The bathroom air was thick and wet, steam still curling off the surfaces even though the shower had been off for twenty minutes. Ava stood at the sink, both palms flat against the marble counter, her reflection staring back at her through a film of moisture on the mirror. She had wiped a streak clean with her palm so she could see her own face — see the lie she was about to tell written across it.
The plug hummed inside her. Low. Constant. A reminder that she wasn't alone even when he wasn't in the room.
She could feel it with every breath — the silicone pressing against her walls, the flared base seated against her, the slow, pulsing thrum that seemed to sync with her heartbeat. Caleb had set it to continuous when he'd left her here, and it hadn't stopped since. Not for a moment. Not for a breath.
Her wrists burned where the rope had been, the skin raw and chafed, the red marks standing out against her pale arms. She had tried to hide them with the robe draped over the hook by the door, but the sleeve only covered so much. Maggie would notice. Maggie noticed everything.
"I've been in bed with a migraine," she whispered to her reflection. "The light hurts my eyes. I didn't want to worry you."
The words sounded hollow, even to her. Thin. The kind of lie a child tells, not a woman who had spent years learning to read a room, to manage a household, to keep a marriage running smooth on the surface while the cracks spread underneath.
She tried again, lowering her voice, letting it come out rough and tired, the way she imagined a migraine would leave her. "I've been in bed. The medicine makes me groggy. Marc left for Frankfurt this morning — he probably told you. I'll be fine, I just need rest."
Better. Almost natural. She could hear the weariness in it, the dismissal. The way a woman who didn't want company talked when she wanted you to leave.
But the plug pulsed, and her voice caught on the last word, and she saw the flicker in her own eyes — the fear she couldn't quite hide.
Behind her, the bathroom door creaked.
She didn't turn. She watched his reflection materialize in the fogged mirror, a dark shape behind her, his grey eyes finding hers through the glass. Caleb leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his head tilted slightly — studying her the way he studied everything. The way he had been studying her for three years, apparently, while she had written him off as sullen and overlooked.
The plug deepened. Just a fraction. Just enough that she felt the shift, the pressure spreading inside her, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep her expression still.
"How's the script?" His voice was quiet. Almost conversational. But there was an edge to it, a thread of amusement that made her stomach clench.
"Fine." She said it without turning. "I've got it."
"Do you." Not a question. He pushed off the doorframe and walked toward her, his footsteps soft on the tile, and she felt him stop a foot behind her. Close enough that she could smell his cologne — something clean and sharp, a scent that didn't belong to the boy she remembered, the one who had slouched through hallways and eaten cereal at midnight. This was a man's scent. Deliberate. Chosen.
She watched his hand rise in the mirror, the remote between his fingers, his thumb resting on the dial. He didn't look at it. He looked at her reflection, his grey eyes locked on hers, and he clicked the dial one notch higher.
The plug surged.
It wasn't a shock — it was deeper, fuller, a vibration that seemed to reach through her and pull. Her hands gripped the counter, knuckles whitening, and she felt her jaw tighten as the pulse spread through her pelvis, up her spine, into her chest.
She didn't make a sound. She wouldn't give him that.
"Again," he said. "From the top."
She stared at her reflection. At the woman in the mirror whose lips were parted, whose breath was shallow, whose chest rose and fell too fast. She barely recognized her.
"I've been in bed with a migraine—" she started.
"No." His voice cut through her words, soft and sharp at the same time. "Look at me when you say it."
She turned. Slowly. Her bare feet against the cold tile, the robe hanging open at her chest, the black lace bodysuit visible beneath it. She faced him, and for the first time since he'd walked into the bathroom, she looked him in the eye.
He was taller than she remembered. Or maybe she had just stopped seeing him at all — the overlooked son, the quiet one, the boy who had never been a threat until he became one. His dark hair was disheveled, his grey eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that made her want to look away. She didn't.
"I've been in bed with a migraine," she said, holding his gaze. "The light hurts my eyes. I didn't want to worry you."
The plug pulsed. Her voice wavered on the last word, a tremor she couldn't suppress, and she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
"Again." He said it like he had all the time in the world. Like they could stand here all morning, repeating the same lines until she got them right. And maybe they could. Maybe that was exactly what he wanted — to watch her struggle, to hear her voice break, to feel the weight of his remote in his hand as he reminded her who was holding it.
