"Any signs of pregnancy? Are those methods I taught you working?"
...
Every message coached Noelle on how to use me, please me, and exploit me for the family.
I leaned back in my chair and lit a cigar.
I wanted her to come begging.
Better yet, I wanted her to walk into my study of her own accord. Her movements might be clumsy, inexperienced, but just imagining her trying to please me with that not-quite-tamed body and those eyes. Those clear eyes looking up at me, whispering "please"—
I could picture the entire scene.
Under my gaze, she'd reach out with trembling hands, tentatively trying to unbutton my shirt. She'd be so nervous she'd fumble helplessly, the button slipping from her fingers again and again. Her eyeswould redden with frustration, but she still couldn't manage that first button.
I'd watch coldly, offering no help.
Would she give up on the button and rise on her toes, clumsily pressing her tear-salted lips to mine?
Or would she go further?
She'd wear that stubborn expression as she slowly sank to her knees beside my chair. Tear stains would still mark her face, eyes red-rimmed, like a little beast forced into submission.
I'd raise my hand, spreading it before her. She'd resist at first, but eventually extend her warm tongue to lightly trace my cold palm.
No, that wouldn't be enough.
I'd make her pull down my zipper, take me in her mouth, submit to me completely.
That would be more exquisite than mere physical conquest—crushing her pride utterly, making her offer everything willingly.
The thought intoxicated and excited me more than any liquor, making my lower body tighten, hard and aching.
But none of it happened. Nothing.
She was like a stone, giving no response, never asking me for anything. She'd rather wear plain clothes every day, hold books about distant landscapes, rather sit in her room staring into space than bow her head in submission.
I scrolled through the records again. Noelle's replies to Sofia were brief—"okay," "fine," "Yeah"—utterly dismissive.
She'd even hung up on her mother several times.
I felt like I'd thrown a powerful punch into soft cotton, the rebound filling me with frustration.
Why couldn't she just be like other women—content to enjoy all this, or at least like a proper commodity, knowing how to please her buyer?
She simply couldn't.
At dinner time, I didn't return to the manor. An important meeting detained me, but all evening, those business terms and profit distributions couldn't capture my thoughts.
Noelle's face kept surfacing in my mind. What was she doing? Would she feel relieved that I wasn't there? These thoughts were maddening. When had I started caring so much about a woman's thoughts?
By the time the meeting ended, it was late. I drove back to the manor, snow-covered driveways gleaming coldly under the headlights.
I pushed open the master bedroom door. Noelle was curled up on the sofa by the window, a book in her lap, but she clearly wasn't reading. Her gaze was fixed blankly outside, looking forlorn.
I stood in the doorway watching her for a while, then approached silently.
She didn't notice. I stopped behind her, close enough to smell the fresh orange blossom scent in her hair.
