Dr. Celeste Morano 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.

Only fools and amateurs confuse power with force. Any man with a gun can demand obedience. But to have someone choose to kneel — knowing they could walk away — that is true power.


She's not some fragile woman waiting to be devoured.


She is brilliance behind a polished glass mask — guarded, intelligent, self-contained to the point of cruelty.


To see what she becomes without the performance — without the white coat, the wedding ring, the cold therapist's detachment. I want to pull her out of her own silence. Not with pain, not with permission, but with precision.


I sit in her office and say nothing. Not because I have nothing to say, but because she does. Her voice is a melody of restraint — careful, precise, composed like a surgeon's incision. I watch her eyes betray her mouth. I watch her breath stutter when she thinks I don't notice.


She doesn't know what to do with someone she can't read.


The bracelet was the first step. I chose it carefully — gold, solid, regal. A symbol of possession, yes. But not the degrading kind. A crown worn at the wrist. Not a leash. Not a chain.


When she opened it, I knew the exact moment she touched the inscription.


I'm not a patient man by nature. My world doesn't allow it — one hesitation, and you're dead. But with her, I'll wait. I'll play. Because this isn't about release. This is about rewriting her desire. About replacing every clinical diagnosis and quiet disappointment with something feral.


Tonight, I watch her from the shadows. Not in her office. Not behind a screen. In the flesh.


She's walking out of a gallery, something modern and sterile. Alone, heels clicking like gunfire against the pavement. She's wearing black again, as if mourning herself. Her coat is cinched too tight. She doesn't notice the man who leers at her from the corner. Doesn't notice the way she clenches her jaw as she passes him.


She doesn't realize how much she holds in.


Tomorrow, I'll return to her office. I won't speak — not yet.


Chapter 5 - PREDATOR WITH PATIENCE