Page 21 of Peak Cruelty

Marlowe

H e tries to leave. I don’t let him.

Not by force—by timing.

“You want a story?” I say. “I’ve got one, too.”

He hesitates. Just enough to be real.

His hand stays on the doorframe. Not turning. Not leaving.

So I start talking.

“Robert has a rule,” I say. “No surprises at the dinner table.”

That gets his attention. Because it sounds benign. Maybe even fair.

“Not long after we met, I found out what that meant.”

Vance studies me. Doesn’t ask who Robert is, or why I’m telling him this, and I’m almost surprised.

“I burned the roast,” I say. “Just a little. He was late getting home, and I left it in a few minutes too long. Nothing dramatic. It was just dry, slightly overcooked. Nonetheless, not the way he likes it.”

I wait. Let the shape of it land. Let him see the curve of something ordinary turning sharp.

“And I smiled when I told him—because I thought that might soften it.”

Vance doesn’t react. Just watches me as though he’s already decided the worst thing I could say—and knows I haven’t said it yet.

“He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t scold me. He said it was fine. Told me to sit down, enjoy the evening. Said everyone makes mistakes.”

I glance down at my hands, as if I might find some trace of it still under my fingernails.

Then he called his assistant. Told her to come over for dinner. Said it was a shame to waste a whole roast on just the two of us.

She arrived with wine and a smile—had no idea what she was walking into.

He plated the roast for me. All of it. No sides. No utensils. Just the meat, dry and crumbling. Said it was “a private joke” between husband and wife. Said I’d explain.

I sat across from his assistant and ate with my hands. Bite by bite.

He narrated. Told her how proud he was of me. How devoted. How I “never waste what I make.”

When I gagged, he laughed. Said I was always dramatic when I was proud of something.

She didn’t know what to do. Just sat there, sipping wine hoping it might turn back time.

He made me finish the entire plate before I was allowed to speak again.

Then he sent her home.

Said I handled myself well.

Said he was proud of me—for taking accountability with such grace.

Said my error will keep his assistant from fucking anything up, now that she’s seen the consequence.

Then he took the rest of the roast, dropped it on the floor, and told me to finish it properly.

On all fours.

Hands behind my back.

Like a dog.

He said his mother would’ve had more respect for the meat.

Said she knew how hard a man had to work to afford something “that pricey.”

Said I’d turned a twenty-dollar cut into a ten-thousand-dollar embarrassment.

And then—he knelt. Not to help.

Just to whisper: “This animal died for you. The least you could do is act grateful.”

Vance’s expression tightens—but only slightly. He’s not sure he believes me.

“He told me if I ever burned anything again, he’d take me outside. Strip me down to my apron. Tie me to the smoker and make me watch it cook—slowly, properly—until I understood what it meant to feed a man.”

I smile. It’s tight. Hollow.

“He never had to follow through. That’s the kind of discipline money buys. Not bruises. Behavior. ”

I shift in the chair.

“But the worst part wasn’t the punishment. It was how thankful he said I should be that he didn’t hit me. Like his father would have.”

Now I see it. The calculation. The cataloging. Vance is trying to decide if it’s true—if it’s bait—if he cares.

So I press further.

“He doesn’t hit me. He outsources that kind of thing. To strangers. To employees. To men who owe him favors. That way, when I bruise, it’s never his fault.”

I wait for him to say something. He doesn’t.

“And when I don’t bruise?” I shrug. “Well. That’s when you know someone got really creative.”

Finally, he turns. Slowly. Like he’s not sure who is sitting in front of him anymore.

And I smile. Nothing sweet about it.

“You’re not the only one with a story,” I say. “Just the only one who thinks his is special.”

He crosses the room in three steps, as though he has something to say.

He must change his mind, but there it is. That flicker again. Not shock. Not admiration.

Recognition.

He lets it pass.

Walks to the door.

Doesn’t slam it. Doesn’t lock it.

But I hear him breathing on the other side.

And I know—he’ll come back.

Not for answers.

For proof.