He studies my face, and I wonder if he can see through the excuse. Wonder if he knows I'm really just addicted to the way he says "yes" when I ask nicely. The way his approval makes the hollow ache in my chest ease just a little.
"I'll select something appropriate," he says finally. "Something romantic. I think you'll enjoy it."
His choice of genre makes something flutter in my stomach. Something romantic. Does he think I need romance? Does he think I'm the type of woman who loses herself in love stories?
The book is waiting on my bedside table that night—a leather-bound romance about a pirate captain and the lady he kidnaps. I read until dawn, losing myself in a story that feels uncomfortably familiar. A proud woman brought low. A powerful man who breaks her down and builds her back up. A heroine who discovers that surrender isn't defeat but transformation.
The parallels are impossible to ignore. But unlike the story, I can't see how mine ends.
---
Day twenty-seven, I can't stop myself.
"May I please have different tea?" I ask at breakfast. "Something sweeter?"
"May I please have a warmer cloak for walking in the courtyard?"
"May I please learn to cook something besides porridge?"
Each request earns the same response—that warm approval in his voice, that sense of being cared for and valued. The way his attention focuses on me completely, like I'm the only thing in the world that matters. By evening, I've asked for a dozen small things, and he's granted every single one.
The palace notices too. The hallways stay warm when I walk through them now, the stone floors no longer leaching heat from my bare feet. The windows show beautiful views of snow-covered gardens instead of endless gray sky. Crystalline formations bloom across the glass—not random patterns, but deliberate artistry. Flowers made of frost, trees that bend and sway in impossible breezes.
Even the ice sculptures in the courtyard seem to dance when I pass, putting on little performances just for me. A frozen ballerina spins on her crystal pedestal. A pair of swans made of living ice chase each other around a fountain that somehow flows despite the cold.
Everything responds to my improved behavior. Everything celebrates my growing obedience.
It should horrify me. Should make me want to rebel, to resist, to prove that I haven't been broken down into some domesticated pet who performs for treats.
Instead, it makes me glow with satisfaction.
I'm being good. I'm being exactly what he wants me to be. And the reward isn't just material things—it's his attention, his approval, his warmth in a palace built from eternal winter. It's the way he looks at me when I ask properly, like I'm precious. Like I matter.
The hollow ache that's lived in my chest my entire life is finally, finally starting to fill. Not with things or tantrums or the temporary high of destroying something beautiful.
With his attention. His approval. His careful cultivation of the woman he wants me to become.
That night, I catch myself practicing in the mirror.
"May I please have—" I stop mid-sentence, staring at my reflection in horror.
This is what he's done to me. Turned me into someone who rehearses how to ask for things properly. Someone who craves his approval more than her next breath. My reflection stares back—face flushed, eyes bright with something that looks disturbingly like happiness.
When did I start looking forward to his presence? When did his voice become the sound I most want to hear?
I should be angry. Should be planning my escape, or my revenge, or at least my resistance.
Instead, I find myself wondering what else I could ask for tomorrow. What other small requests might earn that tone of voice that makes me feel special and wanted and worthy of care.
The truth hits me like a physical blow: I'm not just learning to ask properly. I'm learning to need his permission for everything. Learning to see myself through his eyes instead of my own.
Learning to be his.
And the most terrifying part? I don't want to stop.
Because for the first time in my life, I feel like I belong somewhere. Like I have a purpose beyond my own selfish desires. When he looks at me with approval, when his voice goes warm and approving, I feel complete in a way I never have before.
Even if that purpose is simply to be exactly what he wants, exactly when he wants it.
