Page 32 of Their Arrangement
“You want to be perfect for us, don’t you?”
The words slithered down my spine like silk laced with barbed wire.
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
My breath caught in my chest, shallow and frantic.
I hated how my thighs pressed together beneath my skirt.
How the mirror showed everything—me, red-lipped and trembling, and him behind me like a shadow with teeth.
He leaned closer, mouth near my ear.
“Careful, Cloe,” he whispered. “If you act like a toy… someone’s going to play with you.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
Not because they were lewd.
But because they were true.
He stepped back before I could respond.
Left the room without a sound.
Like he hadn’t touched me.
Like he hadn’t undone me with a smile.
I stayed frozen there.
Lipstick still uncapped in my hand.
The color burned on my mouth.
And something even darker burned between my legs.
Later, at home, my apartment was still and dim.
Quiet in the way loneliness always is—too silent, too loud. It hummed with a kind of ache that no playlist could fix.
I kicked off my shoes the moment I stepped through the door.
The soles peeled. One heel bent slightly when it hit the floor.
I didn’t fix it.
I peeled off my skirt.
Hung the blouse on a chair.
Dropped my bag with a hollow thud.
The fridge hummed softly when I opened it.
Empty.
