Ellie #2
He’s not learning about these techniques. He’s remembering them.
“Your father’s research was simple, Ellie.
It proved that if you destroy a man’s world, he will latch onto the first person who offers him a hand.
It’s not love. It’s a survival reflex. He doesn't love you because of who you are; he loves you because he's been conditioned to be desperate for the version of 'good' you represent.”
The room spins around me as I understand what I'm hearing.
“This is only the beginning.” Grace closes the folder and selects another. The boxes are full of them.
“Your father’s work influenced years of development, Ellie. Years.”
She opens the new folder.
“Would you like to see Dr. Virgo’s attachment theory applications?”
"I can't," I manage to say.
"But you must," she insists. "Because understanding how your father's research enabled this is essential to understanding Killian. Without him, none of this would have been possible."
Grace reads folder after folder, document after document. My father’s name appears again and again. His signature. His theories.
Grace’s finger traces my father’s signature. “He would have been proud of what we accomplished. In his own way.”
She believes that. I can see it in her eyes. She thinks she’s honoring his work.
Hours pass. My back aches against the leather chair. Grace reads on, document after document, her voice never wavering. The light through the windows has shifted. Afternoon fading into evening.
How long have we been here?
“Now,” Grace’s voice brings me back. “I have an assignment for you.”
She withdraws a fresh notepad and pen from the side table, placing them within my reach.
“I want you to write a comprehensive psychological profile of Killian.” Grace settles back in her chair. “Based on everything you’ve learned today about his conditioning. And your own observations of his current behavior.”
"I won't help you hurt him."
“You’re not helping me hurt him.” Grace’s voice is so reasonable. So kind. “You’re helping me understand him.”
She leans forward.
“And understanding is the first step toward healing.”
She uses my father’s words. His philosophy. Against me.
"I won't do it."
“But you will.” She rises, smooths her cashmere sweater. The smile never wavers. “Unless you’d like Reed to remind you what happens when you don’t complete tasks.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer and heads to the door.
Reed’s fist slams against the table. The crack echoes through the library, loud enough to make me flinch.
“Enough of this academic bullshit.” He rises from his chair. “Let me have some fun with her.”
His eyes rake over me, hungry and cruel.
“She’ll write whatever you want after I’m done.”
Grace pauses at the door and turns.
“An excellent suggestion, Reed.” Her voice is approving. Like he’s a student who just answered correctly. “Please demonstrate your point.”
Before I can react—not that there’s anywhere to go—Reed circles behind my chair.
A massive hand grips the back of my neck.
His fingers press into me. “Pretty girl,” Reed rumbles.
His other hand slides up my throat, his thumb forcing my jaw open.
He shoves two fingers into my mouth, pressing down on my tongue until I’m gagging.
“You talk too much. I’ve got better uses for that mouth.
" He leans down, his breath is hot against my ear. “One word from Grace, and I’ll shove my dick so far down your throat you won’t be able to scream. I’ve been waiting to put you to use.”
Grace watches us, her expression entirely unbothered. “Your choice, Dr. Hart. The pen, or Reed. He’s quite eager to provide a more... physical incentive.”
I want to disappear into the chair. Become part of the furniture. Anything but this.
“Stop.”
The word barely makes it out, but Reed’s hands withdraw immediately. He doesn’t step back, though. Still looming behind me.
“Much better.” Grace’s satisfaction is audible. “Reed, please remain close in case Dr. Hart needs additional motivation.”
In case I forget my choices.
She’s right. I hate her for it, but she’s right.
She’s given me a choice that isn’t a choice at all.
"Begin with his attachment patterns," Grace suggests. "How does his conditioning manifest in his relationship with you?"
My hand reaches for the pen.
Just pick it up. That’s all. Just hold it.
The weight is heavier than it should be. Not the pen itself, but what it represents. I touch the nib to the paper.
One word. Then I can stop.
Reed’s shadow falls across the desk. He’s waiting for me to hesitate.
Waiting for an excuse. So I write, and the pages fill.
The only reason I do is because as long as the pen is scratching against the paper, Reed doesn't touch me.
My handwriting starts neat but deteriorates as exhaustion sets in. My hand cramps, but I don't stop.
When I finally set down the pen, I have no idea how long I’ve been writing.
The door unlocks, and Grace returns.
She takes the pages from the table and reads in silence. Her smile grows.
“Excellent work, Ellie.” She sounds proud. Actually proud. “Your observations about his attachment patterns are particularly astute.”
She’s holding pages of my handwriting. My expertise. My betrayal.