As Elena finished dressing during her morning preparation, she heard a short knock at the door. Quickly, she finished putting in an earring set she found in the bathroom, and went to the door to open it.
At the door was the manor butler, Presley. In his hands, he held a silver tray. A large silver dome covered what she could only assume would be food. Walking in, Presley set the tray on the desk by the window. "Good morning, Miss Rossi. Mr. Thorn is in a morning conference call," he said, his voice neutral and professional, "He requests your presence in the main foyer at nine o'clock."
Elena thanked him. Finding the break in routine unusual. As he left with the door’s usual click, she lifted the tray’s lid to find a fresh assortment of breakfast items. Toast with butter, jam, and a great assortment of fresh fruit. She ate the fruit and toast, enjoying the flavor of each piece. Checking her phone, she found no new messages. Just thinking how only a day away and she could see her best friend again.
The silence returned after Presley left. Elena’s fingers found the edge of the desk drawer, sliding it open on a whisper. Inside, a small notepad and a basic ballpoint pen she was looking for. She pulled them out, the pen clicked, a sharp, satisfying sound in the quiet. She put the tip to the paper and let her hand move.
It wasn’t a design or a plan. It was a frantic, looping sketch of interlocking thorns, a cage drawn in harsh, dark lines. The pen dug into the paper, leaving grooves. In the center, a faint, shapeless figure. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until the clock on the wall chimed a soft, quarter-hour warning. She stared at the violent little scribble, her chest tight. Then she folded the paper twice, small enough to hide in her palm, and slipped it into her skirt pocket.
At five minutes to nine, she got up from her desk chair and walked downstairs, her short heels leaving their normal click, click, click on the floor.
Liam Thorn stood by the grand front door, a silhouette against the morning light streaming through the glass panes. He watched as she approached, his blue eyes sweeping over her, the usual inspection he would give each morning. Looking over the simple skirt and blouse she’d been provided. "We're going into the city," he said. No normal greeting or inspection, just the single statement held in the air.
Thorn’s black sedan idled at the curb. A single man with a black shirt and pants, wearing sunglasses, stood by the driver's door. The man standing there with his hands together in front of him, waiting. Mr. Thorn approached and held the rear door open, not as a gesture, but as a command. She slid in. He followed, sitting beside her, the space between them charged and small.
The drive felt short. Sitting in the back seat reminded her of her first ride with Mr. Thorn. The same leather seats and the small lingering smell of his cologne. The one she could never escape. She traveled along the road, crossing the bridge that brought her back to civilization, back into the city of Las Lona.
Las Lona. This had become her city. After college, she moved here to start her business. Rossi Arts. To help aspiring artists build up and grow their portfolio. Renting a one-bedroom apartment, she turned the living area into her office, a meeting place for new clients. The back room was her means of rest and sleep. Now, that life was just becoming a recent memory. One that was already starting to feel slipping away.
Elena watched familiar landmarks blur past. Her old office building. The café where she’d met clients. Neither of them spoke. She continued to see what meeting or business they would need to attend outside the manor. The car stopped not in the bustling downtown, but on a quiet, tree-lined street fronted by a discreet boutique with a single word in gold script on the window: Valerius.
She had heard of this place. Well above her price range, so other than taking one good window shopping through the place, she made sure to avoid it. What kind of business do we have here?
Stepping out of the car, she moved to stand on the sidewalk, watching Mr. Thorn leave his side of the vehicle and walk around to the front of the building with her.
She finally spoke up. “What business do we have here?”
He turns to her, keeping his stone straight-to-business face. “Today, you will follow my objective.” He takes one hand, gently guiding behind the arch of her back, guiding her through the door.
Inside, the air was cool, scented with linen and expensive perfumes. Manikins are placed all over, showing anything from Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Hermès, and Gucci. Just thinking of what he could mean terrified her. What did he mean by his ‘objective’? Is she going to be working here? A client meeting? Her mind continued to race as it thought through the possibilities.
A saleswoman with a sharp smile greeted Thorn by name. "Everything is prepared, Mr. Thorn. This way."
He gave a slight nod toward Elena. "Ensure the fit is perfect." Her mind still did not understand what was about to happen.
What followed was not what she expected at all. It was an inspection of her. The saleswoman led Elena to a private, large dressing room, where five outfits hung on a clothing rack.
