In her mind, the counting wasn’t just a way to make her accept his punishment, it was used to make her feel as though she earned this response. Like she deserved it. Almost as if pain, when originating from Giovanni's hands, was somehow proof of her worth.
This is the same pattern she learned with her ex-boyfriend.
Same dance, different partner.
I’m not a therapist, but plenty of abused women have come through my training. Though they are fragile, they’re not special in the way I move them through the curriculum. All women are fragile under the dominant hand of a man. I have designed my lessons to account for past trauma, whatever it may be.
But Emmaleen is… just… different. I’ve only been here three days, but she means more to me than a nameless, faceless student. She’s… Emmaleen. This game, and my role in it, puts her in a different category.
I like her.
For fuck’s sake, Giovannilikesher.
She feels like afriendto him. That’s what he said.
And this is what he does to her when she decides to trust him and submit completely?
Like… what the fuck, bro? What the fuck.
We're supposed to bebreakingthat cycle.
We're supposed to be teaching her submission under controlled circumstances, inoculating her against men who'd weaponize her submissive nature.
But watching Giovanni hold her now, watching her melt into his arms despite the welts blooming across her thighs…
We're not saving her from anything.
We're just making her better at surviving monsters.
My jaw clenches.
This isn't anger—not the hot, immediate kind. This is colder. Deeper.
It’s betrayal.
Giovanni betrayed the contract. Betrayed the methodology we agreed upon. Used techniques designed to heal and twisted them into fresh trauma.
But worse—he betrayedher.
On the monitor, he kisses the top of her head.
She doesn't move. Doesn't respond. Just breathes against him, each exhale shaky, uncertain.
Broken.
The word surfaces before I can stop it.
Not broken the way we intended—will bent, then reshaped. Chaos organized into something beautiful.
Just… broken.
Wisteria.
The syllables hang in my mind like an accusation.
She didn't say it because Giovanni made sure she couldn't. Not without believing herself weak, unready, and insufficient.
That's not consent.
