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Gillian

E llis crosses the room. Closer than I want. He stops when we’re almost touching.

“The more I think about it…the more I realize she’s not like you,” he says.

He’s waiting for something. A flicker. A twitch. A crack in the teeth.

“She’s better,” he adds. “You were malleable. She’s convincing. When she performs, you almost believe it’s real.”

His hand brushes my face. Not soft. Not cruel. Just…detached. The way you check a mouth for cavities.

“I had to know if it was a fluke. You. The way you came apart. I had to try again. You’ve become so very predictable, Gillian…”

“You could let me go,” I say, “now that you have her.”

“Why would I do that?” He shrugs, as though the question itself is laughable.

He steps behind me and I feel his breath at my neck.

“You wanted to matter,” he says. “I let you.”

He unfastens my blouse like it’s part of the job. I don’t stop him. That’s part of the job too.

The first time he fucked me, it was quiet like this. Measured. Like testing pressure points. This time, it’s not about testing anything.

This time, he already knows where it hurts.

His fingers graze my skin, slow at first, then quick, the pressure growing as he pulls my blouse open. I don’t stop him. His hands move with purpose, rougher now, as if the silence between us is the only thing left to break.

He lifts my chin, his eyes locking onto mine like a warning.

“I don’t need your permission.”

His lips barely move as he says it, the words scraping through the air between us.

I feel him, his body closing in, the weight of him pressing hard against mine. There’s no hesitation. No softness. He doesn’t care if I’m ready—he just does it.

It’s quick. Hard. No time for thought, no room for me to adjust. I brace, but it’s already happening, and I don’t stop it. The movements are sharp, calculated, the sting of him filling the space between us.

I can’t look away. His gaze locks me in place, like I’m not allowed to be anywhere but here.

And when it’s over, he pulls back just as quickly. He doesn’t look at me with satisfaction. He doesn’t need to. It’s done.

I’m left with nothing but the cold of the room and the ache in my body.

He sighs. Not exhausted—never exhausted. Just indifferent. Like he’s ticking tasks off a list.

“I hear you’ve spoken to her,” he says. “You’ve been watching her.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust anyone.”

He gets up. Refastens his shirt. Doesn’t rush.

“She doesn’t know what you are,” he says. “But she’ll figure it out. Eventually.”

He doesn’t say it like a threat.

He says it like a prediction.

I want to say it works both ways, she’ll find out what he is too. But I know better.

I sit up slowly. My whole body is sore, but not from what he thinks.

I don’t feel sorry for myself.

I don’t feel anything. Not until I picture her in this room. Then I feel something else—something I can’t ignore.

I imagine her sitting in the chair he dragged me from. Pouring his drink. Speaking like she still thinks language has power. Standing in the same spot I stood, her back straight, but her hands shaking just like mine.

And that’s when I realize. He’s not done.

But neither am I.