KANYE CHURCH IS DEAD, AND I KILLED HIM. He walked into my boardroom thinking he was a god in an Italian suit. He was wrong. One seventy-million-dollar mistake put his life in my hands. I gave him a choice between professional ruin and total obedience. He signed the contract. He gave me every right to his body, his mind, and his future. I stripped away his corporate armor. I replaced his Porsche with a corset and his pride with lace. Now he is Kandy. He does not sit at the table anymore. He kneels beneath it. He cleans my stilettos with his tongue while his former rivals watch, never knowing the maid in the corner used to be their peer. He wears my brand in secret. He lives for the click of my heels and the turn of my key. His ego is a memory. I broke him until he thanked me for the weight of my heel. He serves my coffee on all fours. He endures the gala in silence, hidden under velvet and shame. There is no escape from the chains I forged for him. He does not want his freedom. He wants my approval. He is my living masterpiece, a broken man rebuilt into a perfect pet. He is my property, and I will never stop breaking him.