"The collar," she says suddenly. "Do I... can I keep it?"
I should say no.
I should remove it myself, lock it away.
It's a ten-thousand-dollar piece, custom-made.
But more than that, it's my mark on her.
My claim.
"Please," she adds, and there's such desperation in that single word.
"Why?"
"Because without it, I might convince myself this was a dream. A fantasy. I need something real to hold onto. To remind me what I'm working toward."
I cross back to her, grip her chin, force her to look up at me. "You want to wear my collar for a year? While you're out there, living your life, possibly fucking other men?"
"I won't?—"
"You will. You'll try to forget me. Try to find someone who can give you what I give you." I grip her throat, feel her pulse race. "But you won't find it. You'll compare every touch to mine and find them lacking. You'll fake orgasms while thinking of me. You'll wear that collar and count the days until you can come back."
"Yes," she breathes.
"And if you take it off? Even once?"
"Then I've failed."
"Then you never come back."
She swallows hard against my hand. "I won't take it off."
"We'll see."
I leave her there to finish her breakfast alone.
Once I'm away, I pull up the camera feeds and watch her.
She's not crying anymore. She's sitting perfectly still, staring at nothing, processing.
Then she does something unexpected.
She finishes her breakfast.
Every bite.
Following my last order, even though I'm sending her away.
My phone rings.
Vincent. "Is it done? Did you send her away?"
"She'll be gone within the hour."
"Good. It's for the best. The distance will give you perspective."
Perspective. Right.
