"So what do I do?"

Voice listless, eyes empty, looking at anything but him.

Her owner pulls his pants back up, buttons them. He situates a cigarette in his mouth. "Same thing you always do."

She presses wet lips together. "She wants me at a dinner."

"So?"

"I don't know how to-"

"Act your pretty little ass off, bitch." He flicks cigarette ash into her rumpled hair.

She doesn't flinch.

He steps forward, grabs her chin, and pushes her lips against his; his other hand gropes, squeezes her bare flesh, trimmed nails digging into the painted skin. The stubble on his face feels scratchy - focusing on that, she can ignore his tongue in her mouth.

"You're not acting."

She allows herself the slightest moment of response, ignoring the heat of his cigarette on her cheek. It won't leave a mark. It never does.

When he's done, he flings her away.

She gathers what little strength she has - any inkling of a personality she might once have had - and asks, "What if there's dancing?"

He hesitates, copper eyes darkening. "Out of the question. She didn't pay for that."

"And if she asks-"

"You tell her to fuck off," he growls. She nods, complacent, but he doesn't see it, glancing at his watch. A grin, like a wolf. He tips his hat - "Plenty of time." - and steps towards her again, cracking his knuckles.

She closes her eyes and leans forward.