"We'll begin with confirming your measurements," the woman said, her tone leaving no room for question. The saleswoman immediately began stripping her down, removing each piece of clothing until she was left standing only in her panties. Before she could even process, she was now standing there practically naked in front of the saleswoman. Her face and body quickly flushed red in embarrassment. Her mind is panicking as the saleswoman takes a good look at her. Pulling out a measuring tape, she stretches it and starts taking down all her measurements, writing them in a small notebook.
Once she had finished, she moved on, pulling down the first dress. “Alright, we shall start with this one,” she says, holding a sundress, red in color, with small yellow flowers. The fabric was treacherously soft as she slipped it on. A stretching fabric wrapped around her breasts. The neckline was deceptively modest, covering her chest, but it was held up by thin straps that tied over her neck, leaving her collarbones and the slope of her shoulders completely bare. The hem ended a precise inch above her knees. She stared at her reflection. The color was vibrant, girlish almost, a stark contrast to the woman staring back with green eyes. She was amazed by her own beauty.
"Mr. Thorn wishes to see," the saleswoman said, opening the dressing room door.
Elena stepped out. Thorn was seated in a low armchair, one ankle resting on his knee. He looked up from his phone. His gaze was clinical, thorough. It started at the thin straps on her shoulders, traveled down the front of the dress, lingered on her bare legs, then returned to her face. "Turn."
She turned slowly, feeling the cloth whisper against the front of her thighs. The back was just as bare as the front. She faced him again.
"Acceptable," he said, his voice that low, controlled baritone. "Next."
The second dress was black. It felt heavier. The saleswoman helped her into it, zipping up the back. The front was a high-necked, corset-like structure of satin that hugged her ribs and lifted her breasts, making her breath feel shallow. She turned, and the cold air of the boutique hit the exposed skin of her entire back and shoulders, from the nape of her neck down to the base of her spine, where the fabric finally began again, the skirt of the dress just covering her legs, this one down to the base of her knee. The top alone both accentuated her breasts, but also showed her slim figure. It was Elegant. A weapon.
Again, she walked out. Thorn’s eyes darkened, locking on her form. He didn’t speak for a long moment, just looked. His gaze felt like a hand tracing the line of her spine as she turned. "Walk to the mirror and back."
She did. The dress moved with a sinister grace. She stopped before the mirror. If looks could kill. Her breasts are so well-shaped, her hips curved. She felt so… Sexy. Just looking at herself warmed her core.
"Do you like it?" he asked.
The question was a trap. She knew it. "It fits." Though inside, she really did love it.
A faint, humorless smile touched his lips. "It does. Let’s look at the next one."
The third outfit was a white and blue blouse with a large bow on the chest and a light pink flowing skirt. The blouse was loose, flowing, with sleeves that went down just past her elbows. The skirt covered more skin than anything she’d worn in days, stretching down to her ankles. The Robe is its only contender. Relief was a fleeting and pleasant feeling. The skirt was a full, patterned felt that swirled around her calves. It felt almost like freedom. Loving the look, she presented herself.
Thorn assessed it with a glance. "Practical. For certain appearances. Note it," he said to the saleswoman. His eyes returned to Elena. "Let’s keep going."
The saleswoman returned, her arms laden with six new day outfits and three sets of pajamas. The fabrics were whisper-thin silks and clinging cottons in shades of cream, blush, and charcoal. Elena’s fingers went cold as she took the first hanger—another sundress with a neckline that plunged to the sternum, the back just two narrow straps. Then some Jeans, Shorts, and a variation of shirts. The pajamas were worse: scraps of lace and satin that felt like they covered too little.
The saleswoman didn’t even fully glance at her before almost shoving the first outfit into her hands, moving things along. The silence in the fitting room thickened, charged with the explicit understanding that every stitch was chosen by him to make her a spectacle—for his eyes, for his whims, for any display he wanted to make of her.
The woman returns to have her slip in and out of each set. First, the Blue jeans with the Green shirt, then the light blue, then the last red one. Once the red wrap was worn and confirmed, she slipped off the blue jeans and swapped to the black. Once on, she took a look in the mirror. This outfit was so unusual for her. Never her style or something she would consider. I mean, she never showed this much skin in her life, and here she is with almost her full top exposed.
