When The Puppet Falls For The Puppeteer

"Trying to manipulate the manipulator?"

I nodded quickly. "Okay."

"For Lillie, I'll figure something out. Don't worry."

There it was. The end of the discussion. That final tone that meant: You don't ask further.

So I nodded. Again.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, still watching me. "You'll do that for me? Arrange the party? Even though its Jess. I know you hate her."

"Of course," I said. "You've done a lot for me."

He smiled faintly at that. "You say that often. That I've done a lot for you."

"Well... you have." I murmmered 

The smile vanished as quickly as it had come. "And you think doing my laundry, cooking meals, arranging parties—for people you don't even like—makes us even?"

I hesitated. My voice lowered. "No. Offcourse not. I just... want to help where I can."

I wasn't sure if that was the truth. Or if it was just easier to believe.

He stood then, moving toward me with that slow, deliberate energy that made it impossible to look away. I held my ground, even though my knees felt weak beneath me.

"I don't want your guilt, Red," he said softly. "I want your focus. That's what makes you useful."

Useful.

Not trusted.
Not loved.
Not safe.

Just... useful.

I nodded, the weight of the word catching in my throat. "I didn't mean it like that," I whispered.

But maybe I had. Maybe, deep down, I thought that being helpful would somehow make him soften. That if I just did enough, gave enough, stayed quiet enough, I'd eventually earn something warmer than this ice-cold ownership.

I wanted his affection.

And I hated myself for wanting it.

Because no matter how many things I did right, it never came. Not the way I wanted. Not real. Just moments—flashes—when I thought I saw something in his eyes. And then it would be gone. Replaced by orders. Dismissals. Distance.

I didn't even know how to reach him anymore. Or if it was ever possible.

He turned back to his desk, settling in again.

"Get me a coffee," he said casually.

"Yeah. I'll bring it," I said, already stepping toward the door.

And as I walked out, I told myself it didn't matter that he hadn't said thank you. That it didn't matter he hadn't looked at me like I mattered.

But it did.

God, it did.

The kitchen was empty, quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the creak of floorboards beneath my bare feet. I moved automatically, opening the cabinet to grab his mug—the black one he always used, the one he didn't let anyone else touch. My fingers hesitated over it for a second before curling around the handle.

I placed it down gently and began preparing his coffee. Two shots of espresso, splash of milk, no sugar. I had it memorized. Like everything else about him.

My hands moved without thought. I wasn't thinking about the heat of the machine or the mug warming beneath my touch—I was thinking about what he said.

I want your focus. That's what makes you useful.

Useful.

I didn't know why that word hurt more than it should. It wasn't new. He'd always treated me like that. An assistant. A convenience. A chess piece. He never promised me warmth, never dangled anything soft in front of me. But somehow I kept looking for it. Reaching for it.