Morning in St. Mordane Apartments was never bright. Even with the curtains drawn open, the sunlight slipped through the glass like it was embarrassed to be there. Naomi stood by the window in Vera's robe, her cigarette trailing soft gray arcs into the stillness. Her thighs still ached with satisfaction. Her wrists still bore the faint imprint of silk ties. Her lips were bruised—but gloriously so.
The city below was waking, oblivious to what had unfolded only hours before in Room 405. Vera lay still in bed, hair spread across the pillow like ink spilled on parchment. Her lips parted slightly, one hand draped lazily over Naomi's pillow.
Naomi wanted to paint her like that.
No. Not just paint her.
Frame her. Worship her. Break her open and smear the remains onto canvas.
She flicked ash onto the windowsill and turned. Her eyes found the black envelope again.
The Velvet Order.
It felt surreal. Like something out of a book she shouldn't have read, but couldn't put down.
She picked it up again, this time flipping the silver card over.
"Induction begins tonight. You'll be summoned."
No name. No time. No instructions.
Just a feeling like the floor had shifted beneath her feet.
---
By late afternoon, Naomi was back in Room 403. She'd showered, painted nothing, and smoked too much. Her latest canvas stood untouched. She couldn't put brush to it. Not yet. Her fingers itched for motion, but her mind was crawling with images of Vera—bare, dominant, soft only when she allowed herself to be.
There was a knock.
Three sharp raps. Deliberate. Familiar.
Naomi opened the door.
The hallway was empty… except for a black box. Inside was a folded dress, dark violet silk, cool to the touch and cut deep at the back. Beside it lay a mask—half-face, lace-trimmed, the same violet shade. Beneath it, another card.
"Midnight. Floor 9. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't leave unless dismissed. Don't forget to burn."
Floor 9?
St. Mordane was six floors. She was sure of it. She'd taken the rickety elevator herself. It had six buttons. Six.
---
11:59 PM.
Naomi stepped into the elevator wearing the violet dress, the mask held loosely in her gloved hand. Her heart thundered like trapped wings. Her thighs tingled with anticipation and memory.
She pressed Floor 6 and waited.
Nothing.
Then, the panel blinked.
A seventh button lit up: [9].
She pressed it. The elevator creaked violently before descending—not rising. Her breath caught.
Was this still part of the building?
The doors opened to a corridor bathed in ruby light. The floor was soft beneath her heels, like carpet soaked in secrets. Paintings lined the walls—women, all faceless, all bound or veiled in silk. Music played faintly. Strings and whispers. She walked forward.
At the end of the hall stood a red door.
Two masked women flanked it, dressed in black latex and velvet chokers with silver clasps—shaped like mouths sewn shut.
One extended her hand. Naomi surrendered the mask, which was fastened onto her face with reverence. The woman then reached up and gently traced the curve of Naomi's lower lip with a black-gloved thumb. A silent acknowledgment.
Then the door opened.
---
The Velvet Room.
It was a chamber carved from another world.
A sunken pit of cushions surrounded a circular platform. Velvet draped every inch of the space—walls, floor, ceiling. Dozens of masked women lounged in the shadows, wine in hand, mouths parted in breathless laughter or heated sighs.
At the center of it all stood Vera.
She wore a suit of midnight-black silk, her hair slicked back, her hands gloved in sheer lace. Her eyes found Naomi immediately, igniting like flint on skin.
"Come," she said.
Naomi obeyed.
Vera walked her in a slow circle before the others, like presenting prey, or a gift. Fingers brushed Naomi's hips, trailed across the bare curve of her back. The women in the shadows watched, silent and simmering. Naomi could feel the heat of their gazes, the weight of want that pressed against her bones.
Vera stopped behind her, lips against Naomi's ear.
"She is mine," Vera said to the room. "But she doesn't know what that means… yet."
A soft murmur. Approval. Envy. Excitement.
Then Vera untied the straps of Naomi's dress.
The silk cascaded to the floor.
Naomi didn't flinch. She lifted her chin, heart pounding, blood rushing to the places where shame used to live. Now, there was only hunger.
Vera's hands claimed her body again—not frantic, not rough—but in strokes and holds that made Naomi arch involuntarily. Her breasts, her waist, the inside of her thighs. The performance had begun, and Naomi was not the performer.
She was the canvas.
---
Naomi was guided to a plush chaise beneath golden light. Her wrists were bound again, loosely, silk the color of sin. Her legs were parted gently, her body bared and breathless.
Vera kneeled before her. Not submissive—sovereign. She pressed her mouth between Naomi's thighs like she was sipping from a sacred cup, drawing gasps and whimpers that echoed off the velvet walls.
Naomi writhed, her cries muffled by the mask but not the hunger of the room.
She climaxed beneath a dozen faceless stares, her soul laid bare beneath candlelight and shadow. Her body trembling. Her heart unguarded.
And Vera stood, licking her lips, victorious.
---
Afterwards, Naomi sat curled in Vera's arms, her head resting against a heart that beat far too calmly.
"You were fire," Vera whispered.
Naomi looked up, lips swollen, vision dazed.
"And now?" she asked.
"Now," Vera smiled, "you're part of the painting."
The other women in the room had vanished. The lights dimmed. The music softened. Naomi let herself be held.
Somewhere far off, she knew something had changed. Something had been taken… or maybe given. She wasn't sure.
But she didn't want it back.
Not yet.
——