I twist my hand in the light, mesmerized. It doesn’t even look real. It appears to be something stolen from a museum or passed down through generations. And now, it’s mine. Or...his. On me.
The diamonds catch the sun and scatter it across the ceiling. I want to take it off, terrified at the weight of it, but I know better.
I sip.
It’s strong, black, exactly the way I take it. Of course.
I feel an unfamiliar weight at my neck and reach up to feel a large collar of emeralds at my throat, circling the base of my neck. I tug at it with one hand, trying to find the clasp, but I fail. Was this his other gift?
It’s clearly a matching set. I glance at myself in the vanity mirror across the room. It’s as beautiful as the ring, and I can’t help but gasp at it in the mirror. They’re breathtaking, andsomething in how tight they are around my neck just screams ownership.
This is a collar. I’ve been collared and married by Hayden Herron. And instead of allowing it to terrify me, I simply gulp and return to my coffee. If I stop to think about the truth of what this all means, I may finally crumble.
I sip again. It steadies me, but it doesn’t answer any of the questions I have. The pill stares back at me.
I remember my mother’s bottles. She never called them pills. She called themhelpers asif they were little spirits assigned to carry her through the day. Cyclobenzaprine. Diazepam. Carisoprodol, later, when things got worse.
She always looked…happy. Not just on them, but in them, like they were rooms she could live inside. Relaxed, radiant in that foggy kind of way. I used to lie on the rug of our great room and watch her float through the house in her robe, a martini in one hand, a half-smile on her lips that never seemed to reach her eyes.
I reach for the pill and pinch it between my fingers. It’s lighter than it looks. A ghost of something dangerous wrapped in a white shell.
My stomach tightens as I roll the pill across my tongue. I chase it with coffee. The warmth doesn’t soothe me as much as I want it to. It just spreads the unease. The coffee cup clinks back down on the saucer. The pill dish is empty now. I sit very still, waiting.
Moments later, I feel my body relax, and the pain I felt in my behind while sitting up has dulled.
The mansion feels too quiet. Not peaceful, sterile. Like it’s waiting, too, I pull the sheet tighter around my body and stare across the room. The fireplace is just grey ash. His cufflinks are still on the dresser. His absence hums like a sound only I can hear.
I hate how calm I feel.
Maybe that’s the pill.
This isn’t the first time.
Not this pill, exactly, but something similar. A muscle relaxer? A sedative? An anti-anxiety cocktail meant to smooth the edges of the day, or the decisions he’s made in my absence. Whatever it is, I’ll feel it soon. Not all at once, but slowly, like a warm hand at the base of my spine.
I think about my mother again.
How happy she looked in the afternoons. The gin. The soft voice. The way her eyes would glaze, not with sadness, but with something worse,acceptance.
Back then, I thought she was glamorous. Elegant. A little tragic. Now, I see it for what it was.
I hated it, watching her disappear by degrees. But this, me, now, it’s the same, isn’t it?
Only I’m not disappearing. I’m becoming what Hayden wants.
And the worst part? I feel good doing it.
There’s a twisted kind of safety in surrender. It makes everything easier. It strips the need to question, to plan, to worry. He decides. I comply. I still get the illusion of elegance. I still wake up to silk sheets, black coffee, and carefully arranged fruit bowls. And now…a pill.
A single white dot on a porcelain dish. Small. Silent. Absolute.
It was never optional.
Not really.
And I took it anyway.
Hayden Herron