She drew a breath. Steadied herself. The vibration was a constant pressure now, a hum that seemed to live in her bones, and she had to focus to keep her voice level.
"I've been in bed with a migraine. The medicine makes me groggy. Marc left for Frankfurt this morning — he probably told you." She paused, let her eyes soften, let her shoulders drop into a posture of tired resignation. "I'll be fine, I just need rest."
She held his gaze. The plug throbbed. She didn't flinch.
His head tilted, and she saw something flicker in his grey eyes — surprise, maybe, or satisfaction. He had expected her to break. To stumble. To give him an excuse to turn the dial higher, to watch her squirm.
She had not given him that satisfaction. Not yet.
But something was building behind his eyes, a calculation she couldn't read, and she felt her pulse quicken as he took a step closer. His hand moved to the remote, and she watched his thumb trace the dial — not turning it, just resting there, a promise of what he could do.
"Again," he said. "And this time, smile."
Her stomach turned. She understood what he was asking — not just to lie, but to perform. To look Maggie in the eye and smile while she told her sister she was fine, while the plug hummed inside her, while her wrists burned with rope marks hidden beneath a robe.
She smiled. It was tight, forced, more grimace than warmth, but it was a smile.
"No." He shook his head slowly. "That's not a smile. That's a hostage glare. Try again."
She felt heat creep up her neck — anger, shame, she couldn't tell which. Maybe both. She thought of Sarah in the basement, chained to the wall, the vibrator strapped between her thighs. She thought of the photos he had taken, the ones he would release if a police car pulled into the driveway. She thought of three weeks, and how long they were going to be, and how she needed to survive this first hour before she could survive the next.
She softened her face. Relaxed her jaw. Let her lips curve into something that looked like warmth, like relief, like a woman who was happy to see her sister but tired and ready to rest.
"I've been in bed with a migraine," she said, and the smile held, and the plug pulsed, and her voice came out steady. "The light hurts my eyes. I didn't want to worry you."
His eyes moved over her face, reading her, and she let him look. She smiled. She breathed. She held the lie like a shield.
"Better," he said, and there was something in his voice that almost sounded like approval. "But you're holding your shoulders too high. You look tense. Relax them."
She forced her shoulders down. Rolled them back. Let her hands fall from the counter and hang loose at her sides.
"Good," he said. "Now say it again."
She said it again. And again. And each time, he found something to correct — a gesture wrong, a word too fast, a blink too long. The plug vibrated through every repetition, a constant thrum that she learned to breathe around, to speak through, to ignore even as it pushed against her from the inside.
By the fifth repetition, she almost believed the lie herself.
He pocketed the remote. The vibration stayed at the same setting — not louder, not softer, just there, a constant hum she had learned to carry. He nodded once, a short, decisive movement, and turned toward the door.
"Put on the robe," he said over his shoulder. "Maggie will be here in forty minutes."
He paused at the doorframe, his hand on the edge, and looked back at her. His grey eyes caught the light, sharp and knowing, and she saw the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.
"And Ava?"
She didn't answer. She watched his reflection in the mirror, watched him wait until he had her full attention.
"That smile," he said. "The one you just did. The one that almost looked real."
He paused, and his voice dropped, soft and confiding.
"Keep that one. Use it on Maggie. And when she leaves, we'll see if you can still smile like that when I'm done with you."
He stepped through the door and let it click shut behind him. His footsteps receded down the hall, soft and unhurried, and she was alone with her reflection and the hum between her thighs.
She stood there for a long moment, gripping the counter, watching the woman in the mirror. The woman with the practiced smile and the steady voice and the plug vibrating inside her, a secret she carried in her body.
She let the smile die. Let her shoulders sag. Let herself feel the weight of what she was about to do — look her sister in the eye and lie, while her stepson watched from behind a camera, waiting for the performance to begin.
She reached for the robe hanging on the hook, and her hand was steady as she pulled it on. She tied the sash around her waist, felt the silk settle over the black lace, and smoothed her hair with her fingers.
Forty minutes. She had forty minutes to become the woman her sister expected to see.
She looked at her reflection one last time, and she smiled.
Perfect. Practiced. Hollow.