“Why do you ask me so many questions?”

“I’m gathering information.” He uncrossed and recrossed his legs, this time at the ankle, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms on his chest.

I sat on my bed, the handcuffs and bindings removed some time ago. I had, in ways, lost my fight. Could be trusted to sit without attacking, to sleep without destroying my room or myself. There was only so much trouble I could get into in the room, the reason for the cuffs more about domination than anything. Thinking about and remembering the long hours, I rubbed my wrists.

“Let’s play a game, Kitten.”

“I don’t like your games.”

“Well, this one is different. It has a prize.” He grinned widely, like he had just granted me my freedom.

He wanted me to ask. I could feel the words what prize shoving my tongue down, lips apart but I stayed mute. Sat on my bed and examined my toenails. Punished him in the way that hurt him the most, silence - a withholding of reaction, of information, of content to write down in his fucking notebook. I clamped my lips shut and picked at a spot on my big toe.

Seconds turned into a minute. I examined, he sat, seconds ticked. Finally he sighed, a big loud guttural sound that stretched out unnecessarily. I waited, not looking, not responding, my peripheral vision showing movement of some kind. Finally, I broke, turning to him, my eyes falling on a brightly colored gift.

“You want this, Kitten?” he asked, lifting up the box and shaking it.

“Is it a cell phone?” I asked, releasing my toe.

“No.”

“Then no. Unless it’s a cell phone, or a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card, I’m not interested.”

“Make me happy, Kitten, and you can have this. It will be the only pretty thing in this room, the only thing that is yours.”

“You call me Kitten so that I form an emotional connection to you, isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes.”

“You should probably know that every time you say that word I want to either punch you in the face or vomit.”

That sentence earned me a line in his notebook, his pen scratching across the surface, the present wobbling a little on his knee. It was a hot pink rectangular box, the kind that men’s dress shirts come in. It’s probably clothes. What an idiot. I’d probably answer every question in his notebook for a TV with Netflix.

“This could be a good step for us, Kitten. Movement forward. Let’s play, okay?”

“No.”

“So, you won’t help me to earn this gift?”

“No.”

“Have you ever studied dog training, Kitten?”

I didn’t answer.

“There is a body of opinion that training a dog should be all positive reinforcement, manipulation with praise and treats. I had a theory I wanted to put into practice and have done so with you, Kitten.”

I stopped fidgeting.

“You’ve successfully completed phase one with me, and given me a lot of information, Kitten. For that, I will give you this present. One last gift from me. But from now on, you will not eat well, or receive anything, unless you earn it. And anytime you disobey me, you will be punished. If you speak back, you will be punished. If you do not answer my questions, or please me, you will be punished. He stood, the soles of his shoes scraping the concrete as he walked over to me. I watched the package as he set it down softly on the bed before me. “Enjoy this, Kitten. Thank you for proving my hypothesis that positive reinforcement is not enough. Sleep well. Tomorrow is a big new day.”

I stared at the wrapped gift as he walked out the door.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I stared at it, recounted every request of his that I had turned down. Every question I had refused. Every statement that I had given a sarcastic response to. A hundred mini-tests. All that I had failed.

Hours later, emotionally exhausted, I tried to squeeze the gift through my bars. When it didn’t fit, I squashed it, punching on it until it popped through the bars and landed, unopened, on the other side, skittering to a stop next to a bag of mulch.

It was Phase One’s final act of rebellion.

3 weeks before

I gripped the handles of my bag—a new one—purchased a month earlier in Cabo. Hefted it over my shoulder and stepped toward the plane, Abe nodding at me, the sun making his silver hair glint. “Good morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning. Smooth weather?”

“Yep. Clear skies.”

I smiled tightly, passing him my bag and jogging up the steps, a paperback in hand. I’d flown with Abe fifteen times now. He certainly seemed competent, touching down in last week’s storm without disaster. But I still got nervous, stepping into the death trap, even if it did come complete with elegant trappings and a minibar.

I texted Brett, let him know we were departing, and buckled in. Reclined my seat and tried to relax. In two hours, we would touch down in Lauderdale, where we’d pick up Brett, and fly another half hour to Jamaica. The next three days would be spent on the beach before returning home—Brett to his, me to mine. A long distance apart. Each separation was starting to get harder. I stayed on the plane when it landed at FLL, moving aside the curtain and watching as Brett jogged across the pavement, a leather bag in hand, a polo stretched across his strong shoulders, jeans hugging thighs that I’d soon be astride. He opened the door himself, the change in cabin pressure bringing a gust of fresh air and, minutes later, the tousled head of the man who I was in love with.