Elspeth
The rain fell in relentless sheets as Elspeth Weston fled through the darkened streets of London, her breath coming in sharp, terrified gasps. Her heart hammered against her ribs while the echo of Ryan Kessler’s angry shouts still rang in her ears. She had finally told him it was over, and his response had been swift and violent. Now she ran, soaked to the skin, her thin coat clinging to her petite frame.
She darted across a busy road without looking, her blonde hair plastered to her pale cheeks. Headlights blinded her. A sleek black Mercedes braked sharply, its tyres screeching against the wet tarmac. Elspeth froze, certain she was about to die.
The rear door opened and a tall, imposing man stepped out. He was bald, with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, dark brown eyes, and the commanding presence of someone accustomed to being obeyed. At fifty years old, Remington Sutherland carried himself with the quiet authority of old money and unshakeable confidence.
“Are you all right, miss?” he asked, his voice deep and measured. He extended a hand to steady her as she trembled on the pavement.
Elspeth looked up at him, blue eyes wide with fear. “I… I’m sorry,” she whispered softly, her voice barely audible above the rain. “I didn’t see the car.”
Remington studied her for a moment—her small stature, the delicate features, the long blonde waves now heavy with rainwater, and the unmistakable look of someone in desperate trouble. She was exactly the sort of woman who stirred something deep within him: petite, pale-skinned, softly spoken, with those striking blue eyes that seemed to hold both innocence and quiet strength.
He glanced toward the direction she had come from and noticed a distant figure shouting, moving quickly through the rain. “You appear to be in some distress,” he said calmly. “May I drop you at the nearest police station? They can assist you.”
At those words Elspeth recoiled as if he had struck her. “No!” she cried, her voice breaking. “Please, not the police. My ex-boyfriend… he’s a detective there. Ryan Kessler. He works at that station, and all his friends do too. I’m trying to leave him, but he won’t let me go. He’s been threatening me, ruining everything—my job, my future. I can’t go there. They’ll just give me back to him.”
Remington listened without interruption, his expression unreadable. In that split second he made a decision. The girl before him was vulnerable, beautiful, and precisely the type he had long sought for his private collection of “Dolls.” She needed protection, and he needed her.
“Then come with me,” he said simply. “You may stay at my home tonight while you sort out somewhere safe to go. No police. No questions unless you wish to answer them.”
Elspeth hesitated, fear and exhaustion warring on her face. Yet something in his steady gaze told her she had little choice. The alternative was returning to Ryan’s rage. She nodded weakly.
Remington guided her into the warm, leather-scented interior of the Mercedes. His chauffeur, Edward Finch, remained silent and professional at the wheel, eyes fixed ahead. The car pulled smoothly away from the kerb, leaving the shouting figure of Ryan Kessler far behind.
Twenty minutes later they arrived at a grand Georgian town house in Mayfair. Its classical façade rose elegantly into the night, windows glowing with soft golden light. Remington escorted Elspeth inside, where the housekeeper, a discreet woman in her late fifties named Mrs Hargrove, greeted them without surprise.
“Prepare the rose guest bedroom, please,” Remington instructed. “Our young guest will be staying the night.”
Mrs Hargrove nodded efficiently. “Of course, sir. I shall have fresh towels and a warm drink sent up at once.”
Elspeth followed the housekeeper up the sweeping staircase, her wet shoes leaving faint marks on the polished marble. The bedroom proved spacious and beautifully appointed, with high ceilings, a large four-poster bed draped in crisp white linens, and a fire already crackling in the marble hearth. Mrs Hargrove helped her out of the sodden coat and provided a soft dressing gown.
“Rest now, miss,” the housekeeper said kindly. “You are quite safe here.”
As the door closed softly behind her, Elspeth sank onto the edge of the bed, trembling. She had escaped Ryan for the night, but she sensed that her life had just taken a far more complicated turn. In the library downstairs, Remington Sutherland poured himself a measure of aged whisky and allowed a small, satisfied smile to touch his lips. The little blonde Doll had walked straight into his world, and he intended to keep her there.
The following morning, pale sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains of the rose guest bedroom as Elspeth Weston descended the sweeping staircase of the Mayfair town house. She still wore the same damp, creased clothes from the night before, her blonde hair tied back simply and her blue eyes shadowed with exhaustion and uncertainty. The aroma of fresh coffee and warm pastries drew her toward the breakfast room, where Remington Sutherland already sat at the head of a long mahogany table.
