Page 171 of Their Arrangement

This morning? They’re late.

So is she.

The espresso machine hisses. I don’t drink it. Not yet. I lace my shoes. Step onto the treadmill in my private gym. The screen in front of me is wall-mounted. Four-panel feed. Her building. Her front door. The side alley. The stairwell. The lobby.

No sound.

Just movement.

Just the shape of her absence. I run to the rhythm of my breath and the sight of her hallway. I don’t miss a frame. When her light flicks on at 6:42,I slow the treadmill.

When her door opens at 6:57—five minutes late—I stop completely.

She steps into the hallway like she’s being watched. Because she is. Hair in a twist. Blouse wrinkled. Purse clutched like a weapon she doesn’t know how to use.

She doesn’t wear the ring yet.

But I can feel it.

She’s thinking about it.

She touches her collarbone more lately. Taps it with her thumb like there’s already a weight there. And maybe there is. Maybe that’s what I’ve become. A phantom collar. A shadow she can’t unhook.

She hesitates at the stairwell.

Looks back.

I lean forward.

Closer to the screen.

She doesn’t see anything. But I do. The tension in her shoulders. The pulse in her throat. The quiet scream in the way her steps don’t echo the same anymore.

She’s slipping.

Sliding.

Becoming something I want more than I ever wanted to possess anything. She moves like someone who’s already been claimed. Because she has. She just hasn’t admitted it yet.

I shower fast. Steam clouds the mirror. Still, I keep the monitor lit on the sink. She pauses by the building entrance.

Looks left.

Looks up.

Looks right at the camera.

Her spine straightens.

She knows.

Not everything. Not the angles. Not the reach of my eyes. But enough. I dry off in silence. Dress in black. Always. Tailored.

Simple.

Exact.

I tuck the ring box into my coat pocket. Black velvet. Garnet center. Silk chain wrapped twice around the cushion. I won’t give it to her. Not directly. That would suggest she has a choice. And we’re long past that.