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The days after the first interview were the longest Ruth could remember. She went back to work, back to her routines, back to the beige version of herself, but nothing felt the same. Every time her phone buzzed, her breath caught. Every time it stayed silent, she felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment.

She told herself she didn’t want to hear from him. She told herself she hoped he’d forgotten her. She told herself the whole thing had been a mistake, but none of those thoughts settled. They just circled, restless and unsatisfied.

At night, she lay awake replaying the moment he’d said he would contact her. His tone, clinical, detached, certain, echoed in her mind. She kept seeing the stark office, the bright light, the single chair, the way she’d felt stripped down to something she didn’t recognise.

Ruth hated how much she thought about it. She hated how much she felt it, and yet she couldn’t stop. By the third day, she was exhausted from pretending she wasn’t waiting. She kept her phone close, checking it without meaning to, telling herself she was being ridiculous. Then, late in the afternoon, the screen lit up. A message. Her stomach dropped, her pulse surged. Her hands trembled so badly she almost dropped the phone. For a moment, she couldn’t bring herself to open it. She just stared, caught between dread and a dark, undeniable curiosity. When she finally tapped the screen, the words were as cold and precise as before:

“Next stage of the interview. Attend the location below at the stated time. Dress in a summer dress and heels. Do not be late. Sir.” Her breath left her in a sharp, unsteady rush. She had been waiting for this. She had been terrified of this, and now it was here.

Finally, it was the date of the second interview, and Ruth told herself she wouldn’t go. She kept repeating it to herself while she made coffee, while she showered, while she stood staring at her wardrobe. But her hands betrayed her. She reached for a thin summer dress he’d specified. She chose a simple sundress, with thin straps and no sleeves, the fabric light enough to shift with every breath. The material was flimsy, clinging for a moment before drifting free again. Nothing structured, nothing elaborate, just a plain, delicate dress that made her feel exposed without revealing anything at all. At the last moment, Ruth discarded her bra, enjoying the thin material brushing on her hardening nipples.

Ruth knew a good girl wouldn’t wear this for a stranger, a good girl wouldn’t follow those instructions, a good girl would delete the message and forget the whole thing, but she didn’t want to be a good girl any more. Her fingers trembled as she fastened her heels, the quiet click of each buckle sounding like a decision she couldn’t undo. Fear pressed at her ribs, but beneath it was something darker, hungrier, and frighteningly curious. By the time she stepped out the door, she knew exactly what she was doing and exactly how far she was letting herself fall. She smiled and licked her lips.

Ruth followed the satnav down a narrowing country lane, hedges closing in on either side until the road opened into a small, cracked car park. The derelict pub loomed ahead of her, boarded up windows, peeling paint, the sign hanging crooked as if the building itself had given up years ago.

Sir was already there. He stood beside his car, hands in his pockets, watching her approach. The moment she drew close, he turned without a word and walked toward the pub. She hesitated only a second before stepping out of her car. The sunlight caught Ruth’s dress, the flimsy fabric so light that the sun pierced through it for a moment as it clung to her shape, leaving flesh almost exposed. She quickly followed him, stumbling in her heels as she moved.

He slipped through a broken side door, the frame splintered and hanging loose, as Ruth stepped after him, the edge of her sundress caught on a rusted nail. The fabric tore from waist to hem with a sharp, startling rip. She froze, breath catching, the sound still ringing in the empty space. Then she gathered herself and stepped inside.

Inside, the pub was a wreck: ceiling panels collapsed like broken ribs,

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