"Thank you for letting me." His voice followed me into dreams. "Thank you for becoming everything I imagined and more. For teaching me that control could include care. That ownership could be an act of love."
"We taught each other."
"Yes," he agreed. "We did. And tomorrow, we get to keep teaching each other. Keep learning. Keep building this beautiful, twisted thing we've created."
"Forever?"
"Forever."
The word followed me into dreams where gratitude took shape as golden threads binding us together. Not chains or ropes but something stronger—choice made manifest, submission given freely, love that included ownership without erasure.
I woke once more before dawn, just long enough to feel him solid beside me. Real. Mine as much as I was his. The man who'd seen me lost and led me home. Who'd broken me open and helped me rebuild. Who'd taught me that being good felt better than being angry.
Who'd given me everything by taking control.
Tomorrow the contract would end.
But what we'd built would last forever.
And I would spend every day of that forever showing him my gratitude. In service and submission. In kneeling and crawling. In burnt toast and perfect meals. In letters written at 3 AM and truths spoken through tears.
In being exactly what I'd become: His good girl, grateful for the breaking, thankful for the rebuilding, complete in my surrender.
Ready for whatever came next.
Because he'd made me ready. Taught me, trained me, loved me into someone capable of choosing this life with eyes wide open and heart completely given.
The thought made me hum softly, that sound of contentment that lived in my throat now. He stirred, pulled me closer, whispered something that might have been my name or might have been prayer.
Either way, it sounded like forever.
And I was grateful for every moment of it.
Abandoned
Wrong.
Everything was wrong.
The ceiling wasn't right—white instead of the soft grey of Gabriel's bedroom. The sheets felt different, expensive but unfamiliar, lacking his scent that had become my anchor. The light filtering through windows came from the wrong angle, and the traffic sounds were muted, distant, like this apartment sat higher than any place I'd ever lived.
I sat up, disoriented, my hand immediately going to my throat.
The collar was gone.
"No." The word came out small, frightened. "No, no, no..."
I scrambled out of bed—a bed I didn't recognize in a room I'd never seen—and my legs gave out. Not from weakness but from the trained response to distress. Kneel when afraid.Crawl when lost. Present yourself for comfort that would make everything clear.
But the hardwood floor was cold, unfamiliar, and no one came.
"Daddy?" My voice cracked, pitched high with rising panic. "Gabriel?"
Silence.
The apartment sprawled around me, clearly expensive with its floor-to-ceiling windows and modern fixtures. Nothing like the grey box I'd lived in before. But also nothing like his warm study or the pink room that had become home or the bed where I'd fallen asleep in his arms just—
When? How long had I been here? The last clear memory was writing the letter, reading it to him, falling asleep grateful and owned and safe.
