When she comes out of the en suite, her gaze falls to the outfit lying ready on the bed.

“No,” she whispers, eyes flashing to mine.

“No?” I stand up and take a step toward her. “No, to the dress?”

“No to…” Her voice trails off as she half motions to the scrap of lace on top of the dress. The bright blue panties Leah wears in the photo.

“These?” I pick them up, the fabric cool to my touch. I can feel myself already hardening at the thought of the last time they had been worn.

“I won’t wear them.” She raises her chin slightly, the shower having evidently washed off some of the placid and meek persona she’s been cocooning herself in out of misguided self-preservation.

“Oh, Meggie.” I sigh and hold them out to her. “Yes, you will. And you will put on that dress as well. You will mix me a drink and then cook me dinner. We will laugh and make conversation like a proper couple.”

“No.” But her voice is uncertain again, the meek coming back.

I smile my vulpine smile at the little lamb in front of me. “Yes, Meggie, you will.” I throw the scrap of lace toward her, laughing as she catches it, and saunter from the room. “And put some fucking makeup on, Jesus Christ!” I shout over my shoulder.

Twenty minutes later she finally emerges from the bedroom, the dress swirling softly around her knees, wet hair braided down her back, eyes rimmed in kohl.

“Much better,” I say as I appraise her. “But no lipstick? You know I like it when you wear it.” I watch her nod slowly and return to the bedroom, coming back a minute later with her full lips lacquered in a brilliant red the color of overripe tomatoes. “Perfect.” I smile and motion to the drinks cabinet. “I’ll take an old fashioned, please darling.”

I sit in the biggest of the armchairs and sip my drink, listening to her clattering round the kitchen beginning dinner. Megan is no chef, a disappointing fact I’d only discovered after investing six months in this whole endeavor, by which time it was too late to change my mind. The sound of swearing drifts into the living room, so I heave myself out of the chair and pad to the kitchen to find out what kind of a mess she’s made now.

She has burned the sauce on to the bottom of the pan. She can’t even make pasta without fucking it up. I sigh heavily from the doorway, enjoying the way her shoulders droop when she realizes I’ve seen her fail. “Oh dear me.” I cross the kitchen in three long strides until I am directly behind her, easing the handle of the pan from between her fingers and placing it down on one of the spare rings of the hob. My other arm snakes round her waist and I draw her close to me. I can feel her tension, the way she tries to pull away from me.