Chapter 18 Practice Wife
"Your posture is defensive."
Lorenzo circles her. Second day of what he's calling "preparation." What she's calling torture. They're in a room she's never seen before, smaller ballroom, mirrors on three walls, no furniture except piano in the corner. Space designed for practicing. For performing. For becoming something you're not.
"I'm standing normally."
"You're standing like prisoner." He stops behind her. Close enough that she can feel his presence. His heat. His assessment. "Shoulders back. Chin level. Not up…that's defiance. Not down…that's submission. Level."
She adjusts. Minutely. Hates that she's complying. Hates that his instruction makes sense. Hates that she can feel the difference, the way her body language changes from captive to…
What? Willing participant? Collaborator? Woman who chose to be here instead of woman who was brought?
"Better." His hand touches her shoulder. Light. Brief. Correcting angle. "But you're still broadcasting tension. Every muscle is screaming that you don't want to be touched."
"I don't want to be touched."
"Then learn to hide it." His hand moves to her spine. Palm flat between shoulder blades. Warm through the thin fabric of the dress they're using for practice. "Because at these events, I'll touch you. Guide you. Display ownership without making it obvious. And you need to look…" He pauses. Choosing words. "Comfortable with it."
Comfortable with his hands on her. Comfortable with ownership disguised as affection. Comfortable performing intimacy with man who bought her like furniture.
"I can't." Her voice cracks. "I can't pretend that…"
"You can." His hand presses slightly. Grounding. Or claiming. Both. "You did well at the gala. Convinced everyone you were exactly who I said you were. This is just…extension of that performance."
Extension. Making the lie deeper. More physical. More…
His hand moves. Traces down her spine. Slow. Deliberate. Teaching her body to accept his touch without flinching. Without broadcasting the revulsion she feels. Or thinks she feels. Should feel. Would feel if her nervous system wasn't betraying her by…
Not recoiling. That's the problem. She's not recoiling anymore. Weeks of his presence. Weeks of careful distance followed by calculated proximity. Weeks of Stockholm syndrome or conditioning or whatever psychological term describes why his touch doesn't make her skin crawl the way it should.
"Walk to the mirror." He steps back. Removes contact. "Slowly. Like you own the room."
"I don't own anything."
"Fake it." Sharp. "Confidence is performance. Perform it."
She walks. Conscious of every step. Every movement. Every way her body betrays nervousness through rhythm and pace and the thousand small signals that separate prey from predator.
"Stop." He's beside her suddenly. "Watch."
The mirror shows them. Her, thin, guarded, wrapped in practice dress that costs more than her education. Him, commanding presence, expensive suit, the kind of confidence that comes from actually owning rooms. Not performing ownership. Embodying it.
They don't match. She looks like captive. He looks like captor. The disparity is obvious. Glaring. Dangerous if anyone looks close enough to see past the fiction.
"You see it?" He asks. Not quite gently. But not harsh either. Just, observant. "The gap between what you are and what you need to appear to be?"
"I see that I don't belong." Her voice is flat. "That no one will believe…"
"They'll believe what I tell them." His hand finds the small of her back. Possessive. Territorial. "But you need to support the narrative. Need to look like woman who chose to be here. Who wants to be here."
"I could never want to be here."
"Then want something else." He turns her to face him. Close now. Too close. Intimate distance without intimacy. "Want the protection. Want the resources. Want the alternative to be worse. Find something to want that makes this bearable."
The logic is sound. Practical. Horrible. He's teaching her to rationalize. To find reasons to accept captivity. To manufacture desire where none exists because performed desire looks identical to real desire if you're good enough actor.
"I hate you." The words are reflex. Automatic. But they sound, weaker than before. Emptier. Like repetition is wearing them down.
"I know." His hands move to her waist. "But hatred and chemistry aren't mutually exclusive. And we need chemistry. Or the appearance of it."
Chemistry. The word makes her stomach turn. Or should make it turn. Would make it turn if her body wasn't responding to his proximity with something that isn't quite revulsion. Isn't quite attraction. Is something complicated and terrible that lives in the space between.
"I won't…I can't…" She stops. Can't finish. Can't name what she's refusing because naming it makes it real. Makes it possibility instead of nightmare.
"I'm not asking you to sleep with me." His voice is clinical. "I'm asking you to stand near me without looking like you're calculating escape routes. To accept my hand on your waist without broadcasting hostage situation. To perform…" He pauses. "Partnership."
