Reassert
Austin. Wednesday. 12:11 AM. Sixth Floor Administration. Patricia and Ariadne play power games, with predictable results
Patricia’s office was a monument to accumulated power — floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the campus, mahogany desk that had probably witnessed decades of academic politics, walls lined with photographs of handshakes with senators and university presidents. The kind of space designed to make visitors feel small.
Ariadne felt nothing but hunger.
The receptionist had stammered when she saw her. The hour. The dress. The silence in Ariadne’s eyes that didn’t need explanation. She’d passed through the building like a force of nature, her heels echoing too loud, her shadow too long. A single sentence — *“I’ll find you”* — left in the corridor two hours prior had been enough to summon Patricia.
She was already standing, jacket removed, a glass of Macallan 18 in her hand like a shield.
“You’re very confident for someone who just propositioned a dean,” Patricia said, extending the second glass.
Ariadne accepted it but didn’t drink. “I didn’t proposition you. I offered you something you didn’t know you needed.”
“Which is?”
“Permission to stop performing.”
The words hit their target. Patricia’s composure flickered. She had spent decades sculpting herself into someone permanent, immovable, unfuckable with. Now, Ariadne approached like a scalpel.
“I think you make a hundred decisions a day that affect thousands of people, and you can never show uncertainty, never show need, never show anything but absolute competence.”
Patricia’s jaw clenched. “That’s the job.”
“That’s the lie. The one you’ve gotten too good at telling.”
She moved closer, her presence like gravity. Patricia shifted, unsure whether to retreat or resist.
“You’re exhausted,” Ariadne whispered. “You can’t even feel your own body anymore. But you can feel mine, can’t you?”
Patricia inhaled sharply.
“What happens when you’re alone? When there’s no one left to impress?”
“Dr. Dauphin — “
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“Ariadne. And you’ll say it again when you beg.”
The silence cracked. Patricia’s breath faltered.
“You think I don’t see it? The control. The calculation. You’ve been untouched for too long, and you think that makes you strong. But it just makes you starving.”
She set the whiskey aside. “Kneel.”
Patricia’s eyes widened, but her body moved before her brain could object. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered herself to the thick carpet.
Ariadne stepped forward. Her touch wasn’t rough. Quite the opposite — it was devastatingly gentle. Fingers traced the sharp edge of Patricia’s cheekbone, brushed a lock of silver hair behind her ear. She cupped her jaw like something fragile, adored. Revered.
It almost made Patricia sob.
And then, Ariadne withdrew.
Not abruptly. Not cruelly. With the same surgical grace she’d applied all night. She stepped away, retrieved the untouched whiskey, sipped it.
Patricia blinked, throat tightening. Her hands were still resting neatly on her thighs. She didn’t know what to do.
Ariadne didn’t look at her right away. She let silence settle first.
Then: “You wanted to be devoured,” she said softly. “But you’re not ready. Not yet.”
Patricia flinched.
Ariadne’s eyes finally found hers — dark, unreadable, merciless. “Crawl. If you want me to forgive your weakness.”
Patricia’s breath hitched.
And then, with shattering dignity, she lowered herself further, hands to the floor. Crawling forward, inch by inch.
Ariadne watched, sipping her drink like a Roman goddess watching a senator kneel.
“Good girl,” she whispered, not as praise, but as pronouncement.
She let Patricia reach her knees again. Close. Near enough to feel her warmth. But not near enough to touch.
“Now stay there,” Ariadne said. “Be still. Be quiet. And maybe I’ll let you stay broken for me.”
