65

Chapter 63: The Girl Who Asked Me How

"She wanted a method. What she needed was a mirror." — Mistress Staci

She was bright. Curious. Maybe thirty. Maybe less.

At a dinner party, half a glass of wine in, she leaned across the table and said:

"I hope this isn't too forward, but... you have this energy. Like you know something the rest of us don't."

I smiled.

"Maybe I just stopped pretending I didn't."

⸻

Later, in the kitchen, as people laughed in the next room, she cornered me gently.

"How do you... get it? The life. The control. The peace. Did someone give it to you?"

I shook my head.

"No one gives it. You take it. And then you decide to stop apologizing for having it."

⸻

She wanted steps. Books. A class. A leather-bound guide to power.

But I told her the truth:

"It starts when you stop asking to be chosen. And start choosing yourself. Every single time."

⸻

She looked stunned. Then something flickered in her.

Hope.

"So I don't need to wait to be wanted first?"

"God, no," I said, laughing. "You walk into the room already wanted. The only question is whether you're interested in letting anyone close."

⸻

She left with a hug and a look I knew too well:

The beginning of becoming.

⸻

That night, curled in bed, she asked me:

"Are you ever going to mentor someone?"

I kissed her shoulder.

"Maybe. But only the ones who ask the right question."

"Which is?"

"Not 'How do I get power?' But— 'Am I ready to live without fear of having it?'"

She smiled.

"And when they are?"

"I'll teach them everything."

Chapter 64: The Anniversary I Didn't Forget

"It wasn't about him. Not anymore. It was about honoring the part of myself that loved, ruled, and was once worshipped in return." — Mistress Staci

The date came quietly.

No calendar alert. No fanfare.

Just a moment, in the kitchen, pouring my coffee, when I saw the morning light and thought:

"This is the day we married."

⸻

She walked in moments later.

Barefoot, still sleepy, wearing my shirt from the night before.

She took one look at me, paused, and said:

"You thinking of him?"

"A little."

"Want space?"

I smiled.

"No. Just a candle."

⸻

We lit it together.

Not as ceremony. Just as acknowledgment.

I placed it on the dining table. Same place he used to kneel beside with folded hands.

She poured my coffee. Ran a hand down my back as she passed.

No jealousy. No tension.

Just respect.

⸻

After breakfast, she kissed my temple and said:

"I like that you remember. It means you were real."

"I was."

"So was he."

"Yes."

⸻

I didn't spend the day in reflection.

I didn't read old letters. I didn't touch the collar.

But I wore red lipstick. Let her take me to dinner. And let myself be kissed against the wall of a bathroom stall like I was a prize she'd just won.

Because I am.

⸻

And later that night, as I blew out the candle, I whispered:

"Thank you, pet. You served well. And because of that, I now know what I truly deserve."

Chapter 65: The Gift She Gave Me That Made Me Cry

"It wasn't valuable. It wasn't dramatic. It was just perfect. And for a moment, I forgot how to speak." — Mistress Staci

It wasn't my birthday. It wasn't an anniversary. There was no reason for a gift.

Which made it that much more powerful.

⸻

She handed me a small box over breakfast. No ribbon. Just wrapped in tissue. Her fingers brushed mine. Her eyes stayed soft.

"Open it later," she said. "When you're alone."

So I waited.

Not because I had to.

Because I knew it mattered.

⸻

Later that morning, I unwrapped it on the sunroom couch.

Inside: a tiny gold key. Delicate. Understated. Hung on a black silk cord.

Attached was a handwritten note:

"Not for his lock. Not for my heart. Just for your freedom. To remind you that no door is closed to you."

⸻

I stared at it for a long time.

The air went still. My breath caught.

And the tears came—quiet, dignified, unexpected.

Not because I was broken.

Because I was seen.

Completely. Without performance. Without title.

Just as me.

⸻

That night, I wore it around my neck.

Nothing else.

She saw it and smiled.

"You kept it?"

"Of course."

"Why?"

"Because I don't need the key. But it's beautiful to be reminded I never lost it."

⸻

She didn't kneel. Didn't whisper honorifics. Didn't serve.

And yet— in that moment—

I had never felt more worshipped.