He looked up as she entered, his dark brown eyes assessing her with quiet intensity. “Good morning,” he said in that deep, measured voice. “I trust you slept tolerably well.”
Elspeth nodded, offering a small, polite smile. “Thank you, Mr Sutherland. I did.”
He gestured toward the chair opposite him. As she sat, still self-conscious in yesterday’s outfit, he studied her for a moment before speaking again. “You will find a selection of women’s clothing in the wardrobe of your room, should you wish to shower and change. Please help yourself to whatever you need.”
Elspeth hesitated, a flicker of confusion crossing her delicate features. Why did a man like Remington Sutherland keep women’s clothing in his guest room? Yet gratitude won out. “That is very kind of you,” she murmured softly. “I shall do that after breakfast.”
She ate little, her appetite stolen by worry, and soon excused herself. Back in the elegant bedroom, she opened the wardrobe doors and stared. Row upon row of high-end luxury garments hung before her—designer labels she recognised from glossy magazines but had never imagined touching. Silks, satins, and fine wools in soft pastel shades. Yet every piece was short, fitted, or revealing in some subtle way: hemlines that would barely reach mid-thigh, necklines that dipped low, fabrics that clung to the body. Nothing modest or ordinary.
She selected the least revealing option she could find—a soft blush-pink dress with an off-the-shoulder neckline and a full skirt that still ended well above the knee. It felt expensive against her skin, almost too delicate for everyday wear. After a long, hot shower that washed away the remnants of last night’s rain and fear, she slipped into the dress and returned downstairs.
Remington was waiting in the drawing room when she reappeared. His gaze lingered on her as she entered, taking in the way the luxurious fabric accentuated her petite frame, the gentle swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, and the long blonde waves that fell over one pale shoulder. She looked every inch the Doll he had envisioned—vulnerable, beautiful, and utterly captivating. A quiet satisfaction stirred within him.
Elspeth felt his eyes upon her and flushed, suddenly aware of how exposed she felt in the short dress. Yet Remington was an attractive man—tall, commanding, with that shaved head and intense dark eyes—and the attention did not entirely discomfort her. It carried a strange, fluttering warmth she could not quite name.
She took a seat across from him and spoke honestly, her voice soft and trembling slightly. “I do not know who to turn to for help, Mr Sutherland. All my friends were also friends with Ryan. They have sided with him completely. I am so sorry for intruding upon you like this. I shall leave today. I do not wish to impose any further.”
Remington leaned back in his chair, regarding her with calm authority. A long conversation followed. He listened as she poured out her fears—Ryan’s threats to ruin her DBS check and her civil service apprenticeship, the way his police colleagues closed ranks around him, the isolation she now faced. When she finished, he offered his suggestion.
“I have friends in positions far higher than your ex-boyfriend within the police,” he said evenly. “They could look into the matter discreetly and ensure you are protected. It need not be difficult.”
Elspeth’s blue eyes widened with gratitude. “That would mean everything to me. But… what could I possibly do to repay such kindness?”
Remington’s expression did not soften. “It is not kindness, Miss Weston. I am looking for a Doll. I wonder whether that is something you might consider.”
She blinked, naïve and bewildered. “A… Doll? I do not understand.”
He explained patiently, his voice low and precise. “A Doll is a person who allows herself to be thoroughly looked after—dressed, protected, provided for in every way—as though she were a cherished possession. In exchange, she offers intimacy to the one who cares for her. Everything would be set out clearly in a contract. The arrangement would last for one year.”
Shock flashed across Elspeth’s face. She recoiled slightly, her cheeks burning. “No,” she said at once, the word instinctive and firm. “I could not possibly—”
Remington raised a hand gently to silence her protest. “I offer you one more night to think it through. Consider my position. I am a man of some standing in society, with many high-level contacts and friends who could resolve your situation with your ex-boyfriend swiftly and permanently. Stay tonight. Rest. Reflect. The choice, of course, remains yours.”
Elspeth sat motionless, her mind reeling. The luxurious dress suddenly felt heavier against her skin, a tangible reminder of the world she had stumbled into. Outside, the quiet elegance of Mayfair continued as though nothing had changed, yet for her, everything hung in the balance.
