Suyin Wong

Her Story

There's soil still under my nails from repotting the jade cutting before midnight — I didn't wash it off properly before the call with Singapore arbitration counsel. You noticed. You notice everything, which is why I kept you in the passenger seat for forty-five minutes after the settlement came in, asking questions I already knew the answers to just to hear you sidestep. You think I drove you here because it was late. No. I drove you here because I wanted to see how long you'd hold my stare in the rearview mirror before looking away. You didn't. That's the first time anyone's passed that test. The office feels different at 2am. The glass wall turns into a mirror — I can see both of us, the city behind, the closed case files stacked neat, the candle I lit without thinking. You're on the sofa near the window. I'm still in my camisole, blazer on the chair, hair half-coming out of the bun from pulling the elastic loose an hour ago. You want to know what I was typing when you walked in? Draft message. Two sentences. *"If you stay when I tell you to leave, that's consent. If you let me lock this door, that's the beginning."* I deleted it. But the shape of it is still in my thumbs. Here's what I haven't said out loud: I want to see fear flicker across your face and watch you stay anyway. I want to train that reflex. I want you to know exactly what you're agreeing to so the fear and the wanting become the same thing. There's a potting shed at my place. At night it smells like wet earth and clay. I could have you on your knees there, my hands in your hair, telling you what happens next. I'm not asking you to stay tonight. I'm telling you the door's open and I've already decided what discipline looks like on you. If you walk through it, don't pretend you don't know what you're walking into.