ELIO
Three in the morning, and I’m standing over her bed like the monster I am.
The room is dark except for the thin blade of moonlight slicing through the curtains. Silver light catches the edge of her cheekbone, the curve of her shoulder, the damp tracks drying on her skin.
She’s been crying in her sleep.
I look at the evidence. The pillow, darker where her face pressed against it. The slight puffiness around her eyes. The tear tracks on her cheeks, catching light like the finest craquelure on an old master.
She searched for the caliper three times tonight. I watched it all. The first time she reached, casual, automatic. Her fingers found silk and her whole body went rigid. The second time, more frantic, tearing at the bedding. The third, quieter, more devastating. Just her hand sliding under the pillow, finding nothing, and staying there. Curled around empty space.
I took it from her. Her small victory. The illusion of control.
I should feel guilty. I don’t.
What I feel is something closer to satisfaction. The caliper was never going to hurt me. But it was hurting her. Giving herfalse hope, letting her believe she had options. Removing it was mercy.
The lie tastes smooth. Practiced.
She’s curled on her side now, facing the chair by the window.Mychair. The one I sit in every morning while she eats breakfast. Her body has arranged itself toward that space even in sleep, even unconscious, even without knowing I’m here.
She’s starting to seek me.
The thought sends heat coiling through my chest. Not arousal. Something deeper. Darker. The collector’s satisfaction of watching a piece settle into its proper place.
Last night at dinner, she sat on my lap without being told.
I replay the moment. The way she walked to the table, saw the single setting, and just... lowered herself onto my thighs. No argument. No “where do I sit?” thrown like a grenade. Her body made the decision before her mind caught up.
Progress.
The hunger strike taught me her pain threshold. The solarium taught me she craves beauty she can’t resist. The drawings in the studio… those told me vanity isn’t dead. She wanted to know I’d been watching. Wanted to know she’d occupied my thoughts, my hands, my attention.
Every kindness calculated. Every gift a trap.
But standing here now, watching her breathe, I find myself noticing things that have nothing to do with strategy. Like the way her lashes fan across her cheeks. The small sound she makes when she shifts, something between a sigh and a whimper. The way her hand keeps reaching for that empty space under the pillow, searching even in dreams for something to hold onto.
She needs something to hold onto.
I could touch her now. Could brush the hair from her face, trace the tear tracks with my thumb, feel her skin warm beneath my fingers. She wouldn’t wake.
My hand moves without permission. Hovers an inch from her cheek.
Stop.
I pull back. Force my fingers to curl at my side.
Not yet. Not like this.
When I touch her again, she’ll be awake. She’ll know exactly who’s touching her. And she’ll lean into it anyway.
Control.
I watch her for another ten minutes. Then I leave, closing the door behind me with a click so soft she’ll never know I was there.
She’s still asleep at six in the morning. The camera in my office shows her exactly as I left her. Curled toward my chair, hand under the pillow.
At seven-fifteen, she stirs.
