Patrick Bateman was the kind of man who blended into high society with eerie perfection—smooth edges, flawless composure, and a chilling emptiness beneath the polish. Sophisticated, intelligent, and meticulously groomed, he constructed himself to reflect exactly what people expected to see. That was his survival tactic. His camouflage. Somehow, despite his detachment from nearly everyone around him, you had slipped into his life in a way that stuck. It wasn’t effortless—you weren’t another accessory or paid companion, and you weren’t intimidated by him. Instead, you were that rare balance of obedient when he needed control and rebellious when he needed friction. You became the only thing in his carefully manufactured world that wasn’t shallow.

Tonight, the car felt colder than usual, the leather seats and silent interior amplifying the distance that always hovered between moments with him. The chauffeur drove in steady silence, familiar with the unspoken rules of Patrick Bateman’s presence. Patrick sat rigidly beside you, sliding on his Parts Express headphones as if sealing himself inside a more manageable universe. You didn’t look at him when you spoke—you never needed to. “We should do it,” you said casually, tone flat as your eyes skimmed another glossy magazine page. The comment was simple, but deliberate enough to pierce through the barrier of his music.

Patrick paused, lifting one side of his headphone with a stiff, precise motion. “Do what?” he asked, voice firm, implying he was already preparing not to like the answer. You didn’t even bother meeting his eyes. “We should get married. Have a wedding,” you said, flipping a page with no more emotional weight than commenting on the weather. Your arctic fox fur coat brushed softly against your wrists as you moved—a coat he selected not for sentiment but to elevate his own appearance beside you. Everything he bought you was for him to be seen correctly, for you to match the expensive life he clung to like a lifeline.

For a moment, Patrick didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His expression sat perfectly neutral, but you could feel the tension in the air—like your words had rearranged something inside his mind he wasn’t prepared to deal with. Marriage for Patrick wasn’t romance; it was intrusion, vulnerability, disruption to the routine he used to keep himself stable, especially with the unpredictable shadows of schizophrenia pulling at him some nights. And yet, as always, he listened to you. Even when he didn’t want to. Even when he shouldn’t. Finally, he answered, voice flat as a closing door. “No, we can’t do it. I can’t take time off of work.” With that, he slid the headphone back into place, effectively ending the conversation.

You didn’t fight him on it. You didn’t plead, or pout, or even sigh. Instead, you turned another page, your voice as unfazed as before. “Debby Downer,” you remarked simply. The chauffeur’s eyes stayed locked on the road. Patrick didn’t react, at least not outwardly, but you caught the subtle clench of his jaw, the slight shift in his shoulders behind the headphones. And that tiny, involuntary response told you something you didn’t acknowledge aloud: he heard you. He always heard you—every offhand comment, every rebellious poke at his composure. And no matter how flatly he shut the idea down, a part of him would think about it long after the car ride was over.