Dinner is served without a word. The staff moves like shadows, efficient and invisible. A roasted chicken breast arrives first, perfectly carved, with crisp and golden skin. There are buttery fingerling potatoes, accompanied by a small salad of bitter greens dressed with a citrus vinaigrette. I eat slowly, quietly. The vodka pairs beautifully with the sauce on the chicken, rich, dark, full of rosemary, and a hint of clove.
Hayden isn’t here, but his presence is everywhere.
When I finish, the table is cleared almost immediately. I don’t ask for anything. I don’t have to.
Dessert follows.
Fruit in a shallow porcelain bowl: raspberries and tiny champagne grapes, all glistening. A dollop of cream sits beside them, thick and soft, barely sweetened. A flute of champagne is poured for me, no words, just the quiet pop of the cork and the pour, slow and elegant.
And then, the last plate is placed in front of me.
My breath catches. A small, white pill resting in the center of a pristine porcelain dish. No note. No explanation. Just a quiet offering.
I press my thighs together under the table.
It’s absurd how fast my body reacts, how quickly my mind folds around the idea of it. The anticipation. The way my pulseslows and sharpens all at once. I haven’t even touched it, and already my skin feels more alive.
He knows exactly what this does to me.
The staff is gone, silent as ever, doors closed behind them. I’m alone, and yet I feel watched.
I glance down at the pill again, then to the flute of champagne beside it. Pale gold, delicate bubbles rising like breath from the bottom.
It’s all been prepared just so.
Flashes of what he’ll give me, what I’ll earn, rush through my mind in quick, vivid strokes. The way he touches me when I’m obedient. The way he looks at me when I’ve done exactly what he’s asked: the quiet praise, the low murmur of “good girl” against my lips.
Being called his “little whore.”
I imagine him coming home and finding the empty dish. The champagne flute has a trace of gloss on the rim. The pill had already dissolved in me. Is this the complete surrender of my trust?
The desperation I feel to take it and see what happens affirms it in me.
If I take it, he’ll reward me. I know he will.
He always does when I behave, when I wait for him, when I’m good.
Even when he’s not here, he’s pulling the strings. Guiding the evening as he guides me.
And I want him to.
I lift the flute of champagne and take a slow sip, the cold fizz hitting my tongue just right. Then I reach out, and with two fingers, I press the pill to my lips.
I knock back the rest of the champagne in one breath along with the pill, dry, biting, perfect. The fizz curls down my throatlike silk, and I feel a dizzy warmth begin to bloom behind my ribs.
My hand drifts to the silver bucket beside me.
The champagne bottle is already tilted on the ice. Perfectly placed, like everything else in this house.
I pull it out, cold and dripping, and refill my flute to the top before bringing it to my lips. But this time I don’t sip. I drink. Long, deep pulls that go down too fast, too much, until I’m breathless and buzzing, stifling unladylike burps.
It’s almost immediate, the soft hum, the blur at the edges of my thoughts, like the world pulling gauze over itself. I feel as though my limbs get lighter and heavier at the same time. My heart beats a little louder in my ears. Everything slows. Everything softens.
I reach for another sip but miss my flute. My hand is slow and uncoordinated, and suddenly the table tilts, or maybe I do. I try to steady myself, but my body doesn’t listen.
Then the room begins to slide sideways.
I fold forward before I even realize I’m falling, my cheek slamming into the cold porcelain rim of the dessert bowl. The berries burst beneath me, cream streaking my skin, raspberry juice spreading like a bruise across my jaw. My hair sticks to it instantly, tangled and wet.
