The Fox Herself
966 Words
Mira was unusually kind today. For the first time since this twisted arrangement began, there were no commands barked at me, no humiliating tasks designed to strip me of my dignity. Instead, she handed me a glass of wine and invited me to sit on the couch beside her.
Not at her feet. Beside her.
I didn’t trust it.
“Relax, Joan,” she said softly, her voice lacking its usual edge. “You look like you’re bracing for an attack.”
“Can you blame me?” I muttered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
She chuckled, setting her glass down. “Fair. But tonight’s different. Let’s just... talk.”
I blinked at her, suspicion gnawing at me. Mira didn’t talk. She dictated. She controlled. And yet here she was, looking almost... human.
“What do you want to talk about?” I asked warily.
She leaned back, her fingers playing absentmindedly with the hem of her dress. “You,” she said simply. “Tell me about Mia. What’s she like?”
The mention of Mia made my chest tighten. “Why?”
“Because I want to know,” she said, her tone gentle. Too gentle. “You’ve endured so much for her. It’s... fascinating.”
I hesitated, but something in her expression something almost genuine made me lower my guard, just a little. “She’s... the best person I know. She’s kind, funny, stubborn as hell. She’s the kind of person who’d give you her last dollar if you needed it, even if she needed it more.”
Mira listened intently, her gaze fixed on me. It was unnerving, how closely she seemed to be paying attention.
“And now she’s in a coma,” I continued, my voice faltering. “Because I couldn’t protect her. Because I wasn’t there when she needed me.”
A heavy silence settled between us.
“It’s not your fault,” Mira said, her voice so soft I almost didn’t hear it.
I looked at her, surprised. “What?”
“It’s not your fault,” she repeated, her eyes meeting mine. There was no mockery in her gaze, no trace of the usual malice. “You’re doing everything you can to save her.”
I didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t the Mira I knew. This wasn’t the cold, manipulative woman who took pleasure in breaking me down.
“Why are you being nice?” I asked, suspicion creeping back into my voice.
She smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Can’t I have layers, Joan? Or am I just the villain in your story?”
I didn’t answer.
The days that followed were... strange. Mira continued to play nice, treating me with a kindness I hadn’t thought her capable of. She gave me actual food instead of scraps, let me sit at the dining table instead of eating on the floor, and even loosened the rules about the collar.
It was confusing. Disarming.
And then, just as I was starting to believe this softer version of Mira might be real, she dropped the bombshell.
We were sitting in her garden, the evening air cool and quiet. She had a glass of wine in her hand, and I was watching the way the light played off the surface of the liquid when she said it.
“I’m pregnant,” she announced, her voice as casual as if she were commenting on the weather.
I blinked, sure I’d misheard her. “What?”
“I said, I’m pregnant,” she repeated, turning to look at me.
For a moment, I just stared at her. And then, to my own surprise, I started laughing. Yes she did fvcked me and all s****l deeds.. but it really wasn't funny now.
It wasn’t a soft chuckle or an amused smirk. It was full-bodied laughter, loud and uncontrollable.
Mira’s expression darkened. “What’s so funny?”
“You treated me like a human being for a few days,” I said between laughs, “just to make me this? A father?”
Her jaw tightened, and I could see the flicker of irritation in her eyes. “It’s not a joke, Joan.”
“Of course, it’s not,” I said, my laughter fading into something bitter. “It’s just... perfect. Another way to trap me. Another leash for you to pull.”
“That’s not..”
“Don’t,” I cut her off, my voice hard. “Don’t try to spin this like it’s anything but what it is. You don’t care about me. You never have. This is just another way to control me.”
“You think I planned this?” she snapped, her calm facade cracking. “You think I wanted this?”
“Didn’t you?” I shot back, the anger I’d been holding back for weeks finally boiling over. “You’ve manipulated me from the start. Why should this be any different?”
“You’re so quick to assume the worst of me,”
she said quietly.
Silence fell between us, heavy and suffocating.
Finally, she stood, brushing her dress off as if shaking off the weight of the conversation. “Believe what you want, Joan,” she said, her voice cold again. “But the fact remains: I’m carrying your child. And whether you like it or not, that changes everything.”
She turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the garden with nothing but my thoughts and the crushing weight of her words.
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my mind racing.
Was she lying? Was this just another game to her? Or was she telling the truth?
And if she was... what the hell was I supposed to do now?
- Writer
