17. The Arrangement #2
The silence that follows is uncomfortable. Not the charged silence of attraction or the heavy silence of conflict. Just... empty. Two people who have agreed to occupy the same space without occupying each other's lives.
"We should discuss the physical requirements." His voice is brisk. Business. "For the dinner. What level of contact is appropriate."
"You're asking what you're allowed to touch."
"I'm asking what communicates ownership without suggesting affection." He moves to the bar, pours water, doesn't offer me any. "Hand on the small of your back. Fingers on your elbow to guide you. Brief touches that say 'she belongs to me' without saying 'I care about her.'"
"That should be easy for you."
He goes still.
"Given that you don't." I don't know why I'm pushing. Don't know what I want him to say. "Care about me. It's just an arrangement. You said it yourself."
"I said it was supposed to be just an arrangement." He turns to face me. "I said you weren't supposed to matter."
"And now."
"And now it doesn't matter what I feel." His voice is flat. "You've made that clear. The transaction is the transaction. When it ends, you leave. Anything I might want beyond that is irrelevant."
He sets down his glass. Moves toward the door.
"We'll continue tomorrow. Same time. By the dinner, you'll be able to navigate that room without giving anyone—including me—any ammunition."
"Sebastian."
He stops.
"I didn't ask for this." I don't know why I'm explaining. Why does it feel important that he understand? "I didn't ask to be here. I didn't ask to matter to you. I didn't ask for collars or constellations or whatever future you were imagining."
"I know."
"So when I say this is transactional, I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm trying to survive. I'm trying to get through this without losing myself in whatever this is."
He's quiet for a long moment.
"I know that too." His voice is soft. Almost gentle. "And that's exactly why I'm going to give you what you're asking for. Distance. Professionalism. A clean transaction with no emotional complications."
"Good."
"But Chloe." He looks back at me. "In eleven months and twenty days, when you walk out that door, don't tell yourself I didn't offer you something else. Don't pretend I was only ever your captor. You know that's not true."
"I don't know what's true anymore."
"Then figure it out." He opens the door. "You have plenty of time."
He leaves me standing in his office with photographs of dangerous people and a head full of practiced lines and something that feels uncomfortably like doubt.
The days take on a rhythm.
Day twelve, we practice conversation deflection. Day thirteen, we work on reading body language. How to spot someone preparing to approach, how to position myself before they reach me. Day fourteen, Sebastian brings in a dressmaker to fit me for something appropriate to wear.
The sessions are professional. Clinical. He touches me only to adjust my posture, speaks to me only about the dinner, looks at me only when demonstrating something I need to learn.
The nights are different.
The contract doesn't pause for emotional distance. He still wakes me with his hands. I still kneel in the shower. The Protocol still makes my body respond to him in ways my mind refuses to acknowledge.
But there's no tenderness afterward. No murmured praise. No moments of connection that could be mistaken for something real.
He uses me and I let him because that's the deal. When he's finished, he turns away. I turn away. We sleep on opposite sides of his massive bed, a continent of cold sheets between us.
Day fifteen. Day sixteen. Day seventeen.
The dinner approaches.
I count every single one.
The dress arrives on Day eighteen.
It's black. Floor-length, high-necked, long-sleeved. Nothing revealing. Nothing that invites attention. When I try it on and look in the mirror, I see exactly what Sebastian designed. A woman who could be furniture. Present, correct, entirely forgettable.
"Perfect." He assesses me from across the room. "You look like someone honoring an obligation."
"That's what I am."
"Yes." Something flickers in his expression. "You've made that very clear."
I don't respond. There's nothing to say that we haven't already said.
"The dinner is in four days." He moves to his desk, checks something on his phone. "I've been informed Carlo plans to attend with a new companion of his own. He'll want to compare."
"Compare."
"Whose acquisition is more impressive. Whose property is more... contented." His voice is dry. "You'll make him feel like he's won that comparison."
"Intentionally."
"Yes." He looks at me. "Let him think I acquired damaged goods. Let him think you're here against your will, counting the days until you can escape. Let him think taking you from me wouldn't gain him a prize but a burden."
"Because the best way to not be a target is to look like I'm not worth targeting."
"Exactly."
I turn back to the mirror. The woman looking back at me is a stranger. Hollow-eyed. Blank-faced. A contracted companion with nothing beneath the surface.
It's not entirely an act.
"Four days," I say to my reflection. "Then how many events like this."
"A few per year. Most can be avoided."
"And the ones that can't."
"We'll prepare for each one." He moves toward the door. "The same way we've prepared for this. Until you can walk into any room and communicate exactly what we need people to believe."
He leaves. I stay in front of the mirror, wearing my forgettable dress, practicing my forgettable expression.
Three hundred and forty-seven days.
The dinner in four.
I tell myself I'm ready.
I tell myself a lot of things.