Dr. Celeste Morgan is a celebrated sex therapist in the heart of New York City — poised, brilliant, and professionally untouchable. In her late thirties, she helps others explore their deepest desires, guiding them through shame, dysfunction, and longing. But in her own life, passion is dead. Her marriage is a quiet grave — cold sheets, lifeless conversations, and a husband who looks at her like she's a stranger.

Enter Lucien Moreau — late twenties, French-American, a ruthless mafia kingpin with a lethal charm. Sharp suits, sharper instincts, and an obsession with power — until he sees her. Not the polished professional the world reveres, but the woman behind the mask: aching, restrained, and starved for something real.

He doesn't touch her — not at first. He plays a slow game of seduction, slipping into her world like smoke under a door. Anonymous roses at her clinic. Donations under a false name. A client who never speaks but stares too long. He wants her hooked — and he wants her to want it.

Celeste tries to stay in control, analyzing her own reactions like a case study. But while she counsels clients through their fantasies — bondage, forbidden affairs, domination — she finds herself sinking into one of her own. And every fantasy has his face.

When she discovers Lucien's identity, it's too late. Her world is already unraveling. He drags her into his underworld — a realm of raw sex, violence, secrets, and possession. He's not gentle. He doesn't ask. He claims. And Celeste? She finally feels alive.

Velvet Chains is a twisted tale of obsession, taboo lust, and the hunger that threatens to burn them both alive.

I haven't worn it. Not publicly. Not even in the privacy of my own bedroom. But I touch it. Every day. Like a secret. Like a wound I can't help pressing.


I tell myself it's about understanding — about control. That I'm studying him the same way I study every other complicated case that's ever crossed my path.


But Lucien Moreau is not a case. He's a storm dressed in a suit. A question that answers itself in the pit of my stomach.


Not because I want him — I can name a thousand things my clients want that don't scare me. No, I'm failing because he makes me forget to think. Forget to analyze. Forget who I am when I'm not being looked at by him.


I go to the gallery after hours. The exhibit isn't mine, but the silence is. There's something comforting about the open space — white walls, dark floors, the soft hum of dimmed lights. For once, my head is quieter here.


I stand in front of a sculpture — abstract, feminine, carved in raw stone. A woman with no face. Only curves, hips, ribcage, and an outstretched throat.


Defined by everything I try to hide — desire, restraint, ache — but no name. No voice.


Then footsteps. The kind that don't try to be loud — but don't try to be silent either. Measured. Intentional.


He's behind me. I feel it like a shadow sliding into mine.


I stare straight ahead. My voice is steady — somehow.


A beat of silence. Then, low and close to my ear:


I should step away. I should call for help. I should do all the things a woman alone with a stranger is trained to do.


Because the most dangerous thing is not his presence.


He doesn't touch me. He never does. Not yet.


"I've seen the way you bury yourself," he says. "In clients. In diagnoses. In that dead thing you call a marriage."


He cuts me off without raising his voice. "You forgot who you are, Celeste. That's the first thing they do to queens. They make them small. Gentle. Palatable."


"And then someone has to remind them what power tastes like."


I turn to face him, finally. He's so close. Too close.


His eyes are firelight. Beautiful. Terrible. The kind of gaze you feel under your skin for hours after it's gone.


"Tell me what you want," he murmurs. "Not as a therapist. Not as a wife. As you."


"I don't want safe," I whisper. "Not anymore."


A flicker of something dark and pleased moves through him.


He steps back without another word, leaving me breathless and untouched.


It clicks around my wrist like it belongs there.


And suddenly, I don't feel buried anymore.


Chapter 6 - EDGE OF THE MIRROR