Page 187 of The Professor's Wife

He let me go and fed me more soup. I swallowed every mouthful down and smiled sweetly at him. Oliver’s eyes burned along my skin. They lingered on my mouth and then ventured to my bare legs where the fresh bruises were.

He wasn’t going to address the bruises or what he had done. It sat under the surface, gathering like all the other transgressions. In Oliver’s mind, it didn’t happen, and if it did, it was my fault. To appease him, I let him think it was my doing. That he was the one that needed to forgive me for overstepping.

It was such a beautiful shade of fucked up that I had been so close to accepting. A sliver of me held back completely. Had I been the slightest bit weaker, I would have been his perfect creation.

I allowed him to think I was.

Though today’s slip-up would cost me.

After Oliver fed me, he carried me like my saving knight to our ensuite bathroom. I emptied my bladder and then he washed me in that reverent way I had come to know. I smiled at him, accepting his touch, leaning into it. I let him know that I was grateful to have him.

When we were finally done, he slipped a clean black nightgown over me. He led me into the bedroom and spoke. “Take a seat at the edge of the bed, Daisy.”

The demand was taken with ease. I didn’t flinch knowing what it meant to sit at the edge of the bed. I simply did as I was told and waited. I looked down into my lap, listening intently as he roamed around the room, gathering the chain that was piled discreetly behind the front of the frame. I blinked quickly up at him as he shoved his hand into his pocket next and removed the cuffs I’d worn in the basement. I looked back down into my lap, and his voice rang out, easy and soft.

“I don’t need to tell you why this comes on.”

I shook my head.

“Good.”

It came on because I needed punishing and his trust in me wavered. It was a reminder and a threat that the lesson room would offer much worse.

It also came on because he would have to leave me unsupervised as he tended to whatever was more important, and it must have been important for him to leave my side after I’d fucked up so monumentally.

It had been so long since he did this. It dawned on me then how much progress I had undone. The thought of clawing it back—of appeasing him in every way for who knows how long now—almost made me whimper with hopelessness.

He took my left hand and cuffed my wrist. He attached the other end to the chain ring and then let it go.

“Lay down and get some rest,” he said next. “I have to finish up one more task in my office, and then I’ll be back. I’ll remove the cuffs after we revisit some important lessons. I’m doing this for you. So that you can see the impact of your choices.”

I nodded and rested on my side of the bed. Oliver took the blanket and draped it over me. He ran his fingers through my hair and then kissed my temple, murmuring, “You are so perfect.”

I smiled at him in response but swallowed the token I love you. He seemed to wait for a beat, like he was expecting to hear it. Thankfully, he didn’t push it. He pulled away and walked out of the room. Switching off the light, he shut the door, and I was alone.

I’d known almost instantly that there was something wrong with the cuff. When I moved, it didn’t tug on my wrist. It felt looser than ever. This moment of realization sent a bolt of shock through my body. I didn’t react, though. I just lay there, thinking.

It could be a trap, I reasoned quickly. He might have left it loose to see what I might do. But it had been years since I’d tried to escape him. When Rowe had died.

And I was broken.

Because the thought of doing anything stupid like leaving was preposterous.

Where would I go? How could I outrun him?

It felt like an impossible thing, but I was dangerously honest with myself. I thought about escaping Oliver every single day. More than once. More than ten times. I lacked courage for so long, and then I was flat out terrified.

But terror didn’t stir me now. And courage? Well, I didn’t feel courage, but I felt something akin to not giving a flying fuck and it made my body tighten with anticipation.

Was this what Sextus Empiricus meant when he told the story of Apelles—the painter who, worn down by failure after failure, finally hurled his sponge at the canvas in frustration, only for the accidental mark to create the foam he had been unable to paint? The thing he had chased appeared only after he stopped forcing it. Had my escape arrived in the same way, at the precise moment I had ceased believing one would come? Was tranquility waiting just beyond reach, if I dared to take the next step?

My heart pounded as I wriggled my left wrist, gauging how loose the cuff was—

My hand slipped straight out of it. I went completely still. I didn’t even breathe as my eyes snapped to the bedroom door. I stared at it for minutes. Minutes that felt like hours. My skin broke in sweat. My teeth chattered. My entire body quaked violently. The adrenaline was unlike anything else I felt before.

I moved slowly. Inch after inch. I didn’t remove my eyes from the bedroom door. If he came through, I might have time to drop back into bed, and he wouldn’t know. But the more I moved, the more dangerous it got. Oliver wasn’t coming through the door. There was nothing except the silence and my heart beating wildly.

The next thing I knew, I was standing up. Then I was moving. One foot after the next. I walked slowly, and then a little faster. I just wanted to see. To know how far I could push myself.I got to the door, settled my hand on the knob and went still again. I strained to hear a thing. If there were footsteps, I could run back to the bed. If I was loud turning the knob and opening the door, I was fucked.