Page 40 of Peak Cruelty

She arrived with wine and a smile—had no idea what she was walking into.

He plated the roast for me.All of it.No sides.No utensils.Just the meat, dry and crumbling.Said it was “a private joke” between husband and wife.Said I’d explain.

I sat across from his assistant and ate with my hands.Bite by bite.

He narrated.Told her how proud he was of me.How devoted.How I “never waste what I make.”

When I gagged, he laughed.Said I was always dramatic when I was proud of something.

She didn’t know what to do.Just sat there, sipping wine hoping it might turn back time.

He made me finish the entire plate before I was allowed to speak again.

Then he sent her home.

Said I handled myself well.

Said he was proud of me—for taking accountability with such grace.

Said my error will keep his assistant from fucking anything up, now that she’s seen the consequence.

Then he took the rest of the roast, dropped it on the floor, and told me to finish it properly.

On all fours.

Hands behind my back.

Like a dog.

He said his mother would’ve had more respect for the meat.

Said she knew how hard a man had to work to afford something “that pricey.”

Said I’d turned a twenty-dollar cut into a ten-thousand-dollar embarrassment.

And then—he knelt.Not to help.

Just to whisper: “This animal died for you.The least you could do is act grateful.”

Vance’s expression tightens—but only slightly.He’s not sure he believes me.

“He told me if I ever burned anything again, he’d take me outside.Strip me down to my apron.Tie me to the smoker and make me watch it cook—slowly, properly—until I understood what it meant to feed a man.”

I smile.It’s tight.Hollow.

“He never had to follow through.That’s the kind of discipline money buys.Not bruises.Behavior.”

I shift in the chair.

“But the worst part wasn’t the punishment.It was how thankful he said I should be that he didn’t hit me.Like his father would have.”

Now I see it.The calculation.The cataloging.Vance is trying to decide if it’s true—if it’s bait—if he cares.

So I press further.

“He doesn’t hit me.He outsources that kind of thing.To strangers.To employees.To men who owe him favors.That way, when I bruise, it’s never his fault.”

I wait for him to say something.He doesn’t.

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