Page 150 of The Professor's Wife

When the plates were cleared, he rose and held out his hand.

“Come,” he said. “You’ve done well tonight.”

I followed him because I didn’t know what else to do.

He led me into the bedroom, where another nightgown—more revealing than the first—lay folded neatly on the bed.

I changed beneath his watchful gaze and slipped beneath the covers.

He turned off the light.

He didn’t offer a reprieve.

The moment he joined me in bed, his body found mine. His touch was greedy and rough, and when I cried out from the pain, he held me tighter.

I waited for it to end.

There was only pleasure, and it belonged to him.

I didn’t fight.

I knew what fighting would cost me.

With every movement, I thought about Rowe. About June. About getting out of the cabin.

I found somewhere quiet inside myself and stayed there until Oliver was finished.

Afterward, sleep came in fragments, broken by the weight of fear.

When I woke, morning light filtered through the curtains. Oliver was already seated at the table, waiting.

“Breakfast,” he said, nodding toward the counter.

I obeyed.

Despite the pain between my legs, I moved without pause. My hands worked automatically, frying eggs, slicing bread, and arranging the food as though I had done it every morning of my life.

He ate with approval.

When the plates were cleared, he gestured toward the far side of the cabin.

“Now your studies continue.”

The desk overlooked the yard and the shed, its window framing the woods beyond. There was no clutter. No distraction.

Only the books he had laid out in a neat stack.

He pulled out the chair and motioned for me to sit.

I lowered myself carefully, my stomach twisting as the soreness between my legs sharpened.

“You will read,” Oliver said. “You will learn. And you will understand why I do this.”

I opened the first book.

The words blurred before sharpening into meaning.

Plato’s Allegory of the Cave.