Chapter 15

Pembroke sat like a king on his throne in his familiar armchair in the basement, coffee in hand, wrapped in his dressing gown. He was looking forward to this.

Grace was not. She felt ridiculous in the pink tutu and leotard, her hair tied back clumsily, her feet pinched in brogues. She had never been much of a dancer, and being forced to learn for this monster filled her with dread. The videos Pembroke had given her were exhausting to follow; she had no rhythm, no grace, and she never knew how she looked.

Now, standing shyly in the basement, she was trembling with nerves, more than if she were in an actual ballet theatre.

“I expect to be entertained. I am a bit of a culture vulture,” he grinned.

The music started—The Nutcracker.

Grace felt mortified. Shy, awkward, embarrassed, exposed—she tried to mimic what she remembered: pirouetting, rising clumsily on her toes, flinging her arms through unfamiliar motions.

At first, Pembroke smirked at her discomfort. But as her clumsy movements dragged on, his patience soured. He prided himself on his taste for ballet, and this was a letdown.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, switching the track. Vogue, by Madonna.

Grace did even worse—flailing, spinning, fumbling to correct herself, all nerves and no rhythm.

“Fucking hell,” Pembroke spat, his amusement evaporating.

Another track—The Rite of Spring. Grace was lost. She repeated the same halting gestures from before, failing miserably.

Pembroke clucked. “I gave you a full day, I was out playing golf, and you had all that time to learn these dances, and that’s the best you could do?”

Grace’s voice trembled. “I did my best, I—it’s hard—I didn’t dance like that before—”

Pembroke’s eyes narrowed. No sorry? No sir? His disappointment was turning to anger. This, he decided, demanded consequences. It was important to nip any defiance in the bud.

Pembroke wordlessly rose from his chair and moved to one of the cupboards. Grace’s breath caught in her throat as she watched him pull out a long, black sleeping sack. He shook it open with a hollow snap of fabric, then laid it carefully on the floor. His face was unreadable as his eyes fixed on her.

“Get in.”

Her voice cracked. “Wh-what is that? What’s in there?”

His reply was deafening. “GET IN! You WILL remember to call me sir. And you WILL get in. NOW”

She flinched at the sudden rise in his voice, arms twitching uselessly against her sides. “S-sorry, sir...”

“Get in. I won’t ask again.”

Grace swallowed hard, and stepped forward. She lowered herself onto the sack, the cold material brushing her skin. Pembroke crouched beside her, his hands methodically drawing the thick fabric around her body.

“You need to understand, child. The only reason you are ever allowed to move freely, to sit in a chair, to speak without gagging—any of it—is because I permit it. That freedom is not yours. It’s a privilege, one I grant when you use your time for me, for what I want.”