"Fuck, Bryce!" the red-haired girl screamed, her voice echoing across the open balcony as another wave of pleasure surged through her. Her back arched, nipples brushing the cool velvet of the snooker table, toes curling as her fifth orgasm tore through her like a storm.
She was one of the loud ones. Bryce didn’t care for noise, but she had been flexible — eager — and tonight, he needed someone who didn’t ask questions.
She’d come running, like they all did, when his voice hit their phones. His whores always did. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even lust. It was habit. Power. Routine.
He didn’t come with her.
Not yet.
He slid out, gripped the edge of the table, and stared out into the dark sky beyond the balcony. The city blinked far in the distance, uncaring. The moonlight cast shadows across his bare chest, catching the faint marks of fingernails that had dug into his back.
The girl moaned again, already trying to crawl back to him.
Bryce ignored her.
He didn’t need more orgasms. He needed silence. Control.
But control was exactly what he’d been losing, night after night, week after week. Ever since the letter had arrived from the convent. The one offering him something new — something different.
Something untouched.
His jaw clenched.
“Get out,” he said.
The girl blinked. “What—?”
“I said get dressed and leave.”
She scoffed, offended. “Are you serious?”
He gave her one cold look. She scrambled.
By the time she was dressed and muttering her way out the door, Bryce was already pouring himself a glass of whiskey. He didn’t even glance at her. He didn’t need to. She was nothing.
Not compared to what was arriving tomorrow.
---
She was nineteen.
The letter had been official — stamped, signed, sealed in guilt and grace. Her name was Christina Lane, and she was being sent to his estate as part of the convent’s “external placement program.” An act of gratitude, they called it, for his generous donations over the years. In reality, it was a transaction. One that intrigued him far more than it should have.
A virgin. A girl who had never spoken to a man without a prayer book in her hand. A girl who would blush at bare ankles, flinch at curse words, and bow her head when addressed.
She would be his maid now.
Bryce wasn’t a religious man. But he had his own rituals. And breaking this one would be slow. Calculated.
Pleasurable.
He glanced at the letter again, still lying on his desk. “We trust Mr. Callahan will find her service respectful, quiet, and obedient.”
He smiled.
We’ll see.
---
The next morning, Christina stood in front of the mansion gates, her hands trembling slightly as the driver opened the rear door.
The estate was larger than she imagined. Bigger than the church she grew up in. It stretched like a dream she wasn’t supposed to have — tall, proud, unforgiving.
She stepped out into the misty dawn, her modest gray dress pressed and ironed, her suitcase gripped like a shield.
She had prayed the entire drive. Whispered Hail Marys beneath her breath, even when the driver glanced back at her through the mirror.
Don’t be afraid. This is your duty. You’re here to serve. You’re here to provide.
Still, nothing in prayer had prepared her for what waited inside.
---
The butler, tall and pale as a statue, greeted her with minimal words.
“Miss Lane. This way.”
He didn’t smile. He didn’t ask how her journey was.
The doors closed behind her with a whispering thud.
Christina's shoes tapped softly on the polished marble floors. Her heart beat too loudly in her chest. The scent of the house overwhelmed her — leather, firewood, and something she couldn’t name. Something… male.
She had never smelled a man’s cologne before.
She wasn’t supposed to like it.
---
Then, he appeared.
Coming down the grand staircase in a charcoal button-down and dark slacks, his sleeves rolled up, barefoot again. His presence consumed the air. Tall. Brooding. Like the devil she’d been warned about.
His eyes met hers.
And the world… stopped.
She froze, lips parting slightly as her eyes trailed up the shape of him — the rough stubble on his jaw, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the look in his eyes that stripped her even while she stood clothed.
“You’re early,” he said, his voice deep and low.
“I… the driver arrived ahead of schedule.”
He looked her over, head tilted slightly.
“No makeup. No polish. No perfume.”
“I wasn’t allowed.”
He smirked, eyes lingering a second too long. “That won’t be a problem.”
---
He walked toward her, slow and calculated, like a hunter circling a rabbit.
“I don’t tolerate noise in this house, Christina. You’ll speak only when spoken to. You’ll follow the dress code provided to you. And you will stay out of the west wing. Understood?”
She nodded, heat crawling up her neck.
“Yes, Mr. Callahan.”
He stopped in front of her. Close. Too close. She could smell the faint trace of smoke and whiskey on his skin. The buttons on his shirt undone just enough to reveal his collarbone.
“No,” he said. “When you speak to me, you say ‘Yes, Bryce.’ You’re not in the convent anymore.”
Her heart pounded.
“…Yes, Bryce.”
He stared at her lips for just a second longer than necessary. Then walked past her, saying nothing else.
And in that moment — the first hour of her new life — Christina realized something terrifying:
She wasn’t afraid of Bryce Callahan.
She was curious.
And curiosity… was how sins began.
