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Heather gathers my hair together and draws the brush through all of it. “He sounds like Oliver.”

I want her to tell me that she brought him home and discovered she’d made a mistake. “So is he your favorite now?”

Heather sets the brush aside. “You don’t have to be my favorite to be mine.”

I don’t know what I expected. Maybe for her to laugh. Maybe for her to tell me not to be ridiculous. Maybe I expected her to say no.

Heather moves away from the vanity and opens the wardrobe. I sit where I am.

She kidnapped me, changed my name and taught me to swallow whatever pill she puts beside my fork. This morning, all she had to do was walk past my door.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Heather takes a black skirt from the wardrobe, considers it, and puts it back. She chooses another one instead, along with a fitted black top and the dark green choker she bought me.

She leaves the underwear drawer closed.

“Stand.”

I obey.

She holds the skirt open until I step into it, then pulls it up my legs and fastens it around my bare waist. Her hand slides beneath the hem and closes around my cock.

“Heather.”

“Hold still.”

I do.

She strokes me once, slowly enough that my hips try to follow her hand. Then she lets go.

“Good boy.” She smooths the skirt back into place, leaving me hard beneath it. “Arms.”

I lift them.

By the time she fastens the choker around my throat, I’m standing exactly the way she arranged me. “What is he wearing?”

Heather glances at me. “Green.”

“You’re dressing me to meet him.”

“Yes.” Heather slips one finger beneath the choker to check the fit. Then she uses it to turn my face toward the mirror. “I want you both downstairs today.”

Both.

I look at myself in the mirror.

Oliver is somewhere down the hall wearing whatever she chose for him.

Two dolls dressed and waiting to be put in the same room.

Heather smiles at my reflection. “You look beautiful.”

I do.

Her attention settles completely on me. The anger goes quiet so quickly it humiliates me.

Fuck Oliver.