Coffee in a delicate cup.
Orange juice in crystal.
All of it might as well be sawdust for all I can taste it.
My stomach is too tight with anxiety about what's coming.
Too knotted with anticipation I don't want to feel.
Too twisted with the knowledge that some part of me—some small, treacherous part—is curious about today's session instead of just dreading it.
Vaughn watches me over his coffee cup, those ice-blue eyes missing nothing. "You're not eating."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat. You'll need energy for today's session. It's going to be more intensive than previous days."
More intensive?
The words send a shiver through me that I can't quite identify as fear or something else.
"I don't want to do today's session," I say, but the argument sounds hollow even to my own ears.
Automatic.
Like lines from a script I'm supposed to recite but no longer believe.
"That's not relevant to whether it happens. You agreed to train. So, we train. Every day until the showcase."
I set down my fork with more force than necessary, the silver clattering against the porcelain. "I've been training. For days. Weeks. I've lost track of how long. How much more do you possibly need?"
"As much as it takes to ensure you're ready. The showcase is in one week, Eden. Seven days. You need to be perfect."
One week.
Seven days.
One week until I have to perform in front of those men.
Until I have to kneel for Vaughn while they watch and judge and assess.
Until I have to prove beyond any doubt that I'm his, that I belong to him, that I'm well-trained and obedient and everything an acquisition should be.
One week until everything I've been avoiding becomes horrifyingly, irrevocably real.
"I can't," I whisper, and this time the argument is genuine. Real terror bleeding through. "I can't do it. Can't perform in front of them. Can't?—"
"Yes, you can. You've been doing incredibly well. Better than I expected, honestly. Your progress has been remarkable."
"That's not—" I stop. Breathe. Try again. "That's not a compliment. That just means I'm getting good at being—at being?—"
"At being mine? At submitting? At accepting what you are?"
"At being broken," I finish, the word tasting like ash in my mouth.
He's quiet for a moment, studying me with that intense gaze that makes me feel like he can see straight through to my bones. "You're not broken. You're learning. There's a significant difference."
"Is there?"
