Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
She shifts slightly. Still not standin'. Still perfectly composed.
"You catalogued Giovanni's flaws like you were reading from a checklist. Daddy issues. Control issues. Emotional manipulation. And I'm sure you're right about all of it. I'm sure your analysis is thorough, and well-researched, and backed by years of personal observation."
Her eyes don't leave mine.
"But here's what you haven't done." Her voice drops even lower. "You haven't asked me a single question about me. About what I think. What I want. What I've chosen. You looked at a collar and made assumptions. You saw submission and diagnosed pathology. You decided I was broken and Giovanni broke me and now you're the knight who's going to fix everything by removing me from the situation."
The silence stretches.
I'm not grinnin' anymore.
"It never occurred to you," she continues, "that maybe—just maybe—I have agency. That I walked into that house with my eyes open. That I stayed because I wanted to stay. That what looks like captivity from your perspective might actually be freedom from mine."
She lets that sit there.
"But no. You're too busy being the smartest person in the room to consider that the woman sitting naked on your couch might actually understand her own life better than you do. Too busy performing your intellectual superiority to wonder if maybe your rescue mission says more about your need to be the hero than my need to be saved."
Fuck.
"Men like you..." She shakes her head slightly. "You're exhausting. You really are. Because you don't even realize you're doing it. You genuinely believe you're helping. That your analysis is objective. That your intervention is necessary. You've convinced yourself that taking away my choice is somehow giving me freedom."
Her expression doesn't change. Doesn't harden or soften.
Just remains perfectly neutral while she systematically dismantles every assumption I've made.
"So let me be very clear, since apparently I need to use small words for you to understand." She leans forward slightly. "Your stories about monsters don't scare me. Your warnings about Giovanni don't enlighten me. And your philosophical lectures about power dynamics don't make you look smart—they make you look threatened."
That last word hits different.
"Threatened by what?" My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
"By the possibility that I might actually know what I'm doing." She settles back. "That I might have looked at all the same information you have—all those patterns, and flaws, and red flags—and still chose to stay. Not because I'm broken. Not because I'm confused. But because I decided this is what I want."
The cabin feels smaller suddenly.
"And that possibility terrifies you," she continues, "because if I'm not a victim, then you're not a hero."
Christ.
"So here's my question for you, Sir." The title drips with something that isn't quite sarcasm but isn't respect either. "Are you going to keep talking at me like I'm a problem to be solved? Or are you actually going to listen when I tell you what I want?"
She waits.
I let her.
Because if this woman thinks she's just delivered some mic-drop moment of feminist critique that's supposed to make me apologize for havin' the audacity to notice she's wearin' a fuckin' collar—
Right.
Grand.
Let's do this properly then.
"You want me to listen?" I start to pace again because stillness isn't an option when my brain's spinnin' this fast. "You want me to actually hear what you're sayin' instead of performin' my intellectual superiority?"
I stop. Turn to face her directly.
"Fine. I heard you. Every word. The whole speech about agency, and choice, and how dare I assume you need rescuin' when you've made an informed decision to stay with a man who keeps you locked in a dungeon wearin' nothin' but a collar and bruises."
My voice drops lower. Gets quieter.
"And you know what I heard underneath all those perfectly crafted sentences? All that righteous indignation about bein' patronized?"
I let the silence stretch.
"I heard every woman who's ever called into a reality TV confessional cryin' about how 'he's different with me' and 'you don't understand our connection' right before the producers roll footage of him screwin' someone else in the hot tub. Every episode of True Crime where the detective interviews the neighbor who says 'she seemed so happy' three weeks before they find her body in a shallow grave."
Emmaleen's jaw tightens.
Good.
"You think you're special?" I'm properly wound up now, words tumblin' faster. "You think your situation is somehow exempt from every documented pattern of abusive relationships because you read some books, and signed a contract, and decided this time it's different—this time it's consensual?"
I laugh. It's not a nice sound.
"Newsflash, love—every woman in every fucked-up dynamic throughout history thought she was special too. Thought she was the one who could handle it. The one who understood what she was gettin' into. The one who chose freely despite every external observer wavin' red flags the size of fuckin' Texas."