He loves me!
Me: No. I'm not hungry.
Red: The session might get intense. Go eat something. Drink water, too. If you're too worked up, we won't be able to tackle the issues we need to.
I stare at the message, then the tie.
Red: It's not a suggestion. It's an order.
My pussy throbs so hard, I whimper. I reread the text, take a few deep breaths, and put the tie over my shoulders. I go into the break room, grab a bottle of water and a protein bar. I text Red a photo.
Me: Happy?
Red: Not until you eat it.
I take the protein bar out of the package, then take a video selfie of myself licking it before taking a bite. I send it.
He doesn't reply, but it's okay. I want him thinking about it. I want it sitting with him while he pretends to be composed, professional, in control.
I return to my desk and stitch faster.
The hours crawl and race at the same time. People enter my office and speak to me, and I answer automatically, my mind elsewhere. Every time I glance at the clock, the numbers have shifted.
Four ten.
Four fifteen.
I finish the tie and smooth it out on my desk, pride blooming sharp and bright in my chest. It's beautiful, intentional, and ours, even if he doesn't know it yet.
I fold it carefully and tuck it into my purse.
Everything is in place.
As I stand to leave, my heart races, body hums, and one thought rises above all the rest, clear and triumphant.
I've orchestrated this.
I slide my bag over my shoulder and step into the hallway just as my mother rounds the corner, keys already in her hand. She looks relieved to see me and immediately anxious about something else, which has become her default expression lately.
"We'll drive you," she says before I can open my mouth.
I consider pushing back. I could. I have the energy for it. The sharp, restless buzz under my skin could easily turn into defiance. But I don't. I just say, "I figured."
Something about the pressure of what's to come steadies me. It's like the walls are closing in just enough to keep me upright. And instead of hiding from it, I dive right in.
My father is already in the car, hands tight on the steering wheel even though the engine isn't running yet. His jaw flexes when I open the back door and slide in. He doesn't look at me, just gives me a brief glance in the mirror before his eyes snap forward again. "Blue."
"Hi, Dad."
He gives Mom an uncomfortable glance and pulls into traffic. The ride is quiet in a heavy, loaded way where no one wants to be the first to crack it open.
I watch the city blur past the window and think about how different this feels from the inside than how it looks from the outside.
Five o'clock.
It ticks through me like a second pulse.
When we pull up to the building, my father parks too far from the entrance and then corrects himself, irritation flashing across his face. He cuts the engine and exhales through his nose.
