Chapter 5 #3
"Oh, that landed, didn't it?" I keep goin'.
Can't stop now even if I wanted to. "Let me guess—he told you that people on the outside wouldn't understand.
That vanilla society judges what you have because they're not evolved enough to see how beautiful your submission is.
That anyone who questions your arrangement just doesn't comprehend the depth of power exchange dynamics. "
I'm proper spiraling now. Full Lorcan cascade mode.
"He validated your intelligence while underminin' your judgment.
Praised your strength while conditionin' you to kneel.
Told you he respects your autonomy right before orderin' you to spread your legs on command.
And you—brilliant, educated, articulate you—ate it up like it was affirmation instead of manipulation because he made you feel seen while systematically dismantlin' every boundary you used to have. "
Emmaleen's breathin' faster now. Chest risin' and fallin' in a rhythm that suggests I'm gettin' under her skin.
"That's textbook trauma bondin', by the way.
In case you were wonderin'. The cycle of intensity and relief, punishment and reward, fear and safety all comin' from the same source until your brain can't tell the difference anymore.
Stockholm syndrome with better aesthetics and a leather-bound manual. "
I pause. Let that settle.
"But sure. Tell me again how you chose this. How you walked in with your eyes open. How your submission is a gift freely given and not the predictable outcome of systematic psychological conditioning designed to make you police your own captivity."
She's trembling slightly now. Just barely visible.
I should stop.
I don't.
"You know what's really tragic though?" I tilt my head, studyin' her.
"You're smart enough to know better. I can see it in how you argue—the vocabulary, the rhetorical structure, the way you turn my accusations back on me.
You've got education. Critical thinkin' skills.
Probably read all the right books about feminism, and autonomy, and—"
I stop mid-sentence.
Because her face just did somethin' devastatin'.
A micro-expression that flashed across her features so fast I almost missed it—but I didn't miss it, because I'm engineered to catalogue exactly these kinds of tells.
Grief.
Raw and immediate and quickly suppressed.
When I mentioned books.
My brain makes a connection I didn't have before.
"Oh." The word comes out soft. Almost gentle. "Oh, Christ. You were one of those girls."
Emmaleen goes very, very still.
"BookTok." I'm guessin' now, but the way her breathing just changed tells me I'm right. "Dark romance. Booktube. All those online communities where women read about dangerous men and taboo dynamics and convince themselves it's empowerin' fantasy instead of—"
"Stop." Her voice cracks.
Just barely.
But it cracks.
"You romanticized this." I keep goin' because apparently I'm a bastard who can't leave well enough alone.
"Read all those novels about mafia bosses and their captives, about billionaires who stalk, and control, and punish but it's sexy because he's damaged, and she's special, and somehow love redeems the violence.
You consumed hundreds of stories about women who tame monsters through submission and thought… 'that could be me.'"
Her hands are shakin' in her lap now.
"And then you met Giovanni fuckin' Bavga—an actual mobster, with actual trauma, and actual violence—and your brain lit up like Christmas morning because finally, finally, you found the fantasy made flesh.
The dark romance protagonist who saw somethin' in you.
Who chose you. Who made you feel like the heroine of your own forbidden love story. "
Emmaleen's eyes are wet.
She's not cryin' yet. But she's close.
"Except those books lied to you, didn't they?
" My voice is quiet now. Almost kind. Which somehow makes it worse.
"Because in the stories, the monster always changes.
He always realizes the heroine's too precious to break.
He always chooses her over his darkness.
The submission always leads to devotion, and the devotion always leads to happily ever after. "
I crouch down in front of her. Eye level.
"But Giovanni doesn't change, does he? He just takes. And takes. And takes. Until there's nothin' left of Emmaleen Rourke except a well-trained slave who kneels on command and calls it love."
A tear spills over.
Slides down her cheek.
She doesn't wipe it away.
Just sits there.
Perfectly still.
Perfectly broken.
"So yeah." I stand back up. "I'll listen. I'll hear you. I'll acknowledge your agency, and your choices, and your insistence that you know what you're doin'."
I turn away from her. Walk toward the window.
"But first, you need to answer one question honestly."
Silence.
"When you kneel for Giovanni Bavga..."
I don't look at her. Just stare out at the dark Pennsylvania woods.
"Are you livin' out your fantasy? Or are you just too afraid to admit it turned into a nightmare?"