“Mr. Thorn wants to see this one,” the saleswoman says.
Elena starts to object when the saleswoman opens the door and ushers her out into the waiting room. I’m not ready for him to see me!
When she stepped out, Thorn was no longer sitting. He stood by the mirror, leaning against the wall. His eyes immediately tracked the way the denim clung to the curve of her ass, the way the fabric of the shirt stretched across her breasts. Here is where she saw it, His eyes, rather than keeping its poker faced eyes, showed a sight of surprise.
"Come here," he commands. His voice held its authority, but something about the way he said it also seemed more captivating.
She stopped an arm's length away. He closed the distance himself. He didn't touch her. He just looked, his gaze so intense she felt it like heat on her skin. "These are for informal settings. When I allow you a semblance of normalcy." His voice dropped, just for her. Letting the lightest whisper into her ear, "You will remember it as a semblance."
He reached out then, but not for her. He pinched the fabric of the chestpeice at her shoulder, adjusting the shoulder to properly sit over her shoulder. His knuckles brushed her arm as his hand fell. Her breath hitched. He heard it. His eyes flicked to hers, holding the contact. "Go continue, we have just a few more to finish."
The saleswoman returned, her arms cradling a final garment. The fabric was a deep, liquid crimson, shot through with veins of black like cooled lava. She held it up: a bikini, but unlike any Elena had ever seen. The top was a single, elegant sweep of fabric designed to drape over one shoulder and wrap around both her breasts, wrapping around the back and up to the one shoulder strap. The bottom was a matching design, a bikini bottom of red and black. Each part was tightly cupped and tight around her ass. One side of the straps over the waist sits thinner than the other, showing off more of one hip.
Stripping her underwear off, she flushes again in embarrassment. She hadn’t shaved since she moved in! She quickly covered herself, the saleswoman ignoring her and helping her with the pieces to dress. Once on, the woman stands back and looks her over. “Oh, he’s going to want to see this one.” The woman says.
Elena’s face flushes red. The thought of him seeing her in this felt so embarrassing… Sure, he’s seen her naked, but not her choice! She didn’t want that to happen again! No. She would not go out there to him like this!—
Only she didn’t have to go out to him. At this time, she then opened the door and requested him to enter.
Instinctually, she tried to cover herself with her arms. His eyes were unamused with her reaction. With a sigh, he let out the words, sharp as a knife, “I command you to drop your arms to your side and no longer hide yourself from me.”
Immediately, her mind thought of their new contract. The unwritten agreement between them came to mind. “Ye-ye-yes, Sir,” she stammered. Her face turned as red as her swimsuit. Here she was calling him ‘Sir’ in front of the saleswoman. Her body exposed with only a thin fabric of the swim suit seperating herself from his eyes, seeing all of her body. Most left exposed.
The saleswoman seemed to pay no mind, though, and with another quick word said, “I’ll grab the final items.” And walked out of the room.
As she stepped out, Elena looked up at Thorn. “What are you doing?”
“Taking care of business,” he responded.
“How is this taking care of business?”
“You have a guest coming. I can’t have you walking around in a robe the entire time. Clothing before wasn't necessary.” His statement seemed to show his dismissal of her lack of options before. “Now, you will have more options that are both befitting of your status and your figure.” The second part coming accross a simple matter of fact, then a real compliment to her figure.
She always knew she was attractive. Boys always wanted to date her, but she always dismissed them, as they always just interfered with her studies. So each time one tried to ask her on a date, if she ended up feeling pressured into accepting, it would end quickly afterward with her lack of interest. The boys were always just that. Boys.
The saleswoman returns. bringing a few new items. Hanging up three new hangers of clothing.
Elena looked at them, horror filling her eyes as she saw what they were.
Mr. Thorn, seeing her reaction, lets out a little chuckle. “Don’t worry, my dear, you may try these on yourself in privacy. I will step out and will not ask to see them,” He said with almost a teasing mockery in his voice. “These are optional and are your choice to accept as items if you wish. Alexa, here is only going to ensure they are proper fits.” A name was finally given to the woman who had seen all of herself.
