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A Melody of Surrender
This is a story about how intimacy takes different forms for different people, and how things we may not personally understand can have deep intimate meaning for others. It’s a long, slow-burn romance about two women and their developing bond of love.
It explores intimacy through power exchange, dominance and submission, and there is a loving, growing D/s relationship at the heart of the story. If that’s not your cup of tea you might want to skip this one and move to one of my other slow burn stories.
A big, heartfelt hug of thanks goes out to THBGato and SugarStorm for all their help in developing this story. Their suggestions and honest comments truly made it much better. I highly recommend that you check out their stories.
The title is lovingly borrowed from one of SugarStorm’s amazing stories.
—
++ A Melody of Surrender ++
The carbonara was good. I had prepared it from scratch with the right ingredients and method. I was rather proud of that. I liked cooking, it was structured and fun to learn, and I could do it by myself through the internet. You might even say it was a hobby by now.
Oh, look at me. I had a hobby.
I smiled to myself.
I topped up my glass of Pinot Gris. I thought a nice white was a good fit for the carbonara. It felt a bit like a real Italian meal.
This was where Ben would have smiled and blown me a kiss over clinking glasses.
Afterwards we would have relaxed on the sofa, watched some Dr. Who and finished the wine. With a little Thursday buzz, we would perhaps have been feeling a bit romantic.
He would have been gentle, made sure I came before him. He was an attentive lover like that.
When he fell asleep, I would have lain awake for a while.
Wondering what was wrong with me.
It was a nice life we’d had. Our… my tidy, one bedroom Camden flat wasn’t large but lovely and in a nice area. I had a good job, a senior position at the studio and Ben was a good man. We’d been friends for years before we got together. Living together for three years. Building a life.
Until a month ago.
When I just couldn’t go through the motions anymore.
He was surprised. Hurt. But not devastated.
Maybe he felt it too, that there was something missing.
I’d said it was me, not him. It was a cliché, but it was true.
I clicked off the telly and went to bed.
I had an early morning.
—
Fridays at Bellwether Studios were often a light affair. There was a standing order for drinks after work at the half-closed rooftop bar we shared with the two other companies that were housed in the building; a fintech outfit and a legal firm. It was a great setup, and in the summer, we sometimes had live music up there, jazz, blues or DJ’s.
I loved working here. Rowan was a great boss, perceptive and friendly, with an eye for detail. He recognised people’s value and had put together a small but competent team. There were only ten of us, but the projects Rowan brought in were interesting and often felt like they were stolen from under the noses of larger agencies. His old contacts In the high fashion and art circles seemed like they were still robust, even though he had left the art directing game to set up his own creative agency five years ago.
It was after lunch, and I was polishing the slides for the Hemvind final presentation. Repositioning a Scandinavian homeware brand for the UK market wasn’t a huge challenge, but as a brand strategist I’d had to do a bit of digging to find the emotional core beneath all the beige and birchwood.
I was going with less ‘minimalist cold’, more ‘intentional sanctuary’, targeting mid- to upper income young couples and families with young children. Heavy on sustainability and ethical production – buy fewer but better things, kind of thing.
The client liked it, so everyone was happy.
I just had to get Jules’ lines to pop with Marla’s creatives and bring the whole deck together before Monday.
“Cady, can you join us in the meeting room in ten minutes please?” Rowan knocked lightly on the top of my screens. I looked up at him, sleek dressed as usual, tailored suit, no tie.
“Sure, what’s up?”
“Team meeting, everyone who’s in. New client. Exciting times.” He winked mysteriously and sauntered off to Marla and John’s desks.
I looked at Jules to my right, he just shrugged, like he didn’t know what this was about. We’d all find out at the meeting then.
Ten minutes later I took a seat at the far end of the table in our 14-chair meeting room. There were only six of us in there now though, Marlon and Chelsea were out on a pitch and Amir was on a photo run. That just left Rowan. The display was on but currently only our logo sat there.
A minute later he entered, quick on his feet, planting his coffee on the table. There was that glint in his eye he got afyon escort when he had something exciting to share.
“Everyone, I have some news. It is not public yet, but it will be at around lunch tomorrow, so I’ll ask you to sit on it until then.”
He smiled, looking at everyone around the table.
“We have a new client.” He clicked a slide on, and a collective gasp went around the table at the all too recognizable face and logo.
“Fuck me!” Jules was as eloquent as ever.
“I’ll take that as positive recognition.” Rowan’s smile was even wider now.
Tessa had her jaw on the table.
“That’s bloody Luz Valencienne!”
Even I knew that.
The supermodel-turned-businesswoman, heiress of the Valencienne fashion house, commanded the room even from the screen, complete with flowing blonde mane, glowing cheekbones and tinted glasses. She was a formidable beauty, having started her career at fourteen strutting her stuff on the runway side by side with the very best. She was now nearly thirty, head of the Valencienne house and openly determined to restore her family’s moody and romantic but lagging fashion empire to former glory.
“I’m happy to inform you that Valencienne Atelier has signed an exclusive contract with Bellwether Studio for the rebranding and relaunch of the fashion house as… Valencienne Élan.”
The new name appeared on the screen. Stripped back, white sans font on black. Arial. He was using bloody Arial to tell us it was carte blanche. Cheeky bugger. His smile simmered down to a smirk.
There was cheering, hooting, fist pumping. Rowan allowed for a moment of celebration and then raised his hands, calming the noise.
“The launch is scheduled as part of London Fashion Week this fall, in just 8 short months. Now, to make this clear to everyone; The partnership will be leaked to the news tomorrow, but the new name or any details of the rebranding – even the fact that there is a rebranding in the works – does not leave this floor. Do not utter it outside these hallowed walls, not even to your loved ones. Guard it as the single most important secret of your entire working careers, because it is!”
He looked dead serious and everyone understood. It was obvious, but sometimes you had to state the obvious. The contract lived or died with this secret being kept. Hell, with a client like this, the company itself might live or die with this secret being kept. This was all our jobs on the line.
My good brand strategist job at a cool creative agency had suddenly morphed into something else entirely. If we pulled this off, I would have the Valencienne Atelier rebrand on my resumé. Even if I just had a minor role in this, the prestige of just having worked on this account in any way would… Oh god.
My head swam as I realised that I was witnessing a potentially career altering moment.
I was so caught up in all of this that I didn’t notice the woman who quietly entered the meeting room and stood off to the side by the door. Not at first.
Not until I noticed Marla staring, having a quiet, wide-eyed ‘fuuuuuuuck’ moment to herself.
I followed her stare and saw this serious faced, dark-haired woman standing there, looking like she had always been there. Easy. Calm. Somewhat edgy but professional looking. Her wavy hair was taken up in an oversized tortoiseshell claw at the back, leaving a few loose strands framing her face. A bit off-centre, it looked rather hastily done. But somehow, she didn’t look like a woman who did anything with haste.
She wore brick-red lipstick and winged eyeliner that drew attention to her dark eyes and clean, sharp brows. A silver ring sat comfortably in a nostril, punctuating her angled face. Her outfit sat on her frame like it had been casually thrown on but was still perfectly structured. Tailored black tapered trousers with a single neat chain decorating her right hip paired with carefully half-laced burgundy Docs. A fitted pinstripe blazer over a Massive Attack T-shirt, the once black colour expertly faded to shades of grey. Her sleeves were unevenly cuffed giving her simple silver watch pride of place, showing the black line tattoos adorning her wrists.
It was office wear, but with an I-don’t-give-a fuck twist. She looked like a controlled riot in very good tailoring.
A calm storm.
“Everyone, I want you to meet Ilaria West. She will be joining Bellwether as from today to take the reins on the Valencienne account as project lead. Ilaria is an accomplished art director, as I’m sure most of you already know, and has worked closely with Luz Valencienne herself in years past. We are very lucky that she’s decided to throw in her lot with us and in truth, this wouldn’t be happening if she wasn’t a part of the package. I trust you will make her feel welcome.”
A quick but friendly nod was all we got from her, but as Rowan went around the table introducing aydın escort everyone, her eyes lingered for a second or two on each person.
“Jules Moreno, copy. Razor sharp. Deadpan. A poet in party wrapping.” Jules grinned and gave a silly little wave.
“Marla Tran, art direction. Chaos in eyeliner. The good kind.” Marla looked in love as she got a small nod.
“John Elwood, senior designer. Our Devil for all the details. Will chew you out if you mess with his files, so fair warning.” I’d been on the receiving end of that once. It was like having a favourite teacher be very disappointed in you. Terrible feeling.
Rowan nodded toward Vicki, scribbling something quick in the margin of her notebook. “Viktoria Sandström, UX and digital experience. Doesn’t speak unless she’s right, so, always.” That raised some smiles. Vicki was Swedish and didn’t hold back when it came to opinions, which she held on everything from the quality of the office coffee to the state of world affairs.
“Tessa Doyle, studio coordinator-slash-trend oracle. Keeps us up to date, on our toes and inspired.” Tessa was mid-scroll on her tablet, already amassing info on Valencienne, probably starting with Luz’s own social media posts.
Finally, me.
“Cadence Harper, brand strategy. Knows what you like before you do. Sharp as knives, don’t let the quiet fool you.”
I nodded back as she inclined her head to the quick introduction. Her dark eyes lingered on me a moment longer. Measured. Like she was filing me away. It felt a bit strange to be honest. She looked like someone who would kiss you or kill you depending on her mood. I started to wonder how she would fit in. Coming in like this gave her a lot of weight in a small team. A disrupting weight perhaps.
“We’ve got three more out on missions right now, Chelsea Osei, our schedule sorceress, Amir Haddad, our knockout visuals man, and Marlon Ruiz, our mood and motion king. I’ve given them the heads up, so you’ll meet them upstairs later.”
He clapped his hands once, soft but final. “All right, that’s the team.” He looked at her smiling, inviting her to speak if she wished. She took a step forward, seemingly completely at ease with a room full of strangers.
“Thank you, Rowan, it’s such a pleasure to meet you all, I’m very excited to be joining you for this project. I’ve followed some of your work and you absolutely punch high above your weight when it comes to large projects. I was especially impressed with your work on the Reverie Collection identity launch and the Terra Vita Project. Amazing results with a beautiful vision. Super concept work. I’m very happy to be a part of the team and look forward to working with you all.”
Her voice took me by surprise. From her looks I’d expected it to be dark and gritty, husky even, but her short speech was delivered in bright, soft, sincere tones.
I could see Marla was mesmerised. The others were hanging on her every word. I had to admit, she was an interesting character. I found myself looking forward to getting to know her better.
“Ok guys, Ilaria and I need to go over some details for tomorrow, but we’ll see you on the roof in an hour and a half or so, yes?” He strode out of the meeting room, heading for his office, the only one in our otherwise open workspace.
Ilaria West followed him with a quick nod and a not-really-a-smile-to-us.
As soon as they closed the door to Rowan’s office, quiet pandemonium erupted.
“Fucking Valencienne Atelier!? Ilaria West?”
“No way!”
“Jesus Cady, don’t you know who that is?”
That last one was Marla, who was looking at me wide eyed.
“Uhm I’ve heard the name, but I’m not sure that I’ve seen any of her work…”
“Are you kidding? She was the art director for Mirage:70, the whole ‘art installation in motion’ thing? The desert mirages, the book? Fuck, did you not see the Bardenas Reales film? Models appearing and disappearing in the shifting sand?
She was literally bursting at the seams with excitement. I did remember the La Maison Delacroix 70th anniversary shows, they had taken both fashion and art worlds by storm two years ago.
“That was her?”
“THAT WAS HER!” she shout-whispered. “She was nominated for the fucking Design Grand Prix at Cannes Lions for that last year. It was daylight robbery that she didn’t win! The word is she walked off the set in the Bardenas desert because Valerie Delacroix wanted to change her vision. They had to beg her back. Jesus Cady, do you not read Vogue or i-D, or like, the bloody papers?”
I did, sometimes. I vaguely remembered an article about that Bardenas Reales shoot going tits up. Bloody hell. This was big.
Marla was having a full starstruck meltdown. She and Jules were practically squeeing at each other.
Tessa rushed out, head buried in the tablet. The others were standing up, and I joined them going back to my desk. Design celebrities ağrı escort or not, I still had a date with some Scandinavian birch, and I didn’t want to spend too much of my Saturday on it.
While I worked on how best to assure the world that a sustainable home was the way to a fuller life, I thought about this incredible twist in our fortunes. It was Rowan at his best, obviously. He had massively outdone himself this time. The question was how an account that big and the addition of a heavy hitter like West would affect our well-established office ecosystem.
We’d see soon enough.
—
The music wasn’t loud, and the mood was talking, not dancing, at these Friday after-work drinks up top. The Smiths did their best to drag the mood down as I walked into the glass covered bar area.
There wasn’t a big crowd around our new project leader, just Rowan and a few others, but Marla was talking with her, doing her best to look nonchalant. Failing spectacularly. The resident celebrity seemed nonplussed by her fawning.
I watched them out of the corner of my eye as I asked Obi at the bar for a glass of white, listening to the Boy With the Thorn in His Side feel sorry for himself.
And when you want to live, how do you start?
Where do you go? Who do you need to know?
All good questions, really.
Morrissey finished his whining with a series of oh-ooohs and Don’t Mug Yourself came on. My, this was an uplifting playlist. Probably something the fintech chaps downstairs had put together. At least it wasn’t bloody Dry Your Eyes. The Streets wasn’t my cup of tea.
I took my white wine and ambled over to Rowan’s little group. I was in a good mood, the birch had behaved, we had an exciting new client and an interesting new coworker. All good Friday happy hour material.
“…no, I’m over in Dalston, got a flat in Ridley Road.” Our new resident celebrity seemed to be as mortal as the rest of us after all, if her address was anything to go by.
“But you must have moved around a lot? Didn’t you live in Berlin for a while?”
“Sure, yes, but I kept my place here all the same. My mother lives in Florence so I’ve got a place there as well. But it’s nice to be rooted somewhere even if I flit about a fair bit.”
Her bright, soft voice carried over the music that now had moved on to Bittersweet Symphony. I swear, someone needed to be talked to about this.
I watched her from the rim of their chat circle, not wanting to interrupt. She caught my eye, and I was treated to a warm smile that seemed completely out of character.
“Hi, Cadence, right? Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, uhm, nice to meet you too. Welcome to Bellwether.”
“Thank you, I’m happy to be here.” She radiated joy, the smile transforming her angled face to angelic.
Talented and beautiful too. Some people had all the luck. I felt a little warm inside under the light of that smile.
“Rowan tells me you and Marla were the brains behind the Terra Vita concept. That was seriously impressive.”
Marla looked like she was going to pee herself fangirling, so I caught the ball.
“Thank you, I guess, yeah. Well, Marla did the heavy design lifting of course, I was mostly there just to plan and execute.” I could feel my ears warming.
“Shut up, it was your idea, don’t be so modest.” Marla gave me a friendly elbow, still grinning ear to ear.
“Interesting.” Ilaria’s smile stayed on. She really was amazingly pretty.
I felt my blush deepen. I was never good at taking compliments. Or talking to pretty girls.
“Cady is our ideas and strategy wiz; she likes to hide in the back, but she’s the glue that holds this place together more often than not.”
Rowan winked at me over his glass, the bastard. He knew that I didn’t like it when he talked about me like that in public. And he knew me well enough to know that despite that surface reaction, deep down I loved to feel appreciated, a sucker for earned compliments.
Even if they produced a furious blush.
“Oh, stop it Rowan.” I turned to Ilaria with a smile. “We’re a hard-working team here, that’s what makes us good.”
She nodded slowly and took a sip of her drink. Again, it felt like she was quietly taking me in somehow, assessing everyone around her for future reference. Like a shark, always moving. I suddenly got the feeling that she was quite intelligent on top of all the talent and beauty.
She wasn’t aloof in any way, just understated, friendly but at a distance. Maybe it was just because she was the new girl. Perhaps she was nervous.
I laughed that thought off.
She definitely wasn’t the nervous type.
When I got home, I was buzzed, energized by the challenge that life had just thrown me. Struck by how that intense but calm woman had swept into our lives, turning everything on its head.
When I closed my eyes that night, the thought of her winged eyes on me as we talked wouldn’t leave me.
I hoped this wasn’t going to unleash some drama. She looked like an amazing artist to work with. But she also looked like a friendly but barely contained storm.
As anyone with experience from our line of work could testify to, those two things often went together.
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