I opened the top drawer of the desk. Pulled out the box. Black leather. Brushed steel clasp. No tag. No key.No promises.
I set it on the table between us.
Opened it.
Inside—the collar.
Simple.
Cold.
Undeniable.
I didn’t touch it. Didn’t hold it out. Didn’t explain.
“You want to stay,” I said.
Not a question.
A fact.
“Then wear it.”
Her throat bobbed. The bruises along her jaw stood out against the rawness of her skin. She looked at the collar like it was alive. Like it might bite. Good. It should.
I didn’t move. Didn’t push the box closer. The air stretched thin between us. I let it. Let her feel the choice sink into her bones. Not because I wanted to break her. Because I already had.
And this?
This was just the funeral rites.
“I’m not giving you rules anymore,” I said.
“I’m giving you expectations.”
Her breath caught.
I stepped closer. Close enough to smell the blood dried beneath the clean scent of antiseptic.
“Obey without question. Without performance. Not because you’re scared.”
A beat.
A breath.
“Because you understand.”
The collar gleamed under the low light. Softer on the inside. Not meant to hurt. That wasn’t the point. The point was ownership. The point was belonging.
“One more lie, Cloe—one more secret—and you won’t get a second chance to explain it.”
She blinked once. Slow. Heavy. Tired. But still not broken the way she needed to be.
Not yet.
I didn’t pick up the collar. Didn’t fasten it for her. I stood there. Silent. Steady. Final. Like a grave marker. Like a gate closing.
“Wear it,” I said again.“Or walk.”
