Chapter 167 (80%)

Ava’s POV

“This is an extremely bad idea,” I muttered, my heels clicking nervously against the polished floor. Yet, I followed Grayson without hesitation.

I wasn’t sure what had gotten into him—or me. A few minutes ago, we were sitting in a restaurant; now, I was being practically dragged out before our food arrived.

It all started when he said, “Number eighteen.”

His voice was calm, but the way he said it sent a shiver down my spine. He hadn’t explained anything—just stood up, pulled out a seemingly obscene amount of cash, and dropped it on the table without looking at it.

“Grayson, what are you doing?” I asked, my voice high-pitched with confusion as he grabbed my hand and led me out.

He didn’t answer.

“Seriously, where are we going? I’m starving! I haven’t eaten yet!”

Still, no response. He was laser-focused, his grip firm but gentle as he guided me out into the cool afternoon air.

I knew what number eighteen was. I had written the damn list. But the fact that he was already acting on it—so suddenly, so decisively—made my head spin. How could he possibly have anything prepared? It had been less than ten minutes since I gave him the list.

The dark fantasy I’d written wasn’t something you could execute on a whim. It was detailed, specific—something I’d only dared to scribble down after wine and coaxing from Isabella. Even then, I never thought it would actually happen.

Now, as Grayson practically shoved me into his car, nervous anticipation settled in my chest.

“Grayson,” I tried again, tugging at his hand. “Can you at least tell me where we’re going?”

He glanced at me, his lips twitching into a knowing smile before returning his attention to the road.

“No,” he said simply.

“No?” I repeated, incredulous. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” he said, maddeningly calm.

I groaned. “This is ridiculous. I haven’t even eaten. You can’t just drag me out of a restaurant and not give me any answers.”

“I can,” he said smoothly.

I glared at his infuriatingly perfect profile. The butterflies in my stomach betrayed me. I hated how effortlessly he got under my skin—and how much I liked it.

We turned a corner, heading toward a quieter part of the city. The bustling sounds of the main streets faded, replaced by the faint hum of streetlights and occasional passing cars. My curiosity and nerves grew with every step.

“Grayson,” I tried again, my voice softer. “Seriously, what’s going on? How did you even—”

He stopped abruptly, making me nearly stumble.

“We’re here,” he said, turning off the engine.

I saw a tall, unmarked building—sleek and modern, with dark glass windows reflecting the dim streetlights. There was no sign, but Grayson didn’t hesitate. He opened the door and led me inside.

The interior was minimalist and dimly lit, with a polished black-and-gold aesthetic. A receptionist sat behind a curved desk, her expression neutral as she greeted Grayson with a nod.

“Mr. Blackwood,” she said. “Everything is ready.”

“Thank you,” Grayson replied smoothly.

Everything is ready? How did he have time?

He led me down a hallway, his hand still firmly in mine. The further we went, the quieter it became, until only the soft hum of lights and the echo of our footsteps remained. My heart raced.

Finally, he stopped in front of a door and turned to face me.

“Grayson, I don’t understand,” I whispered.

“You will,” he smiled, his eyes holding mine before opening the door.

The room was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Elegant and luxurious, with rich, dark wood paneling and deep red accents. Soft lighting created an atmosphere that was both intimate and mysterious.

But it wasn’t the décor that caught my attention. It was the setup in the center—a large, intricately designed chaise lounge draped with silk sheets, surrounded by items that made my stomach flip: ropes, silk scarves, a sleek leather paddle.

My eyes widened.

“Grayson,” I breathed, my voice shaky. “How did you—”

He stepped closer, his expression calm but intense. “Does it matter?”

“Of course, it matters! This is—” I gestured wildly, my heart pounding.

“This is number eighteen,” he said, low and steady.

I swallowed hard, my cheeks heating up as his words sank in.

Number eighteen. A fantasy I’d written on a whim, never imagining it would come to life. It wasn’t just about trying something new—it was about surrendering control, giving in completely, trusting someone else to take the lead.

Grayson stepped closer, gently tilting my chin. “Do you trust me, Ava?” he asked, his voice soft but firm.

I nodded. “Yes.”

His lips curved into a small smile, but there was something deeper in his gaze.

“Then let me show you,” he said, his thumb brushing my jawline.

I felt like my body was on fire. My mind raced, but none of it seemed to matter anymore.

Grayson reached for a silk scarf. His eyes never left mine as he asked, “Are you sure about this?”

I hesitated briefly before nodding. “I’m sure.”

He smirked—that smirk that infuriated and enchanted me.

“Good,” he said simply.

He stepped behind me, his movements slow and deliberate. My heart pounded as I felt the silk scarf against my skin.

Then, he leaned down, whispering in my ear, “Let’s begin.”

I knew then that number eighteen wasn’t just a fantasy. It was real. And I was about to live it.

Grayson’s voice was low, sending shivers down my spine. “Are you ready?”

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure what I was ready for, but there was no going back. The only question left was: How far would I let him take me?