“Soon.”
Just that word. Quiet. Final.
It sank into me like a hook behind my ribs.
I took a step back, chin raised like I still had pride to lean on, but my heart was thrashing against my chest like it wanted out, like it knew I was in too deep.
Why hadn’t I run?
Why didn’t I scream?
Why did staying feel like the only thing I could do?
He chuckled softly behind me. Not loud. Just enough to feel it in my bones.
I clenched my fists and held my ground like that would protect me from the way he was unraveling me thread by thread.
I hated this game.
I hated that he always seemed ten steps ahead.
But most of all?
I hated that some traitorous, aching part of me wanted to lose.
I felt his gaze settle on my back like a hand pressing flat between my shoulder blades—steady, claiming, unrelenting.
He stepped behind me, and I watched him in the mirror. Not directly—just the shape of him. A shadow stitched from silk and power.
The reflection caught too much.
My stiff posture.
The flicker in my eyes.
The way my lips parted—not in fear, not in surrender—just in something rawer.
Something I didn’t want to name.
His breath brushed my ear, low and warm and terrifyingly soft. “This gown doesn’t belong to you anymore. It’s mine. And I want it off.”
I opened my mouth to argue. To claw back whatever dignity I still had.
But nothing came out.
Because just then, his fingers grazed my spine.
And everything inside me scattered like ash.
It was too light.
Too careful.
Too practiced.
And it made my knees lock.
“Don’t,” I whispered, the word brittle as glass.
