The dates in Archer Milton’s leather-bound planner bled crimson ink. Mary traced a finger over tomorrow’s entry: ‘Private Review - 7PM.’

“Grandpa?” Mary’s voice echoed slightly in the vast, wood-paneled office. Archer didn’t look up from his monitor. “You summoned me?”

“Close the door, Mary.” His tone brooked no hesitation. She obeyed, the heavy oak clicking shut with finality. He finally swiveled his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Sit. We’ll discuss your future.”

Mary perched on the edge of the stiff guest chair. “My grades are fine. Dean’s List last semester.” She forced a confident smile, crossing her legs. Her tailored skirt rode up slightly.

“Academic performance is expected,” Archer stated flatly. His gray eyes pinned her. “This concerns your continued funding. Your tuition, housing, books ... the ten thousand monthly allowance.” He paused, letting the numbers hang. “It requires more than filing expense reports.”

Mary blinked. “More? Like ... longer hours? Overseas travel? I’m prepared.”

A ghost of a smile touched Archer’s lips. “Not quite. It requires fulfilling a Milton family tradition. One your aunts upheld. Several cousins as well. Each of them emerged after the tradition a much improved version of themselves.” He leaned forward, his presence filling the space. “Your parents are aware. They endorse it. Refusal means they withdraw all support. Immediately.”

Mary’s stomach clenched. “Tradition? What tradition?”

“Intimate service,” Archer said, his voice low and deliberate. “During your summer internships. And on business trips.” He watched her face pale. “Starting tonight.”

“No.” The word burst out, shaky but clear. Mary gripped the chair arms. “That’s ... insane. Illegal!”

“Family tradition, Mary,” Archer countered smoothly, unblinking. “Consider the alternative. Debt? Dropping out?” He stood, towering over her desk. “Your first duty is simple. Prove your commitment.” He unzipped his trousers.

Mary stared, frozen. Disbelief warred with a cold dread. His sheer dominance filled the room, an almost physical pressure. Her mind screamed ‘run’, yet her body felt anchored. The enormity of his wealth, her dependence, crashed over her. She saw her dorm room, her textbooks, her freedom dissolving. Slowly, trembling, she slid off the chair onto her knees before him. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she looked up, meeting his unwavering gaze. Hesitantly, she reached out.

“How?” The word escaped her lips, barely a whisper, thick with confusion and revulsion. Her fingers brushed the coarse fabric of his trousers near his exposed flesh. “You’re my grandfather.” Her voice cracked. “How can I ... how can ‘anyone’ ... do this?” She recoiled slightly, her hand hovering. “Don’t make me, Grandpa.”

Archer looked down, his expression unreadable. “Tradition transcends simple biology, Mary,” he stated, his voice cool and detached. “Bloodlines require sacrifice. Think of the generations before you. Your Aunt Eleanor funded her doctorate this way. Cousin Isabelle bought her penthouse and started her very successful business.” He shifted slightly, bringing himself closer. “The intimacy isn’t about family. It’s about power. Loyalty. Obedience.” His hand settled firmly on the crown of her head, guiding her forward. “Now, demonstrate yours.”

A choked sob escaped her as her face was pressed against him, the unfamiliar scent of his skin filling her nostrils. Her lips parted against her will, touching heated flesh. The taste was startlingly intimate, metallic and musky. Tears blurred her vision as she began a tentative, clumsy motion. Her thoughts fragmented: ‘This is wrong, wrong, wrong’. Yet, beneath the horror, a traitorous flicker ignited—a response to his sheer command, the raw assertion of his will. The conflicting sensations—revulsion warring with a strange, forbidden thrill—made her movements falter, then deepen. She felt him swell, pulse against her tongue. A low groan rumbled above her. The climax hit abruptly, hot and thick flooding her mouth. She gagged instinctively but forced herself to swallow, the bitter-salt taste coating her throat, sealing her submission.

Archer’s hand remained heavy on her head as she pulled away, gasping, wiping her mouth with the back of her trembling hand. His gaze was assessing, detached. “Acceptable,” he stated, adjusting his clothing. “For a first effort.” He walked back to his desk, the crisp sound of his polished shoes on the hardwood echoing in the silence Mary struggled to fill. She remained kneeling, the carpet fibers rough against her knees, the lingering taste making her stomach churn. The enormity of what she’d just done settled over her like a suffocating blanket. ‘He used me. Like an object.’ Yet, alongside the shame, a terrifying curiosity stirred: ‘What else will he demand?’

