“I’m not going anywhere. Start talking.” I fear that if I leave for a moment, you’ll be gone and the door will be locked and I’ll be a prisoner all over again.
You perhaps understand me better than I thought. You vanish into my room—my former room—and return with underwear and a matching bra, a dress, and heels. You hand it to me and wait expectantly.
I stare at you. “Turn around. I’m not changing in front of you.”
You just blink at me. “Seriously? After all we’ve—”
“After all you’ve done to me, you mean? Yes. Seriously. I’m not yours. You don’t get to watch me dress anymore.”
With a sigh, as if to protest the ridiculousness of the situation, you turn in place. I dress quickly, hating the uncomfortable, confining lingerie and the modest, formal dress. I ignore the high heels. Grip the front of the dress at the bodice and rip it open down the center an inch or two, so it gapes open, revealing a bit more cleavage. And then grip the sleeve on one side and rip. The delicate seam parts easily, leaving my arm bare. I do the same to the other side. I smile. Much better.
You turn around. “What the hell did you do? That was a ten-thousand-dollar dress custom made for you.”
“I do not care, Caleb. I will not dress in your clothing, I will no longer look how you wish me to look.”
“And your hair—”
“You don’t get a say.”
You sigh. “Fine.” You sit once more in the Louis XIV chair. Hook a knee over the other. “What do you want to know?”
“Who is Jakob Kasparek?”
A silence. You stare past me. Your expression softens; your gaze goes distant.
“Me.”