, holding two small boxes wrapped in simple black paper. She turned as I entered.
“A year,” she said, her voice even. She held out one of the boxes. “This is for you.”
I took it, my fingers brushing the smooth paper. It was light. I carefully untied the slender ribbon and lifted the lid.
Nestled inside on a bed of black velvet was a collar. It was made of a dark, supple leather, simple and unadorned. It wasn’t a shackle. It was a piece of fine craftsmanship, elegant and severe.
“It is a symbol,” Angelica said, watching me. “An external mark of an internal truth. You are mine. This makes it clear to everyone.”
I didn’t hesitate. I lifted it from the box. The leather was cool against my skin. I fastened it around my neck. The buckle clicked with a soft, final sound. It fit perfectly. It felt ... right. Like a part of me that had been missing had finally clicked into place.
I looked at her. “Thank you, Angelica.”
She gave a slow, approving nod. Then she held out the second box. “This is for you to give to your brother.”
I took the second box. I opened it. Inside was a high-end, professional-grade tablet computer, the latest model. The kind of Tyler we had always dreamed of, but we could never afford.
“So he can video call you,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact, as if it were a simple logistical solution. “Without using your mother’s cheap phone.”
The gesture was so unexpectedly thoughtful that for a moment, I couldn’t speak. She wasn’t just providing for them. She was facilitating my connection to them. She was cementing my loyalty by honoring its source.
I looked at her, the collar a comfortable weight around my neck, the tablet in my hands. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t need to say anything,” she replied. “Your continued service is thanks enough.” She turned back to the window. “We have a gala tonight at the Metropolitan Museum. You will wear the collar. It is time the world sees that commitment is permanent.”
I stood there, holding the box for Tyler, the leather cool against my throat. The deal was no longer just a transaction. It was a bond, and I was bound, willingly and completely.
That evening, I stood before the full-length mirror in my room. The only thing I wore was the collar. The dark leather stood in stark, elegant contrast to my skin. It didn’t feel like a restraint. It felt like a badge of honor. A declaration.
When I walked out, Angelica was waiting. She was wearing a gown of deep crimson, the color of old wine and new blood. Her eyes went directly to the collar. A flicker of pure, unadulterated possession shone in them before her usual mask of control slid back into place.
“Perfect,” she said.
The gala was a sea of glitter and black ties. When we entered, the reaction was more refined than the factory, but just as intense. The stares were quicker, more discreet, but I felt them like a physical touch. The whispers were silkier, but I heard them all the same.
But something was different tonight. It wasn’t just about my nudity anymore. Their eyes were drawn to the collar. It changed the narrative. I wasn’t just a naked girl; I was a claimed woman. The symbol reframed everything. It spoke of a choice, a contract, a devotion so absolute it was worn on the skin.
I stood beside Angelica as she worked the room, a silent, collared shadow. A society matron with diamonds dripping from her neck gasped softly as we passed. “My dear Angelica, your ... companion ... her neckpiece is so ... striking.”
Angelica didn’t even break stride. “It signifies absolute loyalty, Eleanor. A concept I know you appreciate.” Her tone was pleasant, but the subtext was a knife. The woman flushed and looked away.
Later, a powerful-looking man, his gaze lingering on the collar, approached Angelica. “A bold statement, Howell. It certainly ... clarifies the relationship.”
“It eliminates any possible misunderstanding,” Angelica replied coolly. “She is not an employee. She is an extension. It’s good for business. People know where they stand.”
They did. The collar did more than any clothing ever could. It commanded a strange, new respect. It was a visual representation of the contract, of my surrender and her dominion. It made me untouchable. To insult me was to insult Angelica’s direct authority. To proposition me was unthinkable.
I stood straighter, the leather a constant, reassuring pressure against my throat. I wasn’t just her shadow anymore. I was her sworn shadow. The distinction was everything.
As we moved through the crowd, I realized the collar wasn’t a chain. It was a shield, and I had never felt more protected or more powerful in my life.
A few nights later, the tablet for Tyler arrived at our New York penthouse. That evening, Angelica dismissed me after dinner with a simple, “You may use your hour for a private call.”
I took the tablet into my room, my heart beating a little faster. I set it up, and the process was intuitive and smooth. Then, I opened the video call app and typed in my mom’s number.
It rang twice before her face filled the screen. She was in a bright, modern kitchen I didn’t recognize. Behind her, I could see sleek cabinets and a large window.
“Denise?” Her voice was clear, without the static of a bad connection.
“Hi, Mom.”
Her eyes, as always, did a quick, worried scan. They lingered for a half-second on the collar, but she didn’t mention it. “How are you, baby? You look ... good.” She sounded surprised.
“I am good, Mom. Really good,” And I meant it. “Where’s Ty?”