But the whole time I’m dancing I’m also thinking.
Nice move, Bricman. I have to hand it to him. He’s definitely playing his A-game with me. He’s got everyone talking about me, he’s got my full attention, and he’s picking me up at three. Smiling. And wearing something classy.
We take a break at eleven forty-five and I head straight for my locker, grab the envelope, and retreat to a stall in the bathroom.
The brochures are glossy and sleek. The houses are huge and pretentious.
The note is direct.
Nadia—
Choose three and text me before noon so I can set up the appointments.
Elias.
Shit. I only have like eight minutes to meet his demands. I shuffle through dozens of brochures. Randomly choose three, take pictures, text.
Done.
Take that, asshole.
The rest of my day goes as planned. I work hard. I sweat my ass off. I make my body ache and my feet hurt, until everything goes numb. I am berated repeatedly by the ballet mistress, but we all know if she’s not berating you on technique, or style, or lack thereof, she’s not seeing you. And we all want to be seen.
At two, I’m exhausted, but high on dancing endorphins. When I get to my apartment I have forty minutes to turn myself into something classy for the monster I’m… dating.
At two fifty-five I’m in the lobby wearing a cream-colored pencil sweater dress, a pair of tan leather knee-high boots, and a cape. And I have an ostentatious bag on my arm that Jordan got me the first real date we went on.
At exactly three o’clock Bric pulls up in his silver BMW.
I wait in the lobby, our eyes meet, and I can almost see him roll his eyes as he gets out of the car and comes inside to greet me.
Because I will not run out to his stupid car and get in like a teenager. If he thinks I will allow him to treat me like some cheap drive-up whore, he’s wrong.
“Miss Wolfe,” he says, checking out my choice of outfit as he offers me his arm.
“Mr. Bricman,” I say back.
He leads me to the car, where the valet is already opening the door. I slide into the soft leather seats and then he’s inside with me, hand on the gear shift. Car moving forward.
“Do you approve?” I ask.
He glances at me and nods. “Very nice.”
“I’m classy enough for you?”
“Yes,” he says. Short. Curt. Dick. “Interesting choices,” he says after a few seconds of silence.
“Oh?” I say. “How so?” I don’t even remember what I picked.
“They’re not traditional,” Bric says.
Shit. What did I pick?
“But whatever. I can see this is a game to you. So we’re going to choose one of them tonight and you’ll have to live with it.”
There’s brochures stuffed between his seat and the center console, so I take them out and look at them again.
Yeah. Not really my thing. One has turrets. Looks like a fucking castle. One is contemporary, but not traditional. And the third is Santa Fe Spanish. I almost can’t stop the laugh.
“I’m disappointed in you, Nadia.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you put no thought into this. These are not your choices. And tonight I’m going to spend somewhere between three and five million dollars trying to make you happy by giving you a home, and you put no thought into it.”
“That’s not fair. First of all, I’m not asking you for a house. Second, I didn’t even have a chance to look at what was in the envelope until my break. And by that time, it was almost noon. If you want to make me happy don’t give me deadlines.”
He looks at me. Sternly. And the few moments of silence that come with that look make me squirm. “I didn’t say house, Nadia. I said home.”
OK. Just give in, Nadia. It’s easier. Get the night over with and then you can go—
“Why are you playing?”
“Why are you playing?” I ask. “If all you get out of it is disappointment.”
“I was hoping we had come to an understanding.”
“Why? Because you’re blackmailing me?”
He scoffs.
“You are,” I say. “Blackmailing me.”
“So quit the game. You’ll save me a few million dollars.”
“You could quit too,” I say. “And save yourself.”
“Jordan laughed when I texted him your choices.”
“Did he?” I say. Fucker. He hasn’t called me at all. I spent a good amount of time this morning listening for the phone to ring and Chris’s soft steps as she came to tell me I had a call. But he never called. It seems he’s abandoned me to Bric.
“He said these aren’t your choices, which I already knew since you told me traditional. And then he laughed again.”
“Does it hurt your feelings when he laughs at you, Elias?”
The sneer he shoots me makes my heart skip a beat. “You’re trying to control me. And I thought we already had this talk. I’m the top, you’re the bottom. You exist to please me. And when you please me, I please you.”
I look out the window, too angry to trust any words that might come out.
“This is a power struggle,” he says. “And I like it.”
I look back over at him, confused. “You do?”
“Of course. What good is a dom/sub relationship if there’s no power struggle? It makes things exciting. I break you down, you learn something about yourself. If I do it right, you don’t get hurt. So I learn something about myself as well.”
Is he serious right now?
“I was telling you this last night but you weren’t listening. Humans are violent. You’re violent,” he says.
“I said I was sorry.”
“But you like it, Nadia. That’s my point. You like the violence if you’re the one dishing it out. Which is why I asked if you were abused when you were younger.”
“And then you made fun of me. ‘Did your daddy beat you, Nadia?’” I spit the words out.
“Did he?” Bric asks.
“I told you no.”
“Then why do you like it?”
“It’s a game, Bric.”
“Elias,” he growls.
“That’s all. And Jordan liked it. If you don’t like it, I won’t do it. How’s that?”
“That’s a good start. Because you will not slap me again.”
“And you won’t slap me either.”
“Fair enough. But you’ll miss out on some good sex if you give me that rule.”
I huff out some air. Frustrated.
“Where do you draw the line, Nadia? With the violence?”
“I don’t want to be hit.”
“But you want to do the hitting?”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to. You told me through your actions.”
“What are you? Some kind of psychiatrist? Stop reading into things, Elias. It’s just a game. You said so yourself.”
He doesn’t answer because we pull into a driveway, pass through an open iron gate, and come to a stop behind a black Mercedes.
The Spanish house.
A man in a suit gets out of the Mercedes, younger than Bric but definitely older than me.
“Can you see yourself living here for the rest of your life, Nadia?”
I stare up at the house. Ugly orange, Spanish tile roof. Curved exterior walls covered in white stucco. Neighbors so close you can see into their windows.