"Elara sat where you are standing," Grey said, his voice hypnotic, "She stood here and she begged me to take control. Not because she was weak. But because she wanted to feel something real."
His hands moved inward. Lauren stopped breathing.
Grey's thumbs brushed over the peaks of her breasts through the thin silk.
Her nipples were hard, betraying her instantly.
Lauren gasped, her hands coming up to push at his chest, but she didn't push. Instead her palms rested against his shirt, feeling the slow, steady thrum of his heart. It was so calm compared to the chaotic drumbeat of her own.
"Stop," she whispered, but there was no force behind it.
"Why?" Grey asked, continuing the slow, deliberate caress of her breast. He circled her nipples with his thumbs, applying just enough pressure to send a jolt of electricity straight to her groin. "Because it feels good? Because you're wet?"
"Grey," she warned, using his first name for the first time.
"Say it," he commanded softly. "You're wet. You're standing in a murder suspect's library, knowing I might have strangled a woman with these very hands, and you are dripping for me."
"That's… that's not true," she lied, her head falling back as his thumbs flicked over the sensitive nubs.
"It is true," he purred. "And that is the defense, Lauren. That is the argument. The line between fear and arousal is nonexistent. Elara knew that. I conditioned her to know that. Just like I could condition you."
He leaned in, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck. "I could make you forget your name. I could make you forget your license. I could make you understand why she let me tie that silk around her throat. I could make you stand before the judge and argue passionately against the fact that the choking Elara spoke about in that message was not harm but control. You know why?"
Lauren gave no response, he answered either way.
"Because you have tasted it."
Lauren was drowning. His voice, his scent, the taboo nature of his hands on her body—it was a sensory overload. He was rewriting the narrative in her head. He was making the violence sound like intimacy. He was brainwashing her, twisting her logic until up was down and danger was safety.
"I need to see the tape," she managed to choke out, grasping for a lifeline, for anything professional to anchor herself.
Grey stopped.
His hands stilled on her chest. The sudden absence of movement was almost as jarring as the touch had been.
He pulled back slowly, his eyes searching hers. The heat in them was still there, but the calculation had returned.
"Good," he said. "You're ready."
He stepped away from her, and Lauren felt the loss of his body heat. She stumbled slightly, catching herself on the edge of the mahogany desk. She was trembling. Her face felt hot, her skin sensitized. She quickly pulled her blazer shut, crossing her arms over her chest, trying to hide the physical evidence of her arousal.
Grey walked to the far wall where a large, flat-screen panel was mounted, hidden discreetly behind a sliding wooden cover. He pressed a button on a remote, and the wood slid away. The screen flickered to life.
"The original lies in my safe", Grey said, his voice clinical now, as if he hadn't just been molesting his attorney. "This is a digital copy. Date stamped. Time stamped."
He tapped the tablet in his hand.
On the screen, a black-and-white image appeared. It was a bedroom. High resolution. Night vision.
Lauren stepped closer, her heart still racing, forcing herself to look.
The camera was positioned high in the corner of the room. It showed a massive bed with black satin sheets.
In the center of the bed was Grey. He was dressed in black slacks, shirtless. And kneeling before him was a woman.
Elara Vance.
Lauren felt a sick lurch in her stomach seeing the victim alive, moving, breathing. She looked beautiful. Her long hair cascaded down her back. But what struck Lauren was her posture. She wasn't cowering. She was looking up at Grey with an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration.
"Watch," Grey commanded.
On the screen, Grey reached for a length of black silk rope on the bedside table. Elara didn't flinch. She lifted her chin, exposing her long, elegant neck.
Lauren watched, mesmerized and horrified, as the on-screen Grey wrapped the rope around Elara's throat. He pulled it tight.
Elara's head fell back. Her mouth opened in a silent gasp. But she didn't fight. Her hands came up to grip Grey's forearms, not to push him away, but to anchor herself.
The Grey in the room with Lauren spoke, his voice right beside her ear again.
"She controlled the pressure," he narrated. "If she tapped my arm twice, I let go. She never tapped."
On the screen, the act escalated. It was violent, yes. The choking was real. The restriction of air was real. But the aftercare was immediate. As soon as he released the pressure, he kissed her forehead. He held her face. The look in Elara's eyes as she gasped for air wasn't fear—it was a high.
"Do you see the timestamp?" Grey pointed.
Lauren looked. 9:15 PM.
"The coroner put time of death between eight and ten," Lauren whispered. "You were here. With her."
"I was here. Giving her what she needed."
Grey turned off the screen. The room plunged back into semi-darkness.
"The prosecution will say this is a rehearsal for murder," Grey said. "They will say I desensitized her to the choking so that when I finally decided to kill her, she wouldn't fight back until it was too late."
"It's… a plausible theory," Lauren admitted, her voice shaking. "It looks… intense. Grey, this is… this is hard for a jury to swallow."
"That is why you have to sell it," Grey said. He turned to her, his expression intense. "You have to believe that this isn't abuse. That this is the highest form of trust."
"I believe you didn't kill her during this," Lauren gestured to the blank screen. "But afterwards? She left here. She went to the hotel. Someone killed her there. Maybe you followed her?"
"I didn't leave this house," Grey said. "But you still doubt. You still look at me and see a killer."
He walked over to the desk and opened a drawer. He pulled out a length of black silk.
It was identical to the one in the video.
Lauren's blood ran cold. "What is that?"
"The truth," Grey said. He wrapped the silk around his hands, pulling it taut with a snap. "You don't understand the dynamic, Lauren. You're reading about it in books, you're watching it on a screen, but you don't feel it. You can't defend what you don't feel."
He walked toward her again. This time, there was no hesitation. The air in the room grew heavy, charged with a dark, primal energy. "You need to feel in order to defend."
"We need to run a simulation," he said calmly.
Lauren backed up until her hips hit the heavy library table. She was trapped. "No. Absolutely not."
"Just for a moment," Grey persuaded, his voice like velvet over gravel. "Let me show you the control. Let me put this around your neck, just loosely. Let me show you that the hands holding the rope are hands of love, not hate. If you feel it—if you feel the safety in the danger—you will be able to look that jury in the eye and tell them I am innocent."
He was inches away now. He raised the silk rope.
"Lauren," he whispered, her name rolling off his tongue like a prayer, seductive and intoxicating, causing shivers running down her spine, "be my alibi. Be Elara for a minute. For an hour. For a day. Understand the mind of the man you are saving."