The audition wasn’t just a success; it was a revelation. With Lace pressed against her skin, Laura felt a surgical precision she had never possessed. The cello didn’t feel like an instrument; it felt like a part of her, guided by the subtle, rhythmic pulses of the lavender fabric that corrected her tempo before she even realized she was rushing.
She won the first chair. But as she stood in the practice room afterward, the adrenaline fading into a cold, calculating clarity, she looked at her reflection in the glass.
Laura returned to the dorm and sat on the edge of the bed. She didn't immediately take Lace off. She liked the way he felt—the steady, supportive hum of a person who had been reduced to a function.
"You were amazing, Michael," she whispered. She reached into her waistband and felt the fabric. It was damp with the sweat of her effort, but instead of the disgust Ash had shown, Laura felt a possessive spark. "I’ve never played like that. I can’t lose that feeling."
Lace pulsed a hopeful, melodic YES. He was waiting for her to mention the reversal specialist. He was waiting for her to say the word "human."
The Rationalization
Laura opened the TFRM app on her phone. She looked at the Custodial Transfer receipt. Ten thousand dollars. Her entire future had been liquidated to buy this "Durable." If she reversed him now, she’d be broke, and she’d lose the luck that had just secured her career.
"The thing is," Laura said, her voice taking on a clinical, detached tone, "if I turn you back now, you’re just a student again. You’ll have to deal with the police, the school, the trauma... and I’ll be back to being a second-tier cellist."
Lace pulsed a frantic, jagged NO. He was trying to tell her he didn't care about the career—he just wanted his bones back.
"But as my lucky pair," Laura continued, ignoring the pulse, "you’re safe. No one can hurt you. I’ll take care of you. I’ll buy the premium silk-wash. I’ll keep you in a velvet-lined drawer."
The New Routine
Laura’s transition into "owner" was different from Ash’s. Where Ash was loud and mocking, Laura was quiet and controlling. She didn't treat him like a joke; she treated him like a sacred relic that belonged only to her.
She went to the closet and pulled out a box of Michael’s old clothes—his hoodies, his jeans, his favorite band shirts.
"I'm going to donate these," Laura said, her back to him. "It’s better if there isn't a 'Michael' for people to look for. It’s cleaner this way."
Lace pulsed a long, mournful vibration that made the music-note branding on his trim glow a deep, bruised purple.
"Stop that," Laura commanded. She didn't use the dampening to silence him; she used Gaslighting. "You’re being selfish, Michael. Think of the music we can make together. Think of the legacy. You’re finally part of something great."
The Velvet Cage
That night, Laura didn't leave him on a nightstand or in a hamper. She washed him by hand with a specialized pH-balanced cleanser designed for "High-Value Durables."
As he dried, she sat at her desk and began a new file on her computer. She wasn't writing a report to the police. She was creating a Maintenance Schedule.
- Monday-Friday: Performance Use (8 AM - 6 PM)
- Saturday: Deep Clean and Fiber Restoration
- Sunday: Resting State (Velvet Drawer)
She picked him up, pressing the lavender fabric to her cheek. "Ash was wrong about you. You aren't just 'Lucky.' You're an masterpiece. And I’m the only one who knows how to play you."
She tucked him into a small, silk-lined box she had bought on the way home. As she closed the lid, the darkness wasn't the chaotic dark of a laundry pile. It was the suffocating, organized dark of a collection.
Lace didn't pulse a "Yes" or a "No." He just felt the silk against his lace trim and realized that Laura had done something Ash never could: she had made him believe that being an object was his destiny.
