Caught by the Billionaire

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Chapter 7

The next morning Mac's squeaking woke me, and sitting up on the edge of the bed, I pulled loose a cracker from its sleeve. Breaking off a corner, I offered him the treat.

"Here you go, buddy," I said, holding out the crumb with two fingers between the bars of his cage.

Mac's tiny nose twitched as he caught the scent of the cracker. With a flick of his tail, he approached my hand cautiously, his tiny paws dancing over the metal mesh. His whiskers brushed against my skin, and for a moment, his beady eyes locked with mine, as if to say, "Thanks."

With a swift snatch, he took the offering, retreating to the safety of his little cardboard house. The crackling of the cracker filled the silence of the room as he nibbled away, his little cheeks bulging with delight.

Mac had always been a creature of habit, and I knew that this morning ritual was as important to him as my first cup of coffee was to me. Each day, I'd wake up to his squeaks, signaling his hunger, and I'd feed him before even thinking about my own breakfast. It was a silent agreement we had, one that had been in place ever since I'd found him on the stove's burner.

The room was dimly lit by the rising sun, its soft glow filtering through the blinds and casting a warm, cozy light over the marble floor. The quiet was peaceful, broken only by the occasional tick of the grandfather clock down the hallway.

I couldn't hear any movement or sound from the other rooms, which meant that Alex was likely still tangled in the sheets of his opulent four-poster bed, lost in the depths of sleep. And that Mistress Ainsley most likely was doing the same in her room.

For a brief moment, I felt a pang of disorientation. It was my first weekday morning, and unlike over the weekend, the silence was deafening. For the past two mornings, the distant sounds of the club filtered upward into the upper floors. The clinking of glasses, the murmur of early birds, and the occasional burst of laughter had been a comforting lullaby since I'd arrived. But now, it was eerily quiet.

I'd spent the weekend familiarizing myself with the sprawling mansion, its opulent rooms filled with more antiques than I could ever hope to learn the names of. Each corner held a secret, each painting a silent story, and I felt like a tiny mouse exploring a grand library of mysteries. The club beneath was a stark contrast to the quietude above—a world of glitz and glamour that didn't seem to rest, even when the sun was high in the sky.

Now, as the first weekday dawned, I was eager to see the club from a different perspective—without the pulsing bass and the intoxicating scent of spilled liquor and perfume. The house had a rhythm of its own, a gentle ebb and flow of activity that was vastly different from the thumping heartbeat of the weekend nights.

Quickly dressing in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, I ran my hand down the soft denim encasing my thighs. Dressing up to play a part was fun, but the comfort of the familiar was a haven. I slipped on my favorite sneakers and tiptoed down the grand staircase, the polished wood of the banister cool under my hand. The house was definitely quieter than the weekend, but it wasn't as entirely still as I'd first thought. I could faintly make out the distant sound of pans clattering in the kitchen. The daytime staff must be starting their prep work.

As I wandered through the hallways, I found myself drawn to the club's entrance. The heavy velvet curtains hung like a theatrical backdrop, hinting at the secret playground that lay beyond. The club was dark and still, the disco ball sitting silently atop its tall pedestal, reflecting only the faintest glints of the early morning light. The stage, where I'd watched a world of desire and power unfold, was now bare and unassuming.

I pushed open the double doors and descended the stairs into the belly of the beast. The air was cooler down here, and the smell of leather and disinfectant filled my nostrils. The club's main floor was a maze of empty couches and vacant bondage stations, the velvet and chrome surfaces gleaming with the promise of nights to come. The dance floor, where bodies had writhed and sweated to the pounding bass, was now a vast, empty space that echoed my footsteps.

As I walked through the dimness, the morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end cast a glow over the room. The dungeon area, which had been a cacophony of sighs and whispers, was now silent, the whips and chains hanging lifelessly on the walls. The sight of the stage made me pause, recalling the vivid scenes of the weekend's performances. The memories were as intense as the first taste of a spicy meal—sharp and lingering.

I continued exploring, noticing the meticulous organization of the toys and instruments scattered around. Each had its own designated space, a silent testament to the club's strict protocol and attention to detail. The sound of my sneakers against the cold, stone floor was the only company I'd, and it felt strange to navigate these hallowed halls without the usual sea of faces and the throb of music to guide me.

As I reached the bar, I saw the soft glow of light reaching outward from a partially open door.

Making my way to the door, I peeked inside, finding Alex. He was sitting at a small table, his elbows propped up on the surface, with his head in his hands. His eyes were bloodshot, and his tie was loosened around his neck. The room was bare compared to the club—the walls lined with shelves of liquor bottles, and a single desk lamp casting a pool of light on the paperwork scattered in front of him.

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