I don’t know anymore.
I know the red light on the camera is blinking.
I know he’s behind it.
Watching.
Let him watch. Let him choke on it.
My fingers trail up my thigh, not touching anything important, not really—but giving him just enough to set fire to the edges of his self-control. I graze the hem of my shirt, pause there, then slide it higher, exposing the curve of my hip. I shift again, roll onto my stomach, glance back at the camera like I forgot it was there—and then smile.
A dangerous smile.
The kind I know will wreck him.
The kind he taught me.
I drag my fingers down my spine, a mock caress, slow enough to be cruel, shallow enough to mean nothing but suggest everything. And then I roll again—spread out now like an offering wrapped in rage and need. I don’t touch myself, not really. That would give him too much. This isn’t submission.
It’s strategy.
It’s war.
If he thinks he’s the only one who can manipulate a camera, he hasn’t been paying attention.
I stare into the lens until it feels like I’m staring straight through it, into the hollow behind his ribs where his heart should be. I whisper his name—not like a plea, but a dare.
“Hook.”
Just that.
Let him decide if it was meant for him.
Let him suffer.
He doesn’t come.
Good.
Let him sweat. Let his knuckles go white on the monitor controls. Let him try to resist, let him convince himself that he’s still in charge.
I know the truth now.
I can ruin him too.
And I will.
One glance at a time.
I slip off the bed like my bones have turned to syrup, every step towards the centre of the room unsteady but intentional—like a marionette dancing in the wreckage of her own strings.
I don’t look at the camera.
Not anymore.
Let him wonder.
I unbutton the shirt he gave me, slow and measured, like I’m peeling off a lie. It falls from my shoulders in a whisper, pooling at my feet like discarded innocence. I don’t bother to hide the bruises. The bite marks. The scratches I left on myself just to feel something that wasn’t him.
