The evening in the basement didn’t begin with the familiar clank of the lock and the usual tray. This time Viktor came down earlier than usual. He was clean-shaven, in a fresh shirt, and he smelled of expensive cologne. In his hands was a peach-colored dress.
Anya sat on the couch, pretending to read a book. Seeing him so dressed up, she set the book aside slowly and stood, slipping into a meek, expectant posture.
“Hello, Anya,” he said, giving her an appraising look. “Tonight is special. You’re making great progress. Your smile in the garden yesterday… it showed me you’re ready. Ready to take the next step toward healing.”
He held the dress out to her. His voice was soft, but there was steel in the softness—refusal wasn’t an option.
“I want to invite you to dinner. A real dinner, upstairs, in the kitchen. Like civilized people. But I want you to look the part. Put this on. Freshen up. I want to see the Anya who’s worthy of my garden.”
Anya took the dress with trembling hands. The tremor was real, but not from fear—from the anticipation of the game. It was her stage costume. She lifted grateful, tear-filled eyes to him.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I… I’ll be quick.”
“Don’t take long. Everything’s almost ready,” he said with a satisfied nod, and left, leaving the door unlocked—a sign of absolute trust.
Anya looked at the dress. She changed quickly, smoothed her hair, and took a deep breath, steadying herself for the role of the “grateful lilac.”
When she climbed the stairs, the kitchen greeted her with a warm glow. A starched tablecloth, heavy cutlery, two candles in silver holders, and soft vinyl jazz in the background. Viktor stood by the stove, stirring a sauce. He turned at the sound of her steps and stopped, admiring his creation in peach silk.
“Come in, sit,” he said, pulling out her chair with gallantry, feeling like Pygmalion bringing Galatea to life. “I made duck breast with berry sauce and baked potatoes with rosemary.”
The portions were small in that precise restaurant way—exactly right for dinner with a “refined muse.”
“It’s incredibly beautiful… You’re so kind,” Anya said with a quiet, almost holy smile as she sat down.
Viktor poured the wine and sat opposite her.
“Enjoy, Anya. Let’s lock in your progress.”
Anya picked up her knife and fork. For the first couple of minutes everything went according to his script: she cut tiny pieces neatly, chewed slowly, glanced at him meekly. But then—
Something clicked inside her body, worn down by weeks of hunger, stress, and sensory deprivation. The smell of fried meat, fat, and rosemary hit her brain and wiped out every last instinct for refinement. Survival mode turned on.
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Five minutes passed. Anya’s plate was empty. She’d cleaned it to a shine, not leaving a single drop of sauce. Viktor had managed only two bites by then, and now he froze with his fork raised, staring at her bare dish.
“Oh… you liked it?” he asked, thrown off. “I can bring a little more potatoes, if—”
“If it’s not too much trouble.” Her eyes flashed feverishly. “I… I only just realized how hungry I am. Maybe that’s what recovery does.”
Viktor brought a second portion. He expected her to keep eating slowly, to keep up polite dinner conversation. But Anya ate with grim, mechanical efficiency. The potatoes disappeared into her like a black hole. She no longer looked like a “fragile lilac”; she looked like a young wolf after a long winter.
When the second portion was gone too, Anya’s eyes shifted to Viktor’s plate. His untouched half of the duck breast still lay there.
“Viktor… I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed, but her gaze stayed locked on the meat. “This is probably terribly rude… but I can feel my body screaming, demanding more food. You… you’re not going to finish that piece of duck, are you?”
Viktor set his fork down slowly. A system error flashed through his head. He’d been building an image of an ethereal being living on spirit and his care—and in front of him sat a very real woman who had just eaten two full portions and was now claiming his food.
“Yes… of course,” he forced out in a tight voice, unable to look away from the hunger in her eyes. “Please. Take it. I… I don’t really want it.”
He slid his plate to her.
Anya went at his duck with such grim focus that in the kitchen silence, over the polite jazz, there was only the knock of knife against porcelain and the quiet, intent sounds of her eating.
Viktor sat with his hands on his knees and simply stared. In his eyes was a mix of horror, bewilderment, and disgust. His “Galatea” was wolfing it down.
“Oh…” Anya breathed, swallowing the last bite, licking her lips, and leaning back with satisfaction. “That was so good. Viktor, you’re a culinary genius. I think I can finally feel life coming back to me.”
She looked at him with the most sincere smile she’d given in all this time—the smile of a full, content animal.
Viktor swallowed. He’d planned a romantic evening for the Architect and his Muse, and instead he got a feeding at the zoo—where he ended up in the role of a keeper with a bucket of meat. The worst part was that he couldn’t refuse her—he’d promised to “heal” her himself.
Hidden-volume note:
God, I’m so ashamed. I’m sitting in the dark and I want to sink through the floor.
What happened to me tonight? I looked at my hands holding the cutlery and I didn’t recognize myself. When I saw that dress—so beautiful, so clean—I promised myself I’d behave properly. And in the end… I behaved like some starving animal.
I saw his face. I saw how he looked at me—with that look of bewilderment bordering on horror. He probably thought, ‘Who did I take in—some girl, or a piglet I’m fattening up?’ I wanted to stop, I swear, but the smell of that duck… it was like it switched my brain off. It was as if all those days in the basement, barely eating, took revenge in a single second.
I even asked for his portion. God, I took food from the man who’d been cooking for me all evening. How did I even fit that much in? I look at myself in the mirror and I don’t understand—I’m so small, and I ate enough for two men. My stomach hurts, it’s hard to breathe, but this shame presses on me harder than any food.
Now I can’t settle down. What if he doesn’t invite me again? What if he decides I’m hopeless, that I’m nothing but an ungrateful stomach with legs?
But… he cooked so well…
I don’t want him to be disappointed in me. But maybe it’s already too late…
She thought:
Read, my dear Gardener. Read and be moved. I added that line about “how did it even fit”—you love details.
Right now you’re probably smiling, thinking what a magnanimous provider you are. You think I’m afraid of your judgment? No. It’s just a reason for you to feel like a condescending god: “Oh, the poor girl—she was so starved for my care she lost control.”
In reality I don’t care what you thought about my manners. The main thing is I ate. My brain got fuel, my muscles got protein. And you got another dose of my fake dependence. Satisfied, aren’t you?