‘He had long forgotten when he had first fallen under her spell. Maybe months, possibly years. He’d at least seen the season’s change from the sweltering summer to this frigid winter. He had barely gone to the window to see what lay at the road below, but the tree outside the bathroom window had long lost its leaves and lay limp at the sill’s edge. Kept boy, he joked to himself, he was not ashamed of the notion. Walking to the mirror he took in his reflection again, it had become second nature to him, like brushing his teeth or applying La Mer to his cheeks. He’d do this twice a day, as he rose and before he slept, making sure that nothing had changed. He had to be perfect. It was what she wanted. Tilting his head to the side he traced his eye down his neck and his shoulder and down his arm. Twisting his wrist away from his hip and then up towards his chest, squeezing his tricep and then his bicep. He did the same to the other side, ensuring they were equally symmetrical. Satisfied, he lathered his skin in olive oil, deeply massaging the liquid into his muscles. And then he went to bed.

Walking down the corridor to his bed, she ignored the cabinets and paintings that lined it. She walked over to his bed, taking in the shape of him cradled in silk. He was always a vision, especially in slumber, when his face was at ease. Truthfully he always seemed at ease. She could never admit it but she was equally as bewitched by him, one of those beauties that one wanted to possess. She saw him as her most prized piece. The man to complete her collection.’