Episode: Retreat Aftermath — Solitary Gothic Survival

The first morning of the retreat, I awoke in the bland, pastel hotel room assigned to me. The walls screamed “cheerful teamwork,” but I felt like I had been cast into a small, soul-sucking tomb. My black bathrobe hung loosely over my black track pants and band shirt, and my hair fell in messy waves around my face. No makeup, no pretense, nothing but truth: I was entirely myself.

Of course, several male teachers immediately noticed. Their eyes lingered, whispering compliments and the inevitable attempts at flirtation. I looked at each of them calmly, raised a single dark brow, and said in a voice as cold as the stone hallways of the manor:

“I wish to be alone.”

That ended the conversation every time. Some tried again with softer approaches—coffee, casual questions—but I was unmoved. I did not want small talk, I did not want attention. I wanted quiet.

I texted Beckett almost immediately:

I really fucking hate pop music so much :/

Within minutes, his reply blinked back on my phone:

I know, Mistress. I’ve been listening to the stuff Analise sent me to cope. Here, try this instead: [link to dark, gothic instrumental playlist]

A small warmth bloomed in my chest. Even across distance, he knew me perfectly, knew my tastes, my humor, my frustrations. I whispered softly to myself, “Prince…”

Beckett’s Solitary Survival

Meanwhile, Beckett was not untouched by the retreat’s cruel separation. His hypertension prickled under the stress of my absence, but thankfully, his siblings and parents surrounded him, offering games, snacks, and gentle teasing to lift his spirits. Malcolm, Diana’s teenage brother, became his closest companion over the weekend. The two of them shared quiet talks about games, anime, and the subtle absurdities of human behavior.

Even the twins, Persephone and Hades, stayed close to him, their stoic expressions occasionally broken by a sarcastic comment or small smile. “Father,” Persephone murmured at one point, “you are much too mopey. Please do something productive.”

Beckett chuckled softly. “I’m surviving, children.”

Diana’s Private Rebellion

While other teachers participated in mandatory exercises, yoga sessions, and guided affirmations, I ignored them entirely. I sat on the edge of the bed, back against the headboard, texting Beckett:

This room smells like everyone’s bad choices. I miss you, Prince.

I miss you too, Mistress. But I am surviving. Malcolm is very helpful.

Good. Keep him near you. Make sure he does not talk to the fools too much.

My thumbs hovered over the phone as I added:

Also, I really fucking hate pop music so much :/

Beckett’s reply was instant:

I know, