Page 62 of Suite 7

“Vera. Breathe.”

Something in his tone makes me obey. I drag in air. Release it slowly.

“Good. Again.”

I do it again. The sharp edge of panic dulls.

“Now tell me. Properly. What’s happening?”

“I’m frustrated. And angry — at you for making this so hard, at myself for agreeing to it. Every sensation feels amplified. I can’t stop thinking about your hands.”

“That’s exactly what should be happening.” His voice warms. “Your mind is learning to wait. That’s what I asked for.”

“It doesn’t feel like progress. It feels like I’m losing my mind.”

“You’re not. You’re becoming present. That intensity — that’s you waking up.”

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Yes, you can.” No hesitation. “You’re doing beautifully.”

“I almost broke the rule this morning.”

“But you didn’t. That took more than you’re giving yourself credit for. I’m proud of you for that.”

“You’re proud of me for not touching myself?” I try to make it sound incredulous. It comes out breathy.

“I’m proud of you for surrendering this control. For trusting me with it. For being honest about how hard it is.” A pause. “Now — have you eaten today?”

I blink. “What?”

“Lunch. Have you eaten?”

“I... no. Not yet.”

“I thought so. When you’re frustrated, self-care goes first. Eat something with protein. Then get back to work.”

“Kane—”

“Vera.”

Just my name. And I’m nodding even though he can’t see me.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl. Text me when you’re done.”

He hangs up.

I order a salad with grilled chicken. Force myself to eat it even though every bite feels mechanical. But I do it because he told me to. Because his attention to these basic details, that he noticed I hadn’t eaten, that he asked, makes me want to be worth that attention.

Me: Done. Ate the whole thing.

Kane: Good girl.

I stare at that longer than I should.

Then: