Page 13 of Obedience

‘If you’re Doctor Vincent, yeah.’

‘I can’t…’ Greta trailed off, her chest heaved as she acclimated to the sight of Remi, Dylan, whoever the fuck it was, standing in front of her.

‘Are you Greta Vincent?’

The air stung Greta’s eyes as she stared, her throat closing up. She inhaled deeply but still only managed a croaked, ‘Yes.’

A beat, or perhaps a hundred, passed as they stood frozen. The air in the tiny office had grown thin, utterly useless in perfusing Greta’s brain as she was suddenly rendered incapable of forming a coherent sentence. Breathing heavily through her nose, Dylan paled as she looked at Greta. As Dylan’s brows fleetingly drew together, her eyes softened as they skittered briefly over Greta’s skirt, her blouse and her hair but didn’t linger for too long.

‘I didn’t know. I…I—fucking hell.’ Dylan pinched the bridge of her nose as though she were physically bleeding from it, drawing in a shaky, shallow breath. ‘I can’t—’

‘You need to leave Rem—Dylan,’ she corrected, her voice brittle. ‘You need to leave right now.’

Despite the obvious discomfort in her expression and demeanour, Dylan made no move toward the door, she remained rooted to the spot; defying Greta’s orders for the first time in two years. As Dylan’s chest filled with a slow breath, Greta's pulse thudded harder.

Why isn’t she leaving?

‘You didn’t book again,’ Dylan said, her voice barely there.

The silence that followed wrapped around Greta’s throat, squeezing slowly. A trembling hand betrayed Greta as she gestured toward the door Dylan was obstructing. With her head dipped, chest heaving she said, ‘Please leave,’ as calmly as she could.

Despite Greta’s dismissal, Dylan still didn’t move. She watched as Greta’s gaze rested anywhere but on her.

‘Please, Greta—’

‘Will you please just leave!’ Greta whisper-shouted.

Seemingly frozen in the space, Dylan simply stood there, looking at Greta’s eyes. Brows furrowed. Pleading with every muscle of her face.

‘Did I do something wrong?’ Dylan asked softly.

Greta’s hands flew to her head, her fingers digging into her temples. ‘I can’t be near you. This is wildly inappropriate. Did you set this up? Tell me you didn't do this on purpose.’

The sharp gasp from Dylan’s throat filled the small gap between them. Greta felt the weight of it. She knew, even through her abject fear and anger, that Dylan was just as blindsided as she was. The Remi she imagined wouldn’t have a devious bone in her body and the Dylan standing in front of her looked like she was about to break apart.

‘How would I have managed that? I’m not some weird stalker. You know me—’

‘Except I don’t know you do I, Dylan?’

‘Please…you have to let me explain, just give me a few minutes,’ Dylan begged, falling just short of dropping to her knees.

‘I don’t have to let you do anything. I am at work. This is my place of work, Dylan.’

‘Look—’ Dylan paused for a gulp of air, Greta watched the tip of her tongue flick against her teeth. ‘I do not know how this has happened. Well, I do but I— Well…no…I guess I don’t but it’s happened. We’re here and I feel like we need to talk.’

Having never heard Dylan say more than “Yes Margot”, “No Miss Grenson”, or the bitten-off words she had used during their last meeting at Gotham, Greta couldn’t help but notice the tone and rhythm of Dylan’s voice. It was articulate, reasoned, and entirely different from the obedient whispers she had come to know. The pleading in Dylan’s expression made her face even more achingly beautiful. Her hands were raised, palms facing her, in a bid to calm Greta but all she could see were the fingers that had been inside her.

Overwhelmed by a wave of embarrassment Greta snapped. ‘How have Scortare fucked up to this degree?’ Arching a brow in a desperate attempt to regain her consultant’s poise, she took a sharp breath through flared nostrils. ‘They must have known our paths would cross eventually, surely?’

‘Fuck Greta, I don’t know. I just—’

‘Don’t. Please, will you just go?’ Greta’s words were losing their sharp edges as her tone dissolved into pleading.

Dylan didn't move toward the door, she moved toward Greta. It was only an inch or two, a tentative step into the air that Greta breathed.

‘Do you really want me to leave?’ Dylan asked softly.

A nauseating tang of salt filled Greta’s mouth as she allowed her gaze to rake over Dylan’s clothes. Between the faded T-shirt, worn denim and Converse trainers that had absolutely seen better days, Dylan looked so young, achingly so. What the fuck have I done? For two years she had allowed this student to fuck her every week. Shame twisted in her gut like a cloth being wrung out. A cold, sickening sensation welled inside her. Pressing both hands to her belly, as if she’d been physically punched, Greta dropped her gaze.