“That’s disappointing,” he says mildly. “Can we contact some of the other papers and see if they’ll consider us last minute?”
I let out an involuntarily rush of breath. He’s not going to lose his temper.
“Something wrong?” he asks me, frowning.
“Oh—no. I just thought the news might upset you.”
He looks at me for a long time. “Did you think I would yell at you, Lacey?”
I’ve noticed he does that a lot, saying my name firmly, as if to emphasize that he’s talking directly to me. “I did, actually.”
“Why did you think I would be angry with you?”
“I know how important the exhibition is to you.”
“It is, but what the editor decided is out of my control. It’s out of anyone’s control.”
“I thought you were…” I trail off, embarrassed. A control freak.
The ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Someone’s been telling you about my last assistant.”
“Well, I heard about your car. Dad told me.”
Mr. Blomqvist stands up and comes and sits on his desk in front of me. “I’m sorry I made you think I was going to lose my temper. I get angry when people disappoint me or are careless, but I don’t focus on things I can’t control.”
Just like that, as if he has a choice in what he obsesses over? Sounds fake, but okay. We look at each other for a long time, and I wonder if he’s going to apologize specifically for yelling. I get the feeling he wants to say something, but he doesn’t speak.
“I’ll go and see if I can get another paper interested?” I offer, gesturing over my shoulder.
He nods and goes back to his chair.
I’m halfway to the door when I stop and turn back to him. “I wasn’t searching in my bag for my phone the other night. I know you think I was being careless, but I was looking for something important.”
I don’t know why I need to tell him this. I guess I don’t like being thought of as a silly girl who wanted to check her Instagram DMs so much she nearly died.
“Thank you for telling me that, Lacey.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
I go back to my desk outside, but I barely see the words on the computer screen. I said it again. Sir. This time he didn’t tell me not to, but that’s probably because I left the room so quickly he didn’t have a chance.
I’ve never had anyone to say sir to. I would like to, one day. In bed. I’ve been low-key obsessed with the idea since I discovered that dominants and submissives exist. That’s me, I thought to myself, as I read about the submissive half of the relationship. The one who derives pleasure from being controlled. It couldn’t be just by anyone. There are plenty of people who think they deserve someone saying yes sir and no sir to them, but they have to do something to earn it. Have a presence. Be authoritative. Inspire people to want to do as they direct. Smile at you in a way that makes you want to suck their fingers.
Beneath my desk, I press my thighs together. Mr. Blomqvist has a smile like that.
I got so melancholy over not having anyone to say it to that I even Googled how to be submissive when you haven’t got a dom. An article advised me to find someone in authority in my life and make myself useful to them. I tried it with one of my university professors but I didn’t see him often enough, and he was always trying to help me, so it was no good.
But I have someone now. He’s intelligent, handsome, serious. Authoritative. Demanding. And he’s my boss. It’s perfect. He asks me to do things, and I do them. I already enjoy that, and now I’ve found a way to enjoy it more.
On my way home that night I go into a store and buy myself a present. A pale pink velvet choker with a silver clasp. I’ve always loved the look of these and what they mean, if you think about them in that way. A collar. Belonging to someone. Being owned.
I’m just trying it out. To see if I like the idea of wearing it for Mr. Blomqvist.
I wear several necklaces every day so don’t think anyone at the museum notices I’m wearing it the next day, but I do, and I sit a little straighter at my desk as I type an email to the freight company who are shipping the Laxos artifacts.
At lunchtime, I think that it’s not a bad sort of day as I head to the stairs with my food. I finish my salad and set out the carrot sticks in an orderly row. Not much left to tackle now.
I hear footsteps on the stairs, and freeze. Too late, I realize someone’s coming up them, and then Mr. Blomqvist appears on the landing below and turns and climbs toward me. He’s got a gym bag over his shoulder, and his hair is damp. Since when did he go to the gym at lunchtime?