I finish my tea.

I pour another cup, and drink half of that, and you have not finished your first because you’re still talking, and it is just interminable.

Finally, I cannot endure it any longer.

I set my teacup down on the saucer with a loud, intentional clatter, and you’re startled into silence. I let the absence of noise flow through me for a moment, bathe in the silence and let my thoughts collect, and let you see my displeasure. You sweat, you shift uncomfortably on the leather, and you do not quite meet my gaze. You know you have erred.

“Madame X, I’m sorry, I—”

“That is quite enough, Jonathan.” I say it the way you do, accentuating that first syllable, to show you how silly it sounds. “You have wasted nearly thirty minutes of my time. Remind me, Jonathan, how much per hour do our sessions cost your father?”

“I, um . . .”

I eye you with razors in my gaze. “Yes? Speak up, speak clearly, and do attempt to eradicate the noisome filler words.”

“A thousand dollars an hour, Madame X.”

“Correct. One thousand U.S. dollars per hour. And having just wasted thirty minutes babbling about football, how much have you wasted?”

“Five hundred dollars.”

“Correct. At least you can manage simple mathematics.” I sip at my tea, gathering my ire into a concentrated ball at my core. “Enlighten me, Jonathan, as to why you thought such ridiculous trash would be worth my time.”

“I, um—”

I set my cup down with a clatter yet again, and you flinch. I stand up, smooth my dress over my hips—and I do not miss the rake of your eyes over me as I do so—and I move to the doorway. “We are done here, Mr. Cartwright.”

“No, Madame X, I’m sorry, I’ll do better, I promise—”

“I don’t think you will, because I don’t believe you are capable of better, Mr. Cartwright. You can’t even stop saying ‘um’ and ‘like’ and using vulgarity. Not to mention wasting our time together to talk about football.”

“I was making conversation, Madame X.”

“No, Jonathan, you were not. You were not talking to me, you were talking at me. You were spewing excrement from your mouth, simply for the sake of hearing yourself speak. Perhaps among your . . . friends . . . such trash could be considered conversation. I am a lady. I am not your friend. I am not some empty-headed bar slut that can be dazzled by your white teeth and coiffured hair and expensive slacks. I don’t care how much your father is worth, Mr. Cartwright. Not even remotely. So if you wish to continue these sessions, you’re going to have to improve, and rather swiftly. I do not have time to waste, nor the patience to deal with nonsense.”

“I’m sorry, Madame X.”

I glare at you. “You’re sniveling, and groveling. You act like a child. When you speak you fill your sentences with profanity and yet say nothing of value. And when I call you out on your failings, you apologize like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”

You just stare at me, sitting forward with your wrists on your knees, fingers twitching and scratching and plucking restlessly. You have no dignity, no posture, no elegance. You have all the charm of a tree stump.

My work with you will be a true test of my skills. I find myself angry as I lecture you. Angry at you, for being an apish dolt. Angry at . . . him . . . for making me waste my time on a fumbling, stuttering, cursing man-child like you, because you, Jonathan, are all that represents the worst of my clientele. I am bored with you, and I am angry, simmering with barely veiled contempt; and Jonathan? That does not bode well for you.

“Sit up straight. Keep your hands still. Lean back on the couch and relax. Your body language must exude confidence and control, Mr. Cartwright. You must appear at ease at all times.”

“I am at ease,” you argue.

I do not bother responding, I just pace across the room toward you and stop so I am standing almost between your knees. I keep my eyes on yours, let all the weight of my bearing and training bear down on you, let my total and complete disregard for you show. You are no one. You are nothing. You are a child. A beautiful, spoiled child. And I let all this show in my gaze as I stare down at you.

You shift uncomfortably yet again, transferring your weight from one buttock to the other. You look away first, and you trace the crease of your slacks with a finger.

And I merely stand in front of you, staring you down in silence.

You crack.

“What? What do you want, Madame X?”

“And that is why you’re here. You shouldn’t have to ask that. You should know. Better yet, you should tell me what I want. That would be a start.”

“What would it take for you to be interested in me?” You ask this in a simpering tone, even though I can tell you meant it to sound seductive. Or something.

I laugh and turn away. “Oh, Jonathan. I could never be. You couldn’t possibly interest me. Not in the slightest. You lack . . . well, there is simply too much to enumerate. Which is why you’re here.”

I hear you stand up, and I wait for you to make your move. You sidle up behind me, and yes, you are tall, and yes, you have spent enough time in the gym to have a well-sculpted physique. Without dominance and bearing, however . . . it is nothing. You put your hands on my waist, turn me in place, and I let you.

“Why am I here, Madame X?”

“You shouldn’t have to ask that, Jonathan.”

“Why do you keep saying my name that way?”

“It’s how you say it.”

“It sounds ridiculous.”

“And so do you.”

You lower your brows and the scrim of warmth I once saw is being skimmed away. Good. I want to pare the façade away; I want to get to your true nature.

“I do not,” you insist.

I smile, and it is an amused, cruel smile. “If you want to argue, seek out your sister. Or join a high school debate team. Arguing should be beneath you.”

“Why am I here, Madame X?” You ask it again, and still your hands are on my waist, but you do nothing with that.

My allowing you to touch me is currency, and yet you fail to spend it.

“You really don’t know?”

You shrug. “Not really.”

“Who am I?”

“You’re Madame X.”

“And what does that mean, do you think?”

You blink, and glance up to the right. “You’re . . . you provide a service.” I merely stare at you with a raised eyebrow. You clear your throat and stammer. “Well, I—um.”

“If you say ‘um’ one more time, I shall be displeased.” My voice is cold, but I let you continue to touch me, just to see what you will do.

“I don’t want to say it.”

“Coward.” I let the word drop from my lips like a stone.

You let go, pace a few steps away, flushing, and turn back. “You’re like a . . . a prostitute. Or an escort. But . . . not.”

I let the razors come out of my gaze as you turn to watch my reaction. I stalk toward you, hips swaying with extra seduction, lip curled in scorn. “Oh really? You think so?”

“Well, not exactly, but . . .”

“You think this is about sex?” I stop a hairbreadth away from you. The tips of my breasts almost touch your T-shirt, but do not. “What gave you that impression, Mr. Cartwright?”

You blush, and then pale. “Well, I mean, your name is Madame X. Like a . . . a madam. And a thousand dollars an hour? I mean, come on.”

“What about me says prostitute, Mr. Cartwright?” I lift my chin and keep my gaze unblinking on yours.

“Nothing . . . I mean . . .” You pause and I let the silence hang, let you hang yourself on your silence.

A minute of silence is excruciating under most circumstances; for you, this is pure torture.

“Did you read the contract, Mr. Cartwright?” I arch an eyebrow.

You shrug with insouciance. “Not really.”