Alexa helped her look at and inspect the new items. All three items were all pajamas— Except they weren’t really pajamas, so much as nighties. The outfits she could never see herself wearing… Yet here she was, starting to undress to try them on. The first was a short gown. Just a top that came down barely covering her behind. The second is a 2-piece. The chest was a light and soft cloth that gently drifted over her chest, hanging barely to her belly button. The shorts were small, covering from her waist to the top of her legs. The third one was like the second. A short top, but instead of shorts, this one came as a skirt. Picking it up from the hanger, she saw them open, and the skirt was so short she was sure they would barely cover half her leg. Just the fear of bending over in these made her immediately turn them away. She would refuse this one for sure.
Both the first two options she really questioned. Was this really what she wanted to wear? It’s this, or nothing… After consideration, she accepted them both. She needed something for when Lisa visited. Going just in underwear was never like her.
Poking her head out, her most recent tried on nighty still on. She asked through the door. “Do I just put on my uniform now?”
“You may put on whichever you would like from the selection.” Turning back to the clothing, she looks through her options. She wants to go with the one she knows she would feel more comfortable in. She then reaches and pulls down the green ruffled t-shirt and blue jeans.
Dressing in them, she finally felt comfortable. Clothing covered more of her then shed had since— since she left home. Stepping out of the changing room, she faced him.
Thorn was no longer leaning. He stood perfectly still, his blue eyes capturing her in a single, comprehensive sweep. The poker face was gone, replaced by a focused, predatory stillness. He didn't speak. He just looked, his silence more articulate than any critique, absorbing the way the shirt followed the curve of her waist, the defiant line of her bare shoulder, the full detail of her hips in the jeans.
From there, Mr. Thorn tells Alexa they are ready to check out. Alexa directs another worker to collect the items and bag them.
From there, they moved to the front. Alexa meets them. As they are checking out the items, Elena notices other individuals passing the building. Couples laughing, having a great time. A man, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, looking a bit rough, like he’d had a long work day. A couple of women, wearing clearly too many expensive items all over the place. This wasn’t the area she ever expected to be in.
"You're quiet," Thorn said, cutting her thoughts back.
"What is there to say?"
"You could ask why."
"I know why," she said, the words brittle. "They're uniforms. Just like the others. A reminder."
"A reminder of what?"
"That I belong to you." The words left her mouth.
Thorn was silent for a moment. She sensed something new. Disappointment? His face was unchanged, but something felt different. "They are tools," he said finally. "Each for a specific purpose. The dress is approachable, non-threatening. It says 'harmless'. The black dress is powerful. It says 'look, but do not touch'. The others are for blending, for moments when you need to be seen but not noticed. You will wear what I choose, when I choose it. Your body will communicate what I require it to communicate."
"And what about my mind?" The question slipped out, laced with a bitterness she couldn't suppress.
He turned his head to look at her fully. "Your mind is learning. It is what I find to be the most fascinating part of this process."
She looked away, retreating into silence again.
The boutique’s door chimed softly behind them, the cool, perfumed air giving way to the dense, humid heat of the Las Lona afternoon. Thorn carried the garment bags himself, his movements efficient as he placed them in the trunk of the waiting town car. The black fabric whispered against itself, a sound like secrets. He approaches the passenger door to open it for her when he pauses. “There is a place nearby,” he said, his voice cutting through the city’s distant roar. “If you would like, we can grab some coffee before we continue.”
She nodded; the thought of coffee sounded wonderful. “I do.” The acceptance felt like a small, personal victory. Mr. Thorn told the security looking driver something, and the car slid away from the curb, leaving the two behind.
“Let’s walk. I know a place.” He said. “It’s just a few short blocks from here and down the next street.” He led the way, his stride purposeful on the cobblestones. Turning, they lead down a new alleyway, one made of concrete and steel, the sunlight a distant stripe of gold far above. The only sound was the echo of their footsteps and the distant hum of traffic.
Traversing down between the shops, they moved along. Back doorways and crates littered around the alleyway. She looked up to the man at her side. This man had owned her, but something now felt a little different from the usual work-only presence he seemed to always carry.
As we moved along, we heard a noise ahead. A man seemed to materialize from a service doorway only a few steps in front of them, his movements jerky, his eyes wide and unfocused. Wearing a t-shirt and jeans, he looked a bit ragged as he held a knife low, the blade catching a sliver of light.
