The Perfect Pet

“I don’t want broken things. I want powerful things that choose to kneel anyway.”

Morning arrives with Swiss precision—sharp light cutting through gauze curtains, the distant hum of trams carrying productive citizens to productive lives. I wake to emptiness: the bed beside me cool, sheets pulled tight with military efficiency.

They've learned.

I find them in the kitchen, arranged like an offering. Sarah kneels beside my chair, spine straight, hands folded in her lap, the thin silver choker catching light at her throat. Lilly stands at attention by the coffee station, shoulders back, collarbones exposed above a camisole that might as well be tissue paper.

Neither speaks until spoken to.

"Good morning," I say, settling into my chair with deliberate slowness.

"Good morning," they respond in unison, voices carrying the particular breathiness of women who've spent the night thinking about earned touches.

Sarah's optimization journal lies open on the table—twelve pages of careful handwriting documenting every protocol, every success, every moment of hunger transformed into gratitude. Her morning report, submitted for review like scripture awaiting blessing.

I ignore it. Pour my coffee. Let the silence stretch until it becomes its own form of touch.

"Sarah," I say finally. "Your posture yesterday during the sternum presentation. Analysis."

She blinks, recalibrating. "I... leaned forward too eagerly. Showed want instead of availability."

"Correct. Consequences?"

"I missed the subtlety. Made my desire obvious instead of letting you discover it."

"And today?"

"Today I wait for your interest instead of advertising mine."

I reach down, hook my index finger under her choker. The silver is warm from her skin, and I feel her pulse jump against the metal.

"Show me."

Sarah lifts her chin slightly—just enough to expose the line of her throat, the hollow where pulse meets collarbone. She doesn't arch. Doesn't perform. Just... offers. Like a question posed in flesh.

Perfect.

I let my finger trace the edge of the choker, feeling her breath change beneath my touch. "Better."

The single word hits her like electricity. Her eyelids flutter, shoulders softening with something that looks almost like relief.

"Lilly," I continue, not moving my hand from Sarah's throat. "Coffee. Two sugars."

"Yes, Ariadne."

I open Sarah's journal while Lilly moves with ballet precision around the kitchen. The entries read like devotional literature:

Day 3: Earned six minutes of eye contact through improved posture and vocal modulation. Note: breathiness decreases authority perception. Adjust tomorrow.

Day 4: Failed to anticipate Dr. Dauphin's preference for breakfast conversation topics. Prepared three discussion points for tomorrow: current research, linguistic pattern analysis, optimization methodology applications.

Day 5: Successfully earned physical contact (hand placement, 23 seconds) through strategic vulnerability display. Learned: authentic exposure more effective than performed submission.

Each entry more precise than the last. A woman teaching herself to be perfectly useful, perfectly available, perfectly mine.

"Your entries show improvement," I observe, still stroking the choker's edge. Sarah's breathing has gone shallow. "But yesterday's financial notation was incorrect."

Her body goes still. "I'm sorry, I—"

"The household quarterly review. You listed the Zurich municipal bonds at 2.3% yield."

"Yes, Ariadne."

"Check the morning rates."

A pause. I feel her pulse racing against my fingertip.

"The... the rates shifted overnight. European Central Bank announcement. Municipal bonds are down to 1.8%." Her voice carries a strange precision, like she's reading numbers from memory. "Swiss federal bonds holding at 1.2%. Better to diversify into mixed-duration laddering given the yield curve inversion."

The words flow with unconscious authority. Not the careful deference of her usual speech, but the crisp efficiency of someone who understands exactly what she's talking about.

Interesting.

I let my finger trace along her pulse point. "Where did you learn bond analysis, pet?"

Terror flashes across her face. "I... I read the financial section. Sometimes. To better understand our household economics."

"Mmm." I don't believe her. The terminology was too precise, too immediate. But I don't press. Not yet. "And your recommendation?"

"I..." She swallows hard, the motion pressing her throat against my finger. "I shouldn't presume to give financial advice—"

"I asked for your opinion."

"Shift thirty percent to mixed-duration Swiss corporate bonds. Maintain twenty percent in municipal for tax efficiency. The remaining allocation depends on your risk tolerance for international exposure."

She speaks like someone who's done this before. Many times.

I remove my hand from her choker. Watch her fight not to chase the contact.

"Very thorough. For someone who just reads newspapers."

Her cheeks flush pink. "I apologize if I overstepped—"

"Did I say you overstepped?"

"No, Ariadne."

"Then stop apologizing for being useful."

Relief floods her expression, though something else flickers beneath it. Guilt, maybe. Or fear.

Lilly returns with coffee, sets it beside me with practiced grace. I take a sip, studying Sarah's bent head, the way her hands tremble slightly in her lap.

"Your phone," I say. "Unlock it."

Sarah reaches for the device immediately, fingers flying across the screen. She hands it to me without hesitation—complete digital transparency, as promised.

I scroll through her recent activity. Browser history: financial news sites, optimization articles, academic journals. Email: routine correspondence with her Utrecht supervisors, scheduling confirmations, administrative minutiae.

But buried in her drafts folder, I find something interesting. A half-written message to someone named Marcus:

The positioning you described shows systematic risk concentration. Recommend immediate diversification across three asset classes. I can send specific allocation suggestions if—

The message cuts off mid-sentence. Unsent. Hidden.