“Stand up, Mary,” Archer commanded, not looking at her as he sat. He pulled a thick envelope from his drawer and slid it across the desk. “Your allowance. Cash. Untraceable.” His eyes finally met hers, cold and calculating. “Understand this: discretion is paramount. Our arrangement exists only within these walls, or wherever I designate. You will be available when summoned. You will perform without complaint. You will tell no one.” He leaned back, steepling his fingers again. “Your parents believe you are earning this privilege through diligence. Let them keep that illusion.” He paused, letting the unspoken threat hang. “Fail me, and everything vanishes. Tuition. Housing. Your future.”

Mary pushed herself up, legs shaky, clutching the envelope. The crisp bills inside felt obscene against her fingers. She couldn’t meet his eyes. “Why?” she whispered, the word thick with tears and confusion. “Why ‘this’?” The question hung between them—not just about the act, but the violation, the twisted legacy. Archer’s expression didn’t soften. “Tradition maintains power, Mary,” he replied, his voice devoid of warmth. “It binds. It tests. It weeds out weakness.” He gestured dismissively towards the door. “Go home. Clean up. Be ready tomorrow. We have a shareholders’ dinner. You will attend. As my companion. Your education is about to begin, Mary. You’ll learn more from me than you ever could in a thousand lecture halls. Go now.” The final word landed with deliberate weight. Mary turned, fleeing the office without another word, the envelope burning in her grip, the phantom taste still clinging to her tongue.

The humid Boston air hit her face like a slap as she stumbled onto the sidewalk. Taxis blurred past; streetlights cast harsh pools of yellow on the pavement. She leaned against the cold brick wall of the building, gulping breaths. ‘Companion’. The word echoed Archer’s command, twisting in her gut. Her phone buzzed—a text from Jake, her latest boyfriend of the month: “Party at Sully’s! U coming?? He’d added two ridiculous emojis. A hysterical laugh bubbled up. How could she ever face him? Kiss him? How could she pretend everything was normal? The envelope felt like lead in her purse. Ten thousand dollars. Blood money. Her freedom bought with degradation. She shoved off the wall, hailing a cab with a trembling hand, desperate for the solitude of her apartment.

Later, under the scalding spray of her shower, Mary scrubbed fiercely. She focused on the sting of the water, the abrasive lather, trying to scour away the memory of Archer’s flesh against her lips, the bitter tang that lingered. But the sensations persisted—the surprising heat of him, the terrifying power in his grip, the shocking fullness in her mouth. A treacherous flicker of arousal coiled low in her belly, utterly unwelcome. ‘No!’ Her mind recoiled. ‘He’s your grandfather! It’s disgusting!’ Yet, the forbidden thrill, the sheer taboo of it, mingled with the shame, creating a confusing, sickening cocktail. She pictured Jake’s eager, clumsy fumbling, Archer’s terrifying dominance ... and hated herself for the comparison. Tears mixed with the shower water.

Dressed in pajamas, Mary sat on her bed, the envelope untouched on her dresser. She pulled out her laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard. ‘Loan applications? Scholarships?’ A quick search confirmed the impossible mountain of debt she’d face without her grandfather’s support. Boston College tuition alone was crippling. Her parents’ cheerful email from earlier that week now felt like a grotesque betrayal. “We’re so proud you’re upholding the Milton tradition!” They knew. They approved. The isolation was suffocating. No allies. No escape. Only Archer’s cold command echoing: ‘Be ready tomorrow’. She snapped the laptop shut, burying her face in her hands. The path ahead felt horrifyingly clear, paved with silk sheets and shareholder dinners, leading deeper into a gilded cage of her grandfather’s making. The taste of salt returned—not just from his release, but from her own silent tears.

The next afternoon, Mary flinched as a sleek, black garment bag arrived at her shared intern cubicle. The discreet label screamed exclusivity: ‘Chez Veronique’. Interns nearby murmured enviously. Mary’s fingers trembled as she unzipped it. Nestled inside lay a dress constructed of liquid midnight silk. It was breathtakingly beautiful—and terrifyingly minimal. The bodice was barely more than two narrow strips meant to cradle her breasts, plunging dramatically to a point below her navel. The back? Non-existent. The hemline flirted precariously high on the thigh. It looked like something designed for a courtesan, not a college sophomore attending a corporate dinner. A small card fluttered out: ‘Wear this. The suite awaits. -A.M.’ The silk felt cool and treacherous against her skin as she hastily shoved it back into the bag, cheeks burning under the curious stares of her peers.

