"I need to think about it," she says finally.
"Take all the time you need."
"How much time is 'all the time'?"
"As much as you want. A day. A week. A month. Whenever you're ready."
Or three days, I think but don't say.
Three days before I start subtly showing her what she's missing.
Before I remind her how good it felt.
Before curiosity overcomes fear.
But I don't say that.
Just let her think she has all the control.
Let her think this is entirely her choice.
Even though we both know—or at least I know—that I'm guiding every step, creating the conditions for her to choose exactly what I want her to choose.
She finishes her breakfast in silence, her mind clearly elsewhere.
Stands.
"I'm going to the library," she says.
"Enjoy your reading."
She pauses at the door. Looks back over her shoulder.
"Vaughn."
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For making it my choice."
Then she's gone, leaving me alone with Mrs. Silva and the irony of her gratitude.
I sit there in the empty kitchen, her words echoing in my head.
Thank you for making it my choice.
The irony would be funny if it wasn't so fucked up.
Because it's not really her choice, is it?
I'm manipulating every aspect of this.
Creating the conditions.
Engineering the curiosity.
Making sure she wants what I'm offering while believing it's her own desire.
The cage isn't the house or the locks or the security system.
