I finished my sentence:“…conditioned power operates by changing belief.”I marked my place with a finger and looked up. She was vibrating with righteous anger. Elara wasn’t the type to handle things with violence; her words and her indifference could feel like a punch, her tongue sharper than most blades. Not all of us had that power.
“Do what?” I asked.
“Don’t play with me, Julian. Alastair. His face. Did you go to that house and… beat him? His parents are freaking out.”
I set the book down on the ottoman, giving her my full attention. “We had a conversation.”
“Aconversation?” Her hysterical laugh was expected. She pointed a finger at my hand. “He has a broken tooth! A fractured cheekbone!”
I glanced at my knuckles. The skin was split, a faint, proud purple blooming beneath the surface. “He fell,” I said, the lie smooth and effortless.
“You’re violent. I could have handled it without punching him. I’ve been doing it for years.”
A smile touched my lips. “It’s ironic. The book I was just reading talks about this exact situation,” I said, leaning back and steepling my fingers. “The Anatomy of Power. Galbraith theorizes there are three types: Condign, Compensatory, and Conditioned.”
I saw her blink, her analytical mind snagging on the framework despite her rage. Her eyebrow raised—she was listening.
“Condign power,” I began, “is the power of the fist. The threat of punishment. It’s crude, direct. It’s what you think I just used on him.” I held her gaze. “But that’s the power Alastair hasalwaysused on you, Elara. The power of his tantrums, his grabbing at you, his insults. The power to make you feel small. He just did it with words and privilege instead of his hands. Until he raised his hand to you. The threat of a strike is the strike itself.”
She nodded, silently telling me to go on.
“Compensatory power,” I continued, rising to my feet. “Is the power of the reward. The carrot. The contract, the money, the gilded cage. That’s the power his parents wielded over you.‘We saved you, so you owe us. We fed you, so swallow our choices.’It’s softer, but the bars are just as real. You’ve been breathing compensatory air for nineteen years.”
Her chest rose and fell rapidly.
“And then,” I said, taking one slow step forward, “there’s Conditioned power. The most insidious kind. The power to change what someonebelieves. To make them think the cage is a sanctuary. That obligation is love. That servitude is loyalty.” My voice softened to a razor’s edge. “That’s the power they mastered with you. They conditioned you to believe your worth was your utility. They taught you that his pain is unacceptable, but your pain is necessary.”
I let that settle. Elara wasn't stupid, but she was sentimental beneath the "strong woman" persona.
“Yes. I beat him,” I said, calm as a closing door. “And I’d do it again because he mistook your suffering for his right. Because he raised his voice at you. Because he keeps thinking your body, your mind, and your life belong to him.”
My eyes locked onto hers. “Because you won’t punish him, Elara. So I did.”
“But—” she started. I cut her off.
“Did it work?” I asked. “Was he disrespectful today? Do you think he will ever touch what’s yours again? Will that house ever feel like a chain you can’t break, now that they’ve seen the consequence of pulling on it?”
She was silent.
“You don’t have to thank me,” I said, finally stepping close and cupping her cheek. “But you shouldn’t shame me, either. I did the ugly, necessary thing you were too good to do. I got my hands dirty so yours could stay clean. I will continue, so one day soonyou can finally be free to build something that belongs only to you.”
She looked at my bruised knuckles, then back at my eyes. “Look at your hand. I don’t like violence,” she said softly.
“I know.”
“You could go to jail. You’re too pretty for jail.” She cracked a small smile. “But… thank you.”
Chapter 28
Elara
I had to meet Alastair.
The café was neutral ground. Sun-drenched, overpriced, and full of people who curated their lives for the view from the window—people he’d be too embarrassed to act out in front of. I chose the corner table, back to the wall.
Alastair was ten minutes late. I saw it as a petty power play. Ten more minutes passed before he finally slouched in, looking almost pitiable. It had been more than a week since the beating; the bruise on his cheekbone had faded, but you could still tell he’d gotten his ass kicked recently. His eyes darted around the café, taking in the patrons before they finally landed on me.
He came over but didn’t sit. “Well?”
