I haven’t blinked in forty-seven seconds. I’m not sure she’s inhaled in twice that time. Her chest barely moves beneath that hideous outfit, words tumbling out in a breathless cascade that defies human respiratory requirements.
Her yellow cardigan is two sizes too large. Thrift store purchase, judging by the faded elbows and mismatched buttons. The fabric pills along the seams in a way that speaks of countless washings in harsh detergent. The boots might have been stylish once, before someone else wore down the heels and scuffed the toes beyond repair. Her skirt—a fluttery thing that should hit mid-thigh, but on her hits just above the knee—can’t decide if it’s a ballet costume or a prairie dress.
Nothing fits. Nothing coordinates. Nothing says she understands how appearances dictate outcomes in a world where perception creates reality.
Her hands, though. Those nails. Bitten down, uneven, with remnants of cheap polish clinging to the corners like someone’s last attempt at dignity before surrendering to a siege. Hands tell everything about a person’s internal state. Hers say she’s been drowning for longer than just this morning. The slight tremor when she gestures. The way her fingers curl inward protectively when she pauses. The tattered bandage on the tip—a remnant of her catastrophic Friday night. Little Miss Take is a walking collection of defense mechanisms disguised as a person.
I mentally strip away her farmer’s market ensemble and replace it with a tailored pencil skirt that actually fits her waist, that would highlight the delicate curve where her hip meets her thigh. A silk blouse—cream, not yellow—that would drape properly across her collarbones. Heels that haven’t been dragged through someone else’s life first. Hair pulled back, exposing that neck she keeps hidden behind those messy waves. Clean, filed nails. No polish—just order. Someone who could walk into a room and make it adjust to her, not the other way around.
She’d look... manageable. Controlled. Mine.
Ifshe took direction—which she won’t. Women like her resist structure even while desperately needing it. They fight againstthe very framework that would elevate them. But if she were mine to reshape? I’d start with this—her presentation. I’d fix her.
Show her how to present power instead of panic. How to weaponize silence instead of drowning in words. How to make others uncomfortable instead of wearing her own discomfort like a second skin.
I exhale slowly. One long, deliberate sigh.
Her pupils dilate. Blink rate doubles. Hands freeze mid-gesture. Perfect. The torrent of words stops as abruptly as a faucet turned off. I’ve reclaimed control of the room with a single breath.
The sigh wasn’t real. None of this is. Her lateness, my displeasure—it’s theater, a carefully choreographed performance with every beat meticulously planned. I knew exactly what would happen this morning, could predict it down to the minute. Knew she’d be locked out, confused, scrambling through the rain-slick streets of Riverview. Knew she’d arrive with that particular look of desperate determination etched across her features. Knew she’d fail before she started. The entire scenario was designed for her to stumble into, like a carefully laid trap with invisible tripwires set at precisely the right height.
I’ve been up all night planning this scene, sitting here in the darkness of the apartment, watching the town slowly come alive through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Drafting the script she’s now following with beautiful, chaotic precision. Anticipating each nervous gesture, each flicker of emotion across that expressive face. Each stuttered apology, each breathless explanation—all anticipated, all necessary for what comes next. All pieces on a board where only I know the rules.
I was nevernotgoing to hire her. That decision crystallized the moment I saw her collecting broken glass with bare hands in the dim light of the restaurant, bleeding but unflinching—methodically gathering each shard as if the pain were secondary to completing the task properly.
A fascinating contradiction of fragility and resilience wrapped in secondhand clothes and quiet defiance.
Little Miss Take, indeed.
But thewayshe gets hired—that’s the first lesson.
The foundation for everything that follows. The initial demonstration that I control the outcomes, not her efforts. That power flows in only one direction in my world. That success or failure has nothing to do with merit and everything to do with my whim.
“Coffee?”
I offer the word like a grenade with the pin half-pulled. Not kindness. Strategy. I want to see if she’ll flinch at the simple pivot, the unexpected offer after minutes of calculated indifference.
Her face contorts with confusion.
Good. Unbalanced is exactly where I need her. Off-center, uncertain of the rules, desperate to please but unsure how.
The perfect starting point for what I have planned.
She blinks twice. Three times. Processing. Recalibrating. The cognitive dissonance plays across her face like a badly edited film—frame skips and discontinuities as she tries to reconcile the man who just systematically dismantled her, with one who’s suddenly offering refreshments.
“I... coffee?” she repeats, as if the word itself is foreign.
Will she even make it to lunch? I’ve scheduled a very specific test for 12:30. One that requires considerably more resilience than she’s displaying now. Pity if we don’t get there. I’ve put thought into it.
Her confusion suddenly transforms. Like a switch flipped, her body language shifts from defensive to proactive. Shoulders square. Chin lifts. Eyes focus.
She’s moving.
Not toward the door—which would be the rational choice—but toward my kitchen. With purpose. Like she’s solved some complex equation and arrived at a completely incorrect answer.
I don’t stop her. Curiosity overrides intervention. What exactly does she think is happening?
She navigates the space with surprising efficiency, locating cabinets, opening drawers. Finding a mug—my third-favorite mug, the one with the slight imperfection in the handle that I keep meaning to replace—and setting it on the counter with a decisive click.