Part 33
Lysa
Lysa had always considered herself composed. Measured. A woman of calculated moves and meticulously managed appearances. She knew how to read a room, how to enter and exit conversations with poise, how to keep her reputation immaculate while weaving just enough intrigue to remain relevant. She had survived boardroom politics, venture negotiations, and the occasional romantic entanglement with barely a wrinkle in her routine. And yet, on that particular Friday night in Abyss, within the heat-hushed walls of the Amber Vault and under the low-lit velvet ambiance that made everything feel slightly unreal, her control slipped.
The man responsible was Lennox - tall, silver-eyed, and disarmingly confident. A rising power in finance, one of those new-money types who moved through the world with the relaxed arrogance of someone who believed in his own myth. He'd been brought into Abyss after an especially infamous market maneuver that gained him both enemies and elite access. Evelyn had invited him herself. And now, three weekends into his careful courtship of Lysa, it had become clear he had grown impatient. Her own career in the finance sector was propelled by connections Evelyn had arranged after she signed her membership, introducing her to the right people.
They had spoken for hours, across candlelit tables and private lounges. She enjoyed the game - his mind was sharp, his flirtation practiced but not clumsy. Still, she had kept him at arm's length. She loved the attention, but was not rushing into any commitment. There were always meetings to prepare for, briefings to edit, late flights to catch. Even her time at Abyss - her only true surrender - had to be carved out with precision from her calendar. Lennox, unaware or unwilling to accept her boundaries, misread her absence as rejection. And when he confronted her that night, in front of patrons sipping from their frosted crystal glasses, something inside her coiled tightly and snapped.
"So what’s your angle, Lysa?" His voice was smooth, casual - laced with enough challenge to slice through the velvet air. "You flirt. You tease. But you never stay long enough for anything to happen. Are you here for pleasure or just to say you came? So what is your game?"
The silence that followed was heavier than the music.
Lysa turned toward him, her expression measured but glacial. "I don’t have time for empty games," she replied, her tone cool and precise.
"Then maybe you need a time-out. Show me, what you are made of." His reply was too quick, too sharp.
It was the kind of moment Abyss lived for. Around them, voices fell away. Even the dancers on the side platforms slowed, as if sensing the potential for spectacle. Evelyn herself appeared moments later, drawn to the scent of conflict like a moth to flame.
"A conflict? A duel maybe?" Evelyn said lightly, amusement curling on her lips. "On what terms?"
Lennox’s gaze never left Lysa. "A week in the Black Rubber Coffin. A chance for each of us to contemplate what matters. If I lose, I submit. If she loses - well, she gets the time off she so clearly needs."
Evelyn’s smile deepened. "An elegant proposal. A rubber duel. Lysa?"
Lysa inhaled once. Exhaled. How did he dare? But she cannot show weakness. They worked in the same industry. If he hinted at her not being able to handle calculated risks, it could be damaging to the accounts she managed. "I accept."
The duel was deceptively simple: a high-stakes trivia contest, curated by Evelyn herself. Each question pertained to real-world finance, market history, legal policy, and economic strategy - harmless in any other context, but rendered sinister by the implications of failure. They sat at opposite ends of a low obsidian table under a soft crimson spotlight. Between them hovered a disembodied voice, reading out each question slowly and clearly. For every incorrect answer, the opponent gained a point. Whoever reached five points first would win.
Lysa’s hands were steady, but her mind churned. She had worked fifteen-hour days for weeks. Her thoughts came slower now, and Lennox’s smirk said he knew it. The questions started manageable: fiscal policy, hedge risk strategy, foreign regulatory structures. She held her ground at first. But Lennox surged ahead. He was fresher. Bolder. His gambles worked. And then came a question about derivatives modeling in post-crash Asia that she second-guessed, hesitated on - lost.
Point five. Game over.
"Lysa," Evelyn said, standing again in the circle of firelight, her voice like silk pulled taut. "You will spend seven days in the Black Rubber Coffin. As agreed. A stillness you clearly lack."
Lysa bowed her head, accepting. "Mistress… I have a deal closing next week. A merger Abyss helped foster through your connections. If I vanish now, it could jeopardize the entire contract. May I defer - just ten days?"
Evelyn studied her for a long moment, one hand lightly grazing the back of her lacquered chair.
"You have ten days," she said. "Use them wisely. Return without excuses."
Lysa did not return. Not on the eleventh day, nor the twelfth. She sent charming messages at first, assuring Evelyn she hadn’t forgotten. Then came the excuses: urgent travel, critical presentations, unforeseen delays. The abyss of silence widened with each evasion.
Time passed. Her guilt calcified into defiance. The thought of the coffin haunted her - seven days in airtight rubber, suspended in dark silence, wrapped in layers of pressure and denial, a pulse of soft edging by the machines buried somewhere in her privates. It wasn’t the denial she feared - it was the nothingness, the sensory deprivation. The week where she would no longer be Lysa, the rising star, the consummate negotiator. Just a body, sealed and silent. The thought of Emma. And Celeste. The coffin had been occupied before, their occupants emerging haunted from its embrace.
Then, on the thirtieth day, came the letter.
Marked Final Notice.
Lysa,
Your defiance constitutes breach of contract. We will initiate public exposure and financial seizure per Article 4, Section 7 and 8, of your signed membership terms. You are invited back to Abyss, latest Midnight tonight, to negotiate a lessening of the impact of your infraction.
This is your final chance. Return, and explain yourself to Evelyn.
It felt like a chokehold around her throat.
She sat motionless at her kitchen island, the city skyline glowing cold beyond her windows. Her life - every piece of it - was wrapped in polished control. And now, it trembled on the edge of unraveling.
She knew what Evelyn could do. Abyss didn’t bluff.
So she packed. One small black dress. Her ID. Nothing more. She didn’t need to dress for presentation. She was returning to beg.
To bargain with that succubus.