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86

Mason's POV

There's something almost poetic about watching someone realize how deeply you control them. It's like seeing a puppet finally notice the strings. The slow, dawning horror in their eyes. The disbelief. The despair. I live for it.

And tonight, it was Bethany's turn.

She was seated across the dining table from me, staring into her untouched plate of food. The delicate silverware gleamed under the chandelier light, and the air was filled with the scent of the meal my chef prepared—something with truffle oil, I think. Not that she was paying attention.

"You're quiet tonight," I said, slicing into my steak.

Her fork clattered to her plate, a little too loud, and her hands trembled as she placed them in her lap. "I'm not hungry."