Page 11 of Dominion’s Collar

"I'm narrowing it." The cover story has a second layer now. "I'm interested in how private clubs build internal accountability. What happens when the systems work and when they don't."

Renata's hands slow on the glass she's polishing. "When they don't. You're talking about when things go wrong."

"Both sides. But yes."

She studies me for a beat, then seems to make a decision. "Dominion handles it better than most. Margot built this place to be what other places weren't."

She nods toward the floor. "You see those two near the suspension rig? They broke up three months ago. Still book the same Friday scene slot because neither one will surrender the time."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It's spectacular." Renata reaches for a bottle. "And if Ezra ever tells you he designed that suspension rig, he's lying. He held the flashlight." She pours someone's order without looking at the glass. "Oh, and don't ask the French woman about the Frenchman unless you have forty minutes and a fire extinguisher."

"Which French woman?"

"You'll know when you meet her."

The gossip is warm, specific, and has nothing to do with my investigation. That's what makes it valuable. These are people with petty rivalries, inside jokes, relationships that existed before I walked through the door. Dominion has folklore. Harder to fake than protocols, and it makes me like this place in a way I can't afford to.

Tomas Hébert is in the same spot he occupied on my first visit. Same posture, same full glass, same tension running through him like a wire pulled too tight. Whatever he's bracing for hasn't arrived yet.

I've been building toward this conversation for three visits. He's a former Elysium member, one of those who migrated to Dominion.

His tension reads like a man carrying something he'd rather put down. Tonight I make my approach.

The opening is easy enough. I take a seat at his table with a smile and my cover intact. I ask about the community, about how Dominion compares to other clubs, about the culture of a place where the same people scene together regularly.

Tomas gives me surface answers. Polite, guarded, the responses of a man who's been asked questions before and knows how to give answers that satisfy without revealing.

I push a little further. Clubs that have closed. Communities that dispersed. The particular grief of losing a space where you felt safe.

Something in his posture shifts. He's listening differently now, his glass forgotten but his fingers tighter around it. I'm getting close to real ground.

Then I ask about a submissive who was injured during a scene at Elysium, an incident the safety committee reviewed and handled internally rather than reporting. Claire had written about it in an email to a friend months before she died, concerned about why the club was keeping it quiet.

The detail is so familiar I don't hear how specific it sounds until Tomas's expression changes.

His eyes go flat. "Where did you hear that?"

The air between us changes temperature. I keep my voice steady. "An interview I did months ago with a former member. She mentioned it in passing."

"Who?"

"She asked me not to say."

Tomas looks at me for a long moment. The guarded politeness is gone. What's replaced it is older and colder.

"I don't know what you think you're doing." His voice is low enough that the bar noise covers it. "But you need to watch yourself."

He stands. He picks up the drink he never touched and walks away without looking back.

The table is suddenly very empty. I take a sip of my drink and replay the exchange, searching for the fracture line.

The injured submissive. The internal review. Claire had written about both in an email months before she died, and I used the details without translating them into language a researcher would have. I was too specific. I knew too much, and now Tomas knows I know too much.

The worst part isn't that I spooked him. The worst part is that his reaction confirmed the detail was real. An injured submissive and a review that went nowhere, and the mention of it is still enough to shut a man down years later.

I pull my phone from my clutch under the bar edge. Texts from friends I'll answer later. Nothing from Cécile.