“Your purse and wallet,” he rasped, the words aimed at them both. She froze, the breath locking in her throat. Time didn’t slow; it fractured.
“I-I-I d-don-t have anything!” She studdered, fear overtaking her.
“You lying bitch!” The man yelled as he looked the two of them up and down, clearly angry. He started to take the few steps forward to close the gap, knife still forward.
Thorn was a step ahead; the next thing she saw was him as a wall of blue wool and muscle between her and the blade. He didn’t make a noise. He just moved with a terrible, silent precision, his hand closing around the man’s wrist with a crack that echoed off the walls of the alley.
The attacker grunted, the knife clattering to the cobblestones. But the man thrashed, a wild, panicked animal, and slipped out a second blade, slashing wildly and uncontrollably at Thorn. Its edge caught Thorn across a part of his chest as he shoved the assailant hard against the brick wall. It was a shallow, glancing thing—a sharp whisper of parting fabric, then a darker line blooming across the white of his dress shirt. Thorn flinched. His grip loosening just enough, the attacker slipped out of his grasp. The man quickly ran down the alleyway and around the corner.
Liam started to chase, but stopped as he found red liquid appearing on his lower arm, dripping onto his jacket and hand. His blue eyes first flicked to Elena, staying utterly calm. “Are you hurt?” He let out, his attention still on her, not on himself.
She could only shake her head, her gaze fixed on the spreading red stain, a vivid red against the pristine white and blue cotton. It looked like a deep cut, but it was real. It was his blood marking his perfect jacket.
Then Mr. Thorn started to stumble, losing his balance.
That broke her out of her daze; She moved forward and helped catch him as he stumbled, bringing him down to the ground to lie on his back. She quickly started to look for something to press against the wound. Thorn pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her, “Use this.”
She quickly took it and pressed against the wound. Putting pressure on it. “We need to get you help. I can call 9-1-1—”
He stopped her. “No, I’ve got it.” Pulling out his phone, he entered a couple of digits into it and put it to his ear. “It’s Thorn, I’ve been attacked and need Medi-care. Alleyway two blocks west of Valerius.” After hearing some muffled quick response, he quickly hung up the phone. “Keep pressure on the wound. They’ll be here in 3 minutes.” Mr. Thorn started to look pale.
Fear shot through her, and she continued to apply pressure to the wound and do her best to stop him from bleeding. 3 minutes? That’s a fast response time, even for emergency care. They must be nearby. Feeling lucky, she kept focusing on applying the pressure, slowly watching the red staining through his shirt and jacket spreading.
“You are incorrect,” Thorn said, his voice cutting through her thoughts after a good minute of focusing on keeping pressure. He wasn’t looking at her. He was watching the sky above. “The clothing does not communicate that you belong to me. It communicates that you are under my protection. There is a difference.”
She looked at him in awe. “What do you mean by your protection? From what?”
As she asked her question, a clean-looking box van pulled up to the alleyway— Except it wasn’t medical care. It looked like clean-dressed thugs hopped out of the vehicle. Feeling threatened, she, with one hand, released from helping the pressure and reached for the nearby knife. Not sure what she would do to defend them. Keeping her other hand firmly on his chest, giving as much pressure as her one arm would allow.
The moment she raised the knife at them, they stopped. The first man is speaking. “Whoa there, Miss. I’m an accomplice of Thorn’s. Were here to help.” Taking a moment to ensure she wouldn’t attack, he started to move forward. “I’m unarmed, and he called me. Let us help.”
Hearing her say his name made her relax. She quickly and apologetically released the knife, throwing it to the side. Keeping pressure on till he approached and took over, she sat back on the ground. The rocks of the ground pressed into the cheeks of her behind. Watching the men move forward, some to help Liam, another taking a cloth and grabbing for the knives, her vision started to go black.
Then the dizziness hit her. She leaned back, meaning to steady herself—but the world slipped out from under her before she could. She tried to focus on the sky, to hold onto something solid, but it blurred at the edges—and then it was gone.
Elena woke to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the low hum of machinery. The ceiling was smooth, white, and unfamiliar. She was lying on a firm medical bed, a thin blanket over her legs. Her head felt thick, cottony. The last thing she remembered was the rough cobblestones, the spreading red on Liam’s shirt, and the sky going dark.
