The collar pressed against my throat as I shifted, constant as gravity.
Tomorrow, he'd said. Fifty.
I traced the bruises on my knuckles and started practicing my numbers.
The Pacifier Test
The third morning arrived with the weight of inevitability. Fifty. The number had haunted my dreams, turning into a countdown clock that ticked with each heartbeat.
I'd followed the morning routine perfectly. Shower. Dress—today's selection a soft pink shift that made me look like a Victorian ghost. Breakfast requested with a "please" that came easier than yesterday. Pills swallowed without argument.
All of it buying me nothing.
"Dr. Mire will arrive for your morning session in five minutes."
I sat on the bed, hands folded, back straight. The perfect picture of compliance, if you ignored the way my fingers trembled. My knuckles had bloomed purple overnight, a badge of honor that would cost me dearly.
The door opened exactly on time. He entered carrying a leather case and that same tablet, dressed in black slacks and a grey sweater that made him look almost approachable. The splitlip I'd given him had scabbed over, a dark line that drew my eye like a magnet.
"Good morning, Lilah." He set his items on the vanity with practiced efficiency. "How are we feeling today?"
"Fan-fucking-tastic." The sarcasm slipped out before I could stop it. Old habits died hard, especially when facing down a promised belt.
"Mm." He pulled out the chair from the vanity, positioning it in the center of the room. Then he sat, crossed one leg over the other, and... watched me.
Silence stretched between us, thick as molasses. I shifted on the bed, waiting for instructions, threats, something. But he just sat there, storm-grey eyes tracking my every movement like I was the most interesting thing in the world.
A minute passed. Then five. Then ten.
"Are you going to say something?" My voice cracked with tension.
He tilted his head slightly but remained silent.
Fifteen minutes. The collar felt tighter with each breath. Twenty minutes. My hands started to shake harder.
"This is stupid." I stood, needing to move. "If you're trying to make me nervous, congratulations. It worked. Can we just—"
He held up one finger. I stopped mid-sentence, caught by the simple gesture.
Twenty-five minutes. I paced the small room, aware of his eyes following me. The silence pressed against my eardrums until I wanted to scream just to break it.
At thirty minutes exactly, I snapped.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" The words exploded out, months of frustration and three days of captivity crystallizing into rage. "Is this your idea of research? Sitting there like a creepy statue while I lose my mind? I hit you! I know I hit you! So just get it over with! Give me your fifty fucking strikes and stop playing these psychological—"
"There she is." He smiled, and it transformed his face from clinical to almost warm. "I was wondering how long you'd last. Thirty-two minutes of silence before explosion. Fascinating."
"I'm not fascinating!" I wanted to throw something, but the room offered nothing but soft pillows and my own impotent fury. "I'm a person you're keeping prisoner!"
"You're both." He uncrossed his legs, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "But before we address yesterday's violence, I want to explain something. May I?"
The question caught me off-guard. "You're asking permission?"
"I'm offering context. Whether you accept it is your choice."
I laughed, sharp and bitter. "Choice. Right. Because I have so many of those here."
"You have more than you think." He pulled out his tablet, swiping to something. "Sit, Lilah. Let me tell you about my work. About why you're here beyond the money you so cleverly thought you'd stolen."
