Don't have to

She sits across from me, radiating confidence with her legs crossed. She takes a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee, her eyes never leaving mine. On the corner of her desk, I spot a framed photo of a young boy, maybe four years old. The resemblance is unnerving; I see my own jawline, my own eyes staring back at me from that child's face.

I look directly at her and say, "You have a lovely son."

She takes another sip, her fingers shifting slightly on the porcelain. She adjusts her posture, moving her hands to the top of her crossed legs and looking away toward the window. She clears her throat, the sound sharp in the quiet office. "Sign the papers," she commands.

I look down at the evidence spread before me, my eyes searching for a definitive link. It’s true—the photos show me and her engaged in the rough, forceful sex I used to humiliate her and her boyfriend years ago. But in those days, I always wore a mask. To the world, this is just a photo of an overweight guy. The only giveaway is the scar, but the angle in the photo is poor, catching only the very edge of the mark. It’s a smudge, a blurry gray line that's hard to prove.

I look back at her. She takes another sip of coffee, her movements a bit more rigid than before.

I finally turn my attention to the contract she wants me to sign, but my eyes snag on additional photos tucked underneath. Other girls. My past victims. Among them is the one who gave me the scar—the one who fought back. My skin prickles with a sudden heat, a mix of old adrenaline and new fear.

I look at the picture of her son again. I think of my own life, my own home. "My wife is a very good mother," I say, my voice steady but low. "She is a very loving mother. She's built a world for our kids that I'd do anything to protect."

I lean forward slightly. "Your son, Madison... is his father that football athlete you dated in college? Or maybe his father is..."

The silence is broken by a sharp crack as she drops her cup. It shatters against the floor, splashing dark coffee across the rug. I don't flinch. Instead, I pick up the glass of water before me and take a long, slow gulp, feeling the cold liquid slide down my throat as the power in the room shifts.