Hate that I'm giving him exactly what he wants, proving every single thing he's said about me.
Hate that I'm admitting defeat, admitting that he was right and I was wrong, admitting that my body needs what only he can give.
But I can't stand this anymore.
Can't stand lying awake at night wanting something I can't give myself. Can't stand the curiosity that's eating me alive, making every minute feel like an hour. Can't stand being this close to understanding myself and pulling back because of pride or fear or stubborn resistance to admitting the truth.
I need to know.
I need to understand what my body is capable of.
I need him to show me.
Even if it means giving him power over me.
Even if it means becoming exactly what he's been engineering me to become.
Even if it means losing more of myself in the process.
At least I'll know.
At least I'll understand.
At least I'll stop wanting so desperately that it hurts.
I dress carefully, my hands shaking slightly as I pull on jeans and a sweater.
The cream cashmere that's soft and comfortable and makes me feel less vulnerable somehow.
Pull my hair back into a ponytail.
Try to look normal, composed, like I'm not about to beg the man who bought me at an auction to touch me again.
Like I'm not about to cross a line I can never uncross.
Downstairs, the kitchen smells like coffee and something baking—Mrs. Silva's doing, probably.
She's been kind to me these past ten days, in her quiet, professional way.
Never asking questions. Never judging.
Just providing meals and clean towels and a motherly presence that I didn't know I needed.
Vaughn is already there.
Same as every morning.
Coffee and newspaper, perfectly put together in dark slacks and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms.
Composed. Controlled. Giving absolutely nothing away.
Does he know what I'm going to say?
Has he been waiting for this moment?
Planning for it?
Is he smug about winning, about breaking down my resistance?