Partnership. Like they're equals. Like this is collaboration instead of coercion. Like she has any choice beyond how convincingly she pretends.
"Show me." The words escape before she can stop them. "Show me what you want it to look like."
His expression shifts. Something almost like approval. Or satisfaction. The look of teacher whose student finally asks the right question.
"Watch the mirror." He pulls her closer. Not aggressive. Not sexual. Just, close. The way partners stand. Comfortable in each other's space. "See how your body is fighting? Every muscle resistant? That tells observers you're unwilling."
She sees it. The tension in her shoulders. The way she's leaning away even while standing still. The thousand small signals that broadcast prisoner even while wearing expensive dress.
"Now relax." His voice is quiet. "I know you don't want to. Know every instinct is screaming to maintain distance. But just…" His hand slides up her spine. "Let go. For thirty seconds. See what happens."
Thirty seconds. She can do thirty seconds. Can perform relaxation for half a minute. Can…
She exhales. Lets tension drain. Lets her weight shift toward him instead of away. Lets his hands on her waist become anchor instead of assault. Just…
The mirror shows different image. Woman leaning into man. Comfortable. Chosen. The kind of stance that belongs to couples. To people who selected each other instead of…
"There." His voice is satisfied. "That's what we need. That image."
She pulls away immediately. Can't maintain it. Can't keep performing partnership when every cell knows it's lie. Can't…
"How long?" Her voice shakes. "How long do I need to maintain that illusion?"
"Every public moment." He adjusts his cuffs. Casual. Like they weren't just demonstrating intimacy. Like his hands on her waist were business transaction instead of…
What? What were they? Not intimacy. Not assault. Something between that has no name. No category. Just, touch that's necessary. Required. Part of performance.
"I can't do this." She moves to the window. Needs distance. Needs air. Needs…"I can't pretend we're…that I'm…"
"You don't have to pretend affection." He follows. Stops beside her. Not touching now. Just present. "You just have to not broadcast hatred. Neutral is sufficient. Comfortable is ideal."
"Comfortable." She laughs. Bitter. Wrong. "You want me comfortable being displayed as yours."
"I want you safe." The correction is sharp. "And safe requires people believing the fiction. Believing you're here by choice. Believing…" He stops. "Believing I protect you instead of own you."
"What's the difference?"
"Perception." Simple. "And perception determines whether you're target or off-limits."
Target. She's target if people think she's prisoner. Off-limits if they think she's, what? Girlfriend? Lover? Wife? What role is she supposed to perform that makes her safe instead of vulnerable?
"What am I supposed to be?" The question tears out. "To them. To everyone watching. What am I?"
"Companion." He says it carefully. "Woman under my protection. Ambiguous enough to avoid assumptions. Specific enough to broadcast ownership."
Ownership. Always ownership. Even when disguised as protection. Even when performed as partnership. Even when…
"Turn around." Not a request. Command.
She turns. He's close again. Studying her face. Reading something she can't hide. Some emotion she didn't know she was broadcasting.
"You're afraid." Not a question. Observation. "Not of me. Of this. Of performing intimacy."
"Yes." No point denying what he can see. "I'm afraid of…of forgetting it's performance. Of starting to believe…" She stops. Can't finish. Can't admit that she's terrified of Stockholm syndrome. Of conditioning. Of her mind breaking enough that performed partnership becomes desired partnership.
"That won't happen." His voice is, gentle? Wrong tone. Wrong context. "I won't let you forget what this is. Won't let you confuse performance with reality."
"Why?" The question escapes. "Why would you care if I confuse them?"
"Because confused prisoners make mistakes." He steps back. Breaks the proximity. "Make poor decisions. Become…" He pauses. "Become attached in ways that complicate situations."
Attached. Like what happened with Alessandro. Like what he's carefully preventing by maintaining distance while demanding proximity. By keeping her aware that every touch is transaction. Every moment is performance. Every…
"Practice." He gestures back to the center of the room. "Again. But this time…" He follows her. "This time we add sound."
"Sound?"
"Conversation." He takes her hand. Formal. Like asking for dance. "We need to look comfortable talking. Laughing. Existing together without strain."
