The salon has been restored to pristine condition. The blood is gone, the furniture replaced, even the smell of death scrubbed away. Only the faint scent of cleaning chemicals hints at what happened here.
"They did good work," I observe, my voice hollow. "No one would ever know."
I walk to where I remember Kozlov falling, though with everything changed, I'm not even sure it's the right spot. Nothing feels real anymore.
"Do you know what I keep thinking about?" I ask, not looking at him.
"What?"
"I keep thinking about how I felt when I drove that pen into his throat. How satisfied I was." My hands start shaking. "What kind of person feels satisfied about killing someone?"
"Someone who was defending herself."
"Was I? Or was I just another part of your elaborate performance?" I turn to face him, and I can feel myself starting to fracture. "How much of what I felt was real? How much of what I did was actually me, and how much was just your programming?"
"Everything you felt was real."
"How would you know? How would I know?" My voice is rising now, hysteria creeping in. "You spent weeks conditioning me, training me, making me believe things that weren't true. How do I know anything I think or feel is actually mine?"
"Camilla—"
"I thought I was brave for seducing you. I thought I was clever for using my body as a weapon. But what if that was just you manipulating me into thinking I had power when I didn't?" I'm pacing now, my thoughts spiraling. "What if everything I believed about myself was just another lie you fed me?"
"That's not what happened."
"How do I trust anything anymore? How do I trust my own mind when you've been inside it for weeks, reshaping it to suit your needs?"
He takes a step toward me and I flinch back instinctively. The hurt that flashes across his face should satisfy me, but it just makes me feel more lost.
"I never wanted to break you," he says quietly.
"Then what did you want?" The question comes out broken, desperate. "Because I can't figure out what any of this was for if not to break me."
"I wanted to keep you."
"Keep me." I laugh, but it sounds more like a sob. "Like a pet. Like a beautiful thing you put in a cage and call it protection."
"It wasn't protection. Not at first."
"Then what was it?"
"Obsession. Possession. The need to control something I couldn't understand." His voice is raw now, honest in a way that cuts. "I told myself it was about the debt, about family honor, about business. But it was about wanting you so badly I was willing to destroy you to have you."
The confession startles me. At least when he was lying, I could hate him cleanly. This honesty is so much worse.
I sink into one of the chairs, suddenly exhausted.
Wanting.
He's saying he wanted me after weeks of psychological torture, after letting me believe I was going to be sold to rapists, after conditioning me like a dog.
"I don't know what any of that means anymore," I whisper.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I thought Lorenzo wanted me, but he stepped aside and watched me get taken. I thought my father cared about me, but he arranged my marriage to cover his debts." I look up at him. "So what does wanting even mean when everyone who claims to want me treats me terribly?"
He's silent for a long moment. "I don't have an answer for that."
