Chapter 6: The Cycle Continues
The silk cord tasted of perfume and defeat. Ed’s teeth sawed desperately at the tight knot, the fibers fraying but holding with a stubborn, expensive strength. His jaw ached. His mind kept replaying the wet thud from the screen, the dreadful symmetry of David’s blood in the fountain grooves.
He didn’t hear the door open.
“Pathetic.”
Alistair stood in the doorway, holding a silver tray with a single crystal glass of water. He was a man carved from resigned angles, his once-sharp lawyer’s eyes now flat and dull as old coins. He looked at Ed—wild-eyed, chewing like a trapped animal—with neither pity nor interest.
“She prefers the knots unspoiled,” Alistair said, his voice a monotone. He set the tray on a low obsidian table. “The cord is Kashmiri. You’re getting saliva on two thousand dollars.”
Ed spat out the wet silk. “You have to help me. You see what she is. You know what she did to David.”
Alistair straightened the tray a millimeter. “I know the fountain is being cleaned. I know a sculptor is arriving next Thursday. That’s what I know.” He finally looked at Ed. “Drink the water. You’ll need your strength for the modeling session later.”
“Modeling ses— she’s going to kill me!”
“Eventually,” Alistair agreed, without inflection. “But not before your work is done. And not before she’s tired of the new statue idea. Her whims have a lifespan. Drink.”
He left. The door clicked shut, a sound of absolute finality. Ed stared at the glass. His thirst was a raw claw in his throat. He hated himself for the impulse to obey. He shuffled to the table, his bound wrists making him clumsy, and drank the water in one grateful, shameful gulp.
The mirrored dressing room was a kaleidoscope of Zoe. A hundred of her applied deep crimson lipstick in the endless reflections, a hundred of her smoothed the black velvet dressing robe over her hips. The air was heavy with jasmine and the sharp, metallic smell of blood.
Alistair knelt on the mosaic floor, a worn toothbrush in hand, scrubbing at a dark, almost-black speck on the white marble between the velvet inlays.
“You missed a spot,” Zoe said, not looking at him. She was examining the pointed toe of a stiletto heel. A fresh, rust-brown smear stained the patent leather.
“It’s difficult, ma’am. It’s seeped into the stone.”
“Then scrub harder, Shitstain. Or would you prefer to lick it clean?” Her voice was pleasant, conversational.
Alistair’s scrubbing became more frantic, the bristles scraping audibly.
Zoe sighed, a sound of profound disappointment. She lowered the stiletto, holding it by its slender heel, and placed the soiled toe directly onto the marble in front of his face. “Actually, you know what? Let’s go with that. Since you’re already on your knees.”
He froze, the toothbrush hovering.
“My shoe, Alistair. It’s filthy.” She tilted her head, watching his reflection in the wall of mirrors. “It’s Ed’s blood, you know. He bit through his own lip trying to chew through his binds. It’s so... visceral, don’t you think? All that frantic, mammalian survival instinct. It makes the clean-up so messy.”
Alistair’s shoulders slumped. He dropped the toothbrush. It clattered on the marble. Slowly, with the resignation of a ritual performed a hundred times, he leaned forward and extended his tongue.
It was a flat, pink thing. It touched the cool leather.
“Uh-uh,” Zoe chided softly. “Properly. Get the discoloration. All of it.”
He closed his eyes and pressed his mouth against the tip of the shoe, his tongue working in slow, revolted swipes. The coppery taste filled his mouth. He gagged, a deep, convulsive retch, but didn’t pull away.
Zoe watched, fascinated, as her own multitude of reflections watched. “See? You can do it when you apply yourself.” She applied gentle pressure, grinding the heel’s tip against his tongue, pinning it to the roof of his mouth. “You were always such a fast learner. That’s why you lasted longer than the others. You learned the rules.”
He made a wet, choked sound.
“All done,” she said brightly, lifting the shoe. It gleamed, spotless. She held it up to the light, turning it. “Perfect. Now, look at me.”
Alistair opened his eyes. Tears of pain and humiliation streaked his cheeks. A thin line of pink-tinged saliva dripped from his chin.
“I’ve invited a new friend for dinner tomorrow. A hedge fund manager. Very sharp, very hungry. The kind of man who thinks he’s already a predator.” She smiled, running a finger along the clean stiletto. “We’ll see about that.”
She turned back to her main reflection, studying her flawless face. “We’ll need to impress him. I’m thinking the black table linens. The Baccarat crystal. And...” she paused, meeting Alistair’s eyes in the mirror, “...fetch the good silver collar. The one with the sapphire inlay. It’s in the safe behind the Rousseau.”
Alistair’s breath hitched. The good collar. It was heavier. The clasp was intricate, almost impossible for fingers to open once it clicked shut.
“Ma’am,” he whispered, the word distorted by his swollen tongue.
“Yes?”
“The... the model. Ed. He’s still in the study. With the cord.”
Zoe laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “Oh, he’ll be there. Let him chew. Let him hope. It makes the surrender so much sweeter when it finally comes.” She placed the stiletto back on its shelf, next to its identical twin. “Now go. The collar. And draw a bath for me. Use the jasmine oil. The new one smells like victory, and I want to soak in it.”
Alistair pushed himself up, his knees cracking. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at the countless copies of his own degradation staring back from the walls. He simply turned and shuffled out, his soft-soled shoes silent on the hard, cleaned floor.
Zoe was alone with her reflections. A hundred perfect smiles bloomed across the glass.
“Tomorrow,” she said to herself, to all of them. Her hand went to her throat, where the high collar of the robe met her skin. She imagined the weight of cool, engraved silver, the gleam of a deep blue stone resting in the hollow of her throat. A leash for a new kind of animal. She traced the line where the metal would sit.
In the study down the hall, Ed finally felt a single strand of the silk cord part under his grinding teeth. A tiny, meaningless victory in the silent dark. He didn’t know about the collar. He didn’t know about the dinner. He just worked his jaw, spitting out red-flecked fibers, clinging to the blind, stupid idea of escape.
Zoe knew. And in the mirrors, her smile widened.