At precisely 5:30 PM, Archer’s assistant silently ushered Mary into the private elevator accessing the penthouse executive suite where Arthur lived ... The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her in opulent silence. The space resembled a luxury apartment: plush carpets, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline, a discreet bedroom door ajar. Archer’s voice, cool and commanding, drifted from the sitting area. “Bathe. The ensuite is stocked. Dress. No underwear. Be ready by seven.” He didn’t look up from his tablet. Mary moved stiffly towards the bedroom. The ensuite bathroom was marble-clad perfection. Expensive bath oils lined the shelf. She scrubbed fiercely under the steaming spray, trying to erase the phantom sensations of the night before, the lingering scent of his cologne clinging to the plush towels. The tiny dress lay draped over a velvet chair like a dare. Or a sentence.

Emerging from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, Mary confronted the dress. Slipping into it felt like stepping into vulnerability itself. The silk slithered over her skin, the strips barely containing her breasts, the deep plunge exposing her sternum and upper abdomen. The back exposed every vertebra down to the swell of her hips. The hem ended mid-thigh. She felt terrifyingly exposed, yet the fabric’s luxurious embrace was undeniable. A soft knock preceded Archer’s entrance. He stopped, his gaze sweeping over her with unnerving thoroughness. A flicker of something—approval? Possession?—crossed his face before settling into cool assessment. “You look beautiful, Mary,” he murmured, stepping closer.

A strange warmth bloomed in her chest at his words. Despite the horror, a treacherous flicker of pride surfaced—she pleased him. Emboldened by the absurdity of the situation, she managed a shaky, teasing smile. “What happens if ... if one of these decides to escape?” she asked, gesturing nervously towards the precarious strips holding her breasts. “At dinner?” The thought of exposing herself publicly sent a fresh wave of panic through her.

Archer’s hand lifted, not touching her, but tracing the air dangerously close to the plunging neckline. His gaze locked onto hers, sharp and predatory. “Then it would be a grave lapse in discretion,” he stated, his voice low and dangerous. “Ensure it doesn’t happen. Be mindful. Move carefully.” He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her ear. “The only man who should witness such a sight ... is me.” The possessive implication hung thickly in the air. “Now,” he stepped back, adjusting his cufflinks, his demeanor shifting back to CEO efficiency. “We leave in ten minutes. Remember your role. Everyone there knows you are my granddaughter. Your composure reflects on me.” He turned and walked out, leaving Mary trembling, the echo of his command mingling with the forbidden thrill his words had ignited.

The shareholders’ dinner unfolded like a surreal nightmare draped in silk and crystal. Faces blurred into a mosaic of polite smiles and murmured platitudes. Mary mechanically lifted her fork, tasted exquisite food she couldn’t name, and offered practiced nods. Conversations swirled around investments, market fluctuations, and Milton Manufacturing’s latest innovations in superalloys – topics Archer dominated with chilling authority. Mary felt eyes on her – admiring the dress, assessing her connection to the formidable Archer Milton. She smiled tightly, her mind screamingly preoccupied with the terrifying intimacy awaiting her after dessert. Would he demand more than oral? Would he touch her ‘there’? The memory of his taste, his groan, warred with the dread twisting her stomach. She barely registered the clinking glasses or the final speeches, her focus narrowed to the ticking clock and Archer’s imposing presence beside her.

The limousine’s door closed with a soft thud, plunging them into the hushed, leather-scented darkness. City lights streaked past the tinted windows. Archer didn’t look at her, his profile stark against the passing glow. He closed the partition between them and the driver. “Remove the dress,” he commanded, his voice devoid of warmth, cutting through the silence like a blade. Mary froze, panic flaring. ‘Here? Now?’ Her fingers trembled violently as she fumbled with the tiny clasp at her nape. The silk slithered down her body, pooling around her ankles on the plush carpet, leaving her utterly bare in the moving vehicle. She hugged herself, shivering despite the car’s warmth. Archer shifted, his movements deliberate. He didn’t speak. Instead, his hands gripped her hips, pulling her towards him on the seat. Before she could gasp, his mouth was on her, hot and demanding between her thighs. The sensation was instantaneous, electric, and utterly overwhelming. His tongue was relentless, skilled in a way her boyfriend’s clumsy efforts never approached. Shame battled a rising tsunami of pleasure. She tried to stifle her moans, biting her lip until she tasted copper, but Archer’s grip tightened, urging her surrender. Wave after wave of intense sensation built, each crest higher than the last, obliterating thought. Her hips bucked against his face uncontrollably. A strangled cry tore from her throat as she shattered, convulsing violently, her vision whiting out in a burst of pure, unadulterated ecstasy that left her trembling and gasping.