She turned her head. Liam Thorn sat in a chair beside the bed, his suit jacket gone, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar and stained with a dark, rusty brown down the front. A pristine white bandage was taped across the left side of his chest, visible through the open placket. He was scrolling through his phone, the blue light etching sharp planes into his face. He looked pale, but his posture was rigid, utterly alert.
“You fainted.” His voice was the same low baritone, but it held a faint rasp. He sat there, then looked at her.
“You were stabbed.” Her own voice came out rough. Cracking from a dry throat. She pushed herself up on her elbows, the blanket pooling at her waist. She was still in the green shirt and jeans from the boutique. “Are you…?”
“It was superficial. Seven stitches. The blade was dirty, so they administered antibiotics and a tetanus booster as a precaution.” His blue eyes locked on hers. The assessing gaze was still there, but it was different, analyzing. “You kept pressure on the wound. You saved me from losing too much blood. Just a small blood transfusion was needed.”
It was a clinical assessment. Yet, something in his delivery made her chest tighten. “Who were those men who showed up?”
“Associates. The medical response here is private. More efficient than a hospital.” He leaned forward slightly, a minute wince tightening the skin around his eyes before his expression smoothed back to its impassive state. “The assailant got away.”
The finality in his tone left no room for questions. A chill that had nothing to do with the cool room traced her spine. She could see the bandage pressing out against his new white shirt. “You stepped in front of me.”
“You are under my protection. The terms of our contract are clear.” He said it as if reading from a legal document, but his eyes didn’t leave hers. The silence between them stretched, but something different was there.
"What’s not a part of the contract is you saving me.” He paused, watching her. “Had I died, you would have been free again.”
The thought hadn’t come to her. She could have been free… could have returned to her old life… but would she really have been ok with that outcome? Letting him die? No, that’s not who she was, and she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she hadn’t done something.
“Thank you.” The words he spoke were new and soft. Surprise lit across her face—she couldn’t recall hearing those words from him before.
He stood then, moving with a careful, deliberate control that betrayed his injury. He walked to a small counter, poured a glass of water from a pitcher, and brought it to her. His knuckles, as he handed her the glass, were scraped raw. “Drink. You’re dehydrated.”
She took the glass, her fingers brushing his. His skin was warm. She drank the water, cold and refreshing. He watched her throat work, his gaze lingering for a moment before he turned and retrieved his ruined shirt from the back of the chair. He examined the torn, blood-stained fabric with a slight frown, as if assessing a faulty business report.
"The nature of our arrangement has its confidentiality clause," he began into a new topic, his voice still that low, factual baritone, "therefore must remain private. To your friends, to your family, to anyone who asks. You are here in a professional capacity. No one must see anything amiss."
“I know.” She responded. She always hated keeping secrets, and she never did from her best friend. They told each other everything. “What should I tell her?” The question comes to mind.
"This is an internship." He turned to face her, leaning back against the counter. The lantern light carved the planes of his face, softening nothing. "A prestigious, exclusive mentorship under my direction. You are learning the intricacies of high-value client management and asset acquisition. The hours are demanding. The residence is provided for convenience and efficiency."
She traced the weave of the blanket with her thumb. The lie was seamless, a perfect container for her shame. "And if she asks why I can't visit my old place? Or call whenever I want?"
"You are immersed." His blue eyes held hers, no flicker of deceit, only the utter certainty of a man who shaped realities. "You signed a confidentiality agreement. You are building a new future." He paused, his eyes still watching her. Reading her every motion.
“We will return to the estate,” he said. “You will rest. We have your friend Lisa arriving tomorrow afternoon. You will wear the white blouse and the pink skirt. I think it will suit you. You will introduce me as your boss, Mr. Liam Thorn.” He listed the commands softly, his back to her as he folded the damaged shirt with a strange, meticulous care. “Do you understand?”
Elena set the empty glass on the bedside table. The blanket over her legs felt like a weight. She looked at the broad line of his shoulders, the bandage peeking above the waistband of his trousers, the absolute control in the set of his spine even now. “Yes, Sir,” she whispered. “I understand.”
He turned, the folded shirt in his hands. For a second, just a second, the predatory stillness was gone. In its place was a simple, human fatigue, and something else—a watchfulness that felt less like ownership and more like… recognition. He gave a single, slow nod. “Good girl.”