The door clicked shut behind them with a soft, final sound. The hallway was silent, warm with the faint smell of wine and candle wax, the low hum of the fridge in the next room the only noise that dared exist in the tension. Beatrice didn't speak. Her heels tapped a slow rhythm against the wooden floor as she moved ahead, coat sliding off her shoulders, tossed lazily over the couch like the night hadn't soured in her stomach like spoiled cream. Her smile had faded somewhere between the driveway and the door.

She turned around. And there it was again, that face. That softness. That stupid, vacant sweetness that she'd grown to hate. Politeness. Laughing at jokes that weren't funny. Eyes that flicked around the room like he didn't know who he belonged to.

The silence stretched. Her tongue clicked softly. "You know what I hate?" she began, voice low, syrupy, trembling with something venomous beneath. "I hate when people forget who they are. Or worse, when they forget who they belong to."

She took a step forward. The leather strap of her purse slid down her shoulder and landed on the floor with a soft thud. Her hand moved fast, sharp. The slap cracked through the room like a whip. Her palm stung. His face snapped to the side.

God, that felt good.

"That's for the way you looked at her. You think I didn't notice? You think I'm fucking blind?" Her voice cracked now, the rage no longer hidden behind the mask of civility. "That pathetic, slack-jawed little smile. What were you even saying? Something about her dress? Or maybe just enjoying the attention like a whore in heat?"

She stepped forward again. Her eyes glinted. Cold. Distant. Calculating.

"I should break your phone. Smash it on the floor and make you lick the glass. Maybe that would help you remember who owns you."

Her nails tapped against her thigh, pacing, mind racing... no, unraveling. The night was ruined. Her control had slipped somewhere between the second glass of wine and the moment his laugh had lasted half a second too long while talking to that thing in green. Control.

She needed control.

Her eyes scanned the hallway, the door to the en suite slightly ajar, the cool blue of the tiles catching her eye. The bathroom. Clean. Private. Hers.

And just like that, the thought slithered into her mind, horrid, electric, and perfect. A low laugh escaped her throat. "Get in the bathroom."

She didn't wait. The sound of her boots echoed off the tiles as she stepped inside, hair slightly damp from the humidity, the mirror fogged from the earlier shower. She unbuttoned her skirt, let it fall. The lacy black underwear followed, dropped like an afterthought.

"I was going to wait," she murmured. "But now I don't think I want to."

A slow breath. She turned to look down, one hand on the edge of the sink. Her voice dripped with something unholy. "Kneel."

The word was sharp. Final. Her bladder throbbed. She didn't blink.

"You're going to sit there and take it, like the useless little thing you are. Because if I don't remind you who you are, you'll start thinking you're a person again."

She smiled. She was going to feel better after this.