"Who is Arjan?" I ask, not looking up from the screen.

Sarah's breathing stops entirely. When she speaks, her voice is barely a whisper. "A former colleague. He... he asks for advice sometimes."

"What kind of advice?"

"Just... academic things. Research methodology."

"This message discusses asset allocation."

"He's... he's having financial difficulties. I was trying to help."

I scroll further. Find more drafts. More half-written messages offering sophisticated financial guidance to various contacts. All unsent. All hidden.

"You help many former colleagues with their investment strategies?"

"I..." She's shaking now. "Sometimes people ask questions. I try to be useful."

"Useful." I set the phone aside, lean back in my chair. "Is that what you call it?"

"Yes, Ariadne."

I study her kneeling form—spine straight despite her terror, choker catching light with each nervous swallow. She's lying. Not maliciously, but certainly by omission. And the quality of her financial analysis suggests capabilities far beyond casual newspaper reading.

"Stand," I command.

She rises immediately, hands clasped behind her back.

"Your dissertation research. What was the sample size for your workplace dynamics study?"

"Four hundred and thirty-seven participants across twelve organizations."

"And the statistical modeling?"

"Multi-level regression analysis with controls for industry sector, company size, and regional economic factors."

"Funding source?"

"Utrecht University research grant and..." She hesitates. "And a small consulting contract with a Netherlands investment firm. They wanted to understand employee retention patterns."

There it is. The crack in her careful story.

"The consulting contract paid how much?"

"Twelve thousand euros."

"For how long?"

"Six months."

"And they valued your analysis enough to pay twelve thousand euros because...?"

Her face crumbles. "Because I helped them restructure their talent retention model. And it worked. Employee turnover dropped forty percent."

"I see." I stand, moving to circle her slowly. "So you have professional experience providing strategic consulting to financial institutions."

"It was just one project—"

"Answer the question."

"Yes, Ariadne."

"And other colleagues seek your financial advice because...?"

"Because word got around that I... that I understand how these systems work."

"And you help them."

"Sometimes."

"By providing sophisticated investment analysis that goes far beyond casual newspaper reading."

She nods miserably.

I complete my circuit, standing directly in front of her. Reach up to adjust her choker—a small, possessive gesture that makes her breath catch.

"You've been hiding your competence from me."

"Yes, Ariadne."

"Why?"

The question hangs between us. Sarah's eyes fill with tears she doesn't allow to fall.

"Because I thought if you knew I could help others, you might not want to help me anymore."

The confession hits with devastating honesty. Not defiance. Not deception. Fear of abandonment disguised as humility.

"You thought I would find you less valuable if you were more capable?"

"Yes."

"You thought I wanted incompetence."

"I thought you wanted to be needed. And if I was already successful..."

She trails off, but the logic is clear. Twisted, but clear.

I cup her face in my hands, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. "Look at me."

She meets my gaze with visible effort.

"Do I seem like someone who collects broken things?"

"No, Ariadne."

"Do I seem like someone who fears competence?"

"No."

"Then why would you assume I wanted less from you instead of more?"

She has no answer for that. Just stands there, trembling under my touch, choker glinting silver against flushed skin.

"How many people currently seek your financial guidance?"

"Three. Maybe four."

"How often?"

"Marcus calls every few weeks. Elena emails monthly. David has standing consultation sessions."

"For which you charge...?"

"Nothing. I just... I help because they ask."

I stroke my thumbs across her cheeks one more time, then step back.

"Kneel."

She drops immediately, assuming position with muscle memory precision.

"You will provide me with complete details of every consultation you've ever provided. Names, dates, advice given, outcomes achieved. Everything."

"Yes, Ariadne."

"You will forward me all communication with these individuals. Past and future."

"Yes, Ariadne."

"And you will stop hiding your capabilities from me. If you can help others optimize their financial strategies, you can certainly help optimize ours."

Her eyes widen. "Ours?"

"Did you think this household runs on good intentions? That my research funding appears magically? That your optimization protocols don't require investment in the infrastructure that supports them?"

She blinks, clearly having never considered the financial mechanics underlying our domestic arrangements.

"Tomorrow, you will prepare a comprehensive analysis of our current portfolio and recommendations for improvement. You will treat this household's financial optimization with the same professional competence you offer strangers."

"I... yes, Ariadne."

"And Sarah?"

"Yes?"

I hook my finger under her choker again, drawing her attention up to my face.

"If you ever hide your brilliance from me again, I will find far less pleasant ways to extract it."

The threat carries promise and heat in equal measure. She shivers under my touch.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes, Ariadne."

"Good girl."

I release the choker, watch her sway slightly from the loss of contact.

"Now. Breakfast. And while you cook, you can tell me exactly who Arjan, Elena, and Edwin are, and why they trust your financial guidance more than their own investment advisors."

As she rises to prepare food with hands that still shake slightly, I settle back into my chair with profound satisfaction.

My pet has been hiding her competence out of fear of obsolescence.

How perfectly, deliciously wrong she's been.

I don't want broken things. I want powerful things that choose to kneel anyway.

And tomorrow, I'll begin the delicious process of teaching her the difference.