We both know he's fucking right.
Because I always submit in the end.
Always break.
Always give him what he wants even when I swear I won't.
The pattern is established.
Inevitable. Inescapable.
"Take off the robe," he says.
My hands shake as I reach for the tie at my waist.
Undo it with fingers that feel numb and clumsy.
Let the robe fall to the floor in a puddle of white terry cloth.
Standing there in the lingerie he chose, in front of the mirror and the camera, feeling more exposed than I've ever felt in my life.
Even more exposed than when I'm completely naked. Because this—this is designed to be seen.
To be looked at. To be consumed visually.
This is me dressed as property for display.
"Beautiful," Vaughn says, and I hate how that single word makes something warm and pleased bloom in my chest despite everything. "Absolutely beautiful. Turn around. Slowly. Let me see all of you."
I turn in a slow circle, watching myself in the mirror as I move.
Watching the woman in black lace who looks like she belongs in this scenario, who looks like she was made for this.
Who looks like someone's darkest fantasy brought to breathing, trembling life.
Someone's acquisition.
Someone's perfectly trained toy.
"Perfect," he says, approval thick in his voice. "You look perfect, Eden. Do you see how beautiful you are? How perfect your body is in what I chose for you?"
I see. God help me, I see.
And some twisted part of me preens at his approval even while the rest of me wants to die of shame.
"Now, we're going to practice the commands you'll need to perform at the showcase. The ones that need to be absolutely automatic, no hesitation. Are you ready?"
No. Never. Not in a million years. "Yes."
"Good girl."
Those two words.
They still affect me every single time.
Still make my breath catch.
Still make me want to please him even when I hate myself for wanting.
