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“Say you understand,” I say, sliding my hand between her perfect tits and wrapping my hand around her throat. “Mercy?”

Mercy.

Such irony.

I have none for her.

“I do,” she says, her fingers wringing in front of her when she finally looks up at me. “I understand.”

I lean down to her, my hand still around her throat, and pull her closer. I place a single, soft kiss to her neck just below her earlobe, breathing hard and long to ensure she feels my breaths across her flesh.

She shivers.

“Perfect,” I whisper, allowing my lips to brush against the shell of her ear.

I pull away from her and turn around, tightening my tie, glancing into the mirror beside the door to ensure its straight. If I want these people to believe I have the millions I say I do, I need to look like it.

“Where are we going?” she asks, her hands moving to adjust the dress, fingers working nervously at the hem, the sleeves, the collar—anywhere to keep them busy, to distract from the tension.

Maybe to distract her from the feeling between her legs.

“It’s a surprise,” I tell her.

She glances toward me again, then away, reaching for a button at her neckline that I’ve deliberately left undone. I catch her wrist, my grip firm enough to make her freeze, and she looks over at me with wide-open doe eyes.

“Leave it,” I tell her, and my voice is firm. “Everything is exactly as it should be.”

She looks down, and I know she can see it to—the neckline of her dress is open just enough that if she moves just the rightway, you can see her bra beneath it. A peek of crimson in a void, symbolic.

It’s like a gash in her flesh.

“But you can see my bra.”

“I know,” I say simply. “Let’s go.”

I release her, but the impression of my fingers remains, faint red marks on her pale skin.

Mine.

I walk ahead of her. I expect her to follow, and she does, like the good little lamb that she is. When I make it to the front door, I pause, turning to look at her.

She is a vision, my own little twisted, distorted Virgin Mary. From here, I can see all of her, the way she moves, the tremble in her hands, the rise and fall of her chest with each shaking breath, the way she keeps her body slightly angled toward the exit, the quick glances toward the window, the tension in her shoulders.

Part of her is still looking for escape.

I see it, and I can feel the rage trying to rise in me.

She can’t leave me.

Not after everything I’ve done for her, for us.

It won’t matter.

By the time the week is over, she won’t be able to leave me. The best traps are those you don’t realize you’re in until it’s too late, until they are sprung and the door slams shut.

I force myself to turn away and pull the door open.

When she follows me out into the hallway, I close the door behind us, locking it and then shoving the key into my pocket. I have my keys, my wallet, my phone.