She lets him take her hand. Hates how natural it feels now. How his touch has become familiar instead of foreign. How weeks of careful conditioning have made his proximity less threatening. Less…
No. It's still threatening. Still violation. Still…
"Tell me something true." His voice is conversational. Easy. Like they're friends. "Something small. Meaningless. Something that won't hurt to share."
Something meaningless. Nothing is meaningless anymore. Every detail could be used. Every confession becomes weapon. Every…
"I used to collect sea glass." The words slip out. "On beaches. When I was young. Loved how the ocean made broken things smooth."
His expression shifts. Something almost like, interest? Recognition? She can't read it.
"Did you keep them? The pieces?"
"I did. Had jar full. On my bookshelf." Past tense. Had. Everything about her old life is past tense now. "I don't know what happened to it. Probably…" She stops. Can't finish. Can't acknowledge that her entire life was packed up. Disposed of. Erased while she was disappearing.
"I'll get you more." He says it quietly. "Sea glass. Jar. You can start again."
The offer lands wrong. Kind but poisoned. Because accepting gifts means accepting him. Means accepting this situation. Means…
"I don't want gifts from you."
"You want your life back." He corrects. "Can't have that. So you'll take consolation prizes. Sea glass. Books. Small things that make captivity bearable."
The honesty is brutal. Accurate. She does want consolation prizes. Does accept the clothes and the food and the beautiful room because refusing them doesn't free her. Just makes her miserable and trapped instead of comfortable and trapped.
"You're good at this." The admission hurts. "At making captivity palatable."
"I've had practice." His hand tightens on hers. "At making difficult situations survivable. At finding the line between broken and functional."
"Is that what I am? Functional?"
"You're becoming it." He releases her hand. "With resistance. But becoming it nonetheless."
The assessment should anger her. Should make her fight harder. Should…
But she's tired. So tired of fighting. Of resisting. Of maintaining rage that exhausts without achieving anything. Maybe functional is best she can manage. Maybe…
"Again." He takes her hand again. "But this time…smile. Like I said something amusing. Like you chose to be here."
She smiles. Forces it. Watches in the mirror as her face performs happiness while her heart performs…
What? Survival? Acceptance? Slow erosion of self until performance and reality blur beyond distinction?
They practice for hours. Walking together. Standing together. The casual touches that broadcast intimacy without crossing into assault. The comfortable proximity that looks chosen instead of enforced.
He's patient. Correcting without criticizing. Adjusting without demanding. Teaching her to perform partnership through repetition and positive reinforcement and careful conditioning that…
That's working. God help her, it's working. By the third hour, she's not flinching at his touch. Not broadcasting tension at his proximity. Not…
Not resisting enough. That's the problem. She's adapting. Accepting. Becoming the performance instead of person performing.
"Better." He steps back finally. "Much better. You almost look…" He pauses. Studies her. "Willing."
Willing. The word hits like accusation. Like truth she doesn't want to face. Because she is becoming willing. Becoming accepting. Becoming everything she swore she'd never become.
"I hate this." The words come out weak. Defeated. "Hate performing. Hate…"
"Hate how well we move together." He finishes. Not unkind. Just, observant. "Hate that the performance is becoming natural."
Yes. That's it exactly. She hates the ease. Hates how his hand on her waist no longer feels like violation. Hates how standing close to him has become comfortable instead of threatening. Hates…
"They'll assume you're mine." He says it conversational. Casual. "At the next event. The photos from the gala showed us together. The next appearance will cement the narrative."
Mine. His. Property. Possession. Woman who belongs to Lorenzo De Luca in whatever capacity the observers assume. Lover. Mistress. Trophy. Wife. Doesn't matter which. All of them mean owned.
She should protest. Should reject the assumption. Should…
"Aren't I?"
The question escapes. Quiet. Devastating. True in ways that hurt worse than lies. Because she is his. Legally through documents. Practically through circumstances. And now, increasingly, through performance that's becoming reality.
His expression doesn't change. But something shifts in his eyes. Recognition maybe. Or satisfaction. Or something more complicated that lives between captor and captive when lines blur.
He doesn't answer. Just turns toward the door. Leaving her with question hanging. With truth she didn't mean to speak. With admission that changes everything by naming what they both already know.
She's his. In every way that matters. In every way she swore she'd never be.
And the worst part, the absolutely worst part, is that some small treacherous part of her is starting to wonder if being his is better than being no one's at all.