Chapter 15: The Unexpected Return
The remote was a cold, alien weight in the front pocket of my jeans. For three days, it had lived there, a silent twin to the device still adhered to my skin, which remained inert, a dormant insect. Nora hadn’t used it. She hadn’t even mentioned it. The anticipation was a corrosion, eating away at every mundane moment. I’d find myself checking my phone obsessively, my heart seizing every time it buzzed with a mundane notification from a friend or a spam email. The tension made me jumpy, dull.
It was a Thursday evening. Dad was working late, a conference call with Singapore he’d mumbled about over a rushed dinner. The house had that hollow, echoing quality it got when it was just the two of us. I was on the couch, pretending to watch a movie, my thumb scrolling mindlessly through my phone. The screen was a blur.
She emerged from the hallway, not from their bedroom, but from the guest bathroom, steam billowing out behind her in a fragrant cloud. She wore a simple, knee-length silk robe the color of clotted cream, tied loosely at the waist. Her hair was damp, dark gold at the roots, and her skin glowed. She moved to the kitchen island, poured herself a glass of red wine, and leaned against the counter, watching me.
The movie’s explosions meant nothing.
“You’re thinking too hard,” she said, her voice cutting through the soundtrack. “It’s written all over your face. You’re waiting for the buzz.”
I said nothing. My hand drifted unconsciously to my pocket, feeling the outline of the remote through the denim.
“The anticipation is the lesson, Ethan. The control isn’t in the shock. It’s in the possibility.” She took a slow sip. “But we’re moving to a new curriculum. Practical application.”
She pushed off from the counter and glided into the living room, sitting in my father’s armchair, perpendicular to me. She curled one leg beneath her, the robe falling open just enough to reveal the smooth line of her calf. She set her wine glass on the side table with a definitive click.
“Tell me about school. The girls.”
The question was so ordinary, so bizarrely parental, it threw me. “What about them?”
“Don’t play dense. It doesn’t suit you.” Her eyes held mine. They were the color of shale in this light. “Who do you look at? Who makes that little nerve in your jaw jump when she walks by? Not the obvious ones. The quiet one. The one who doesn’t know what she is yet.”
A name surfaced immediately, involuntarily. Chloe Finch. She was in my AP Literature class. She had this habit of biting the end of her pen when she was thinking, and she always had a book with a cracked spine tucked under her arm, fantasy novels with dragons on the covers. She blushed easily, a pretty, sudden pink that spread from her cheeks to her throat. She was beautiful in a way that felt separate from the world of football games and loud parties, a secret beauty.
I didn’t say it.
Nora smiled, a slow unfolding. She saw the recognition in my face. “Good. There’s always one. Now, here is your task.”
She leaned forward, the robe gaping further. I couldn’t look away. “You will seduce her. Not just get a date. You will unlock her. You will become the key that turns in the lock of her own ignorance. You will show her the things she’s been afraid to want. You will listen, and you will reflect, and you will make her feel like the only creature in the universe. And then, you will guide her to the edge of herself and watch her jump.”
My mouth was dry. “Why?”
“Why?” She repeated it as if it were a childish word. “Because I’m telling you to. Because your obsession with me is a closed loop. It’s eating you from the inside. It’s… inefficient.” She gestured with her hand, a dismissive flick. “You need an outlet. A project. You will learn about power by wielding it. You will learn about desire by orchestrating it. And you will report every detail to me.”
The clinical way she laid it out made my stomach clench. “That’s… that’s monstrous.”
“It’s life, Ethan.” Her voice was cool, unbothered. “Everyone is sculpting everyone else. Most are just terrible artists. I’m giving you tools. Instruction.” She picked up her wine again. “Start with conversation. Literature is a good in. Ask her about her dragons. Listen to her answers. Remember them. Then, find a moment of mild inconvenience—a dropped book, a struggle with a heavy door. Be helpful. Be kind. Be… interested. Not in her body. In the noise in her head. The body follows where the mind is led.”
It sounded like a recipe. A formula. It stripped all feeling from it, which somehow made it feel even more violating.
“I can’t do that.”
“You can. You will.” She set the glass down. “Or the remote becomes a constant companion. A low, distracting hum during your conversations with her. A sudden, painful jolt when you’re supposed to be gentle. I will undermine you at every step until you are a twitching, unreliable mess in her eyes. Or…” she let the alternative hang.
“Or I become your puppet,” I finished, the words ash in my mouth.
“You already are.” She stood up, smoothing her robe. “This is just giving the puppet something to do. A purpose.” She walked towards the hallway, then paused, looking back over her shoulder. “Your first report is due Friday. After school. I’ll be waiting.”
She disappeared, leaving the scent of her shampoo and wine in the air.
The remote in my pocket felt like it had tripled in weight. I saw Chloe Finch’s face in my mind—her earnest eyes, the shy smile she offered when someone agreed with her about a character’s motivation. I thought of dissecting that, of manipulating it, of turning her into a… project. A report for Nora.
The shame was a hot, sour tide. But beneath it, buried under layers of revulsion, a terrible, curious engine sparked to life. What would it be like? To have that kind of power? To not just feel helplessly attracted, but to direct attraction like a conductor? To see the mechanisms behind a blush and know you were the cause?
I hated myself for the thought.
But I already knew, standing alone in the quiet living room with the television’s blue light flickering over me, that I would try. The alternative—Nora’s relentless, electronic torment—was a form of chaos I couldn’t withstand. This, at least, was a task. A perverse, structured corruption.
I pulled out my phone. My thumbs hovered over the screen. I navigated to Chloe’s Instagram. Her profile was mostly pictures of her dog, close-ups of wildflowers, and shots of book covers. I had never liked or commented on anything.
I took a breath, the air shuddering into my lungs. I found a post from two days ago, a picture of a massive old book titled The Once and Future King. Her caption read: “Re-reading. It hits different this time.”
My finger trembled slightly. I typed a comment: “The best. The ‘might for right’ vs. ‘might is right’ debate with Merlyn actually changed my brain in 10th grade.”
I hit ‘post.’
It was just a comment. A tiny, innocuous connection. But it felt like the first step off a cliff. The remote in my pocket remained silent, a sleeping judge.
In the dark hallway, I thought I saw a shadow shift. A sliver of light from under her bedroom door vanished, as if someone had just stepped away from it.
She was watching. Of course she was.
The game, it seemed, was already underway.