Chapter 4: The Next Command
The phone screen glowed in the dim light of the Bel Air bathroom, harsh and intimate. Kim tapped the video file Marcus had sent. The image was grainy, lit by the cruel fluorescence of his kitchen. She watched his face fill the frame, the sharp features she’d seen defiant on his blog now slack with a different kind of intensity. The shadows pooled under his eyes, in the hollow of his throat.
He took a shaky, audible breath. The sound was tinny through the phone’s speaker.
“I am Marcus Reed,” he said, his voice a dry rustle. It broke on the second syllable of his own last name. He closed his eyes for a second, a quick, pained flutter, then forced them open. They looked directly into the lens, glassy and wide. “And I am Kim Kardashian’s property. I exist to serve her.”
The video ended abruptly, cutting to black after seven seconds. It left a silence in the marble room that felt louder than the gala’s chatter outside.
Kim watched it three more times. The first time, for the content. The second, for the subtle tremor in his lower lip. The third, for the precise moment his Adam’s apple bobbed, a trapped, convulsive movement, after the word ‘property’. She felt a cool, expansive sensation in her chest, like dipping into a pool on a scorching day. It was control, absolute and serene.
She typed a reply, her thumbs precise on the glass.
KimKardashian: I’ve watched it 11 times. The 4th time was the best. You almost believed it. We’ll work on that.
KimKardashian: I’m leaving the gala. I’ll be home in 45 minutes. I want you ready.
KimKardashian: Go to your living room. Stand in the center. Record another video. Say it again. But this time, I want you to kneel when you say you’re my property. Hold the phone so I can see your face and your knees on the floor. Send it the moment I tell you I’m home. Not a second before. Not a second after. If the timing is wrong, you’ll do it again tomorrow. And the next day. You’ll do it until it’s perfect.
She didn’t wait to see the ‘read’ receipt appear. She smoothed her gown, unlocked the door, and stepped back into the galaxy of light, her expression a mask of polite, distant amusement.
The drive home was a tunnel of darkness and soft orange streetlights. She dismissed the car at the gate, the silence of her property descending like a weight. The house was a monument of shadow and glass. She stepped inside, her heels clicking on the polished stone floor. The scent of bergamot and leather welcomed her. It was calm. It was hers.
She didn’t turn on the main lights. She walked to the white leather sofa in the vast living room, the one facing the wall of black Pacific night. The single gold-plated handcuff glinted dully on the armrest, a promise she’d placed there days ago. She ran a finger over its cool, smooth curve.
Then she took her phone from her clutch. She typed one word.
KimKardashian: Now.
In Phoenix, Marcus had been standing in the center of his living room for twenty-eight minutes. He’d moved the coffee table, creating a blank space on the worn rug. His phone was in his hand, his thumb slick with sweat. The room was dark, the only light the sickly blue glow from a nearby computer monitor and the relentless neon sign from the bar across the street that flashed ‘OPEN’ in bloody red, over and over, staining the walls.
He’d read her messages. I want you ready. The command was a live wire in his gut. The humiliation of the first video was a private, digital wound. This was a ritual. A preparation.
His knees ached from standing still. Every part of his mind that had once been sharp, that had crafted insults and deconstructions, was now a frantic animal in a cage, scrambling for a way out that didn’t exist. He thought about not doing it. He could turn off his phone. He could flee. To where? To be the guy with the dirty sock, the laughingstock who apologized and then vanished? The silence after her last call had been worse than any command.
The phone vibrated with the single, seismic word: Now.
His body moved before his mind could protest. He fumbled, tapped the record button, and lowered himself to the floor. The rough texture of the rug bit into his kneecaps through his jeans. He held the phone up, angling it down so it would capture his face, the reluctant slump of his shoulders, the fact of his knees on the ground.
The red recording light was a demon’s eye.
“I am Marcus Reed,” he began, his voice a stranger’s. Hollow. He swallowed. “And I am Kim Kardashian’s property.” On cue, as if the words themselves had physical weight, he felt a sharp, hot jab of shame in his stomach. It was visceral. It was real. He was kneeling in his own living room, saying this. “I exist to serve her.”
He stopped. He stared at the lens, waiting for… something. A sign. There was none. Just his own breath, loud in the silent room. He ended the recording and sent the file without watching it back. The act of sending it felt like dropping a stone into a bottomless well. He stayed on his knees, waiting for the splash.
He didn’t hear one. His phone was silent.
The neon ‘OPEN’ sign flashed. Red light washed over him, then receded. Red. Dark. Red. Dark. He was a statue in a disco of disgrace.
In Bel Air, Kim watched the new video. The framing was better. The kneel was clumsy, ungraceful, which made it better. He looked like a man who had fallen and decided to stay down. She watched it once, then set the phone aside. She wouldn’t reply. Not yet. The waiting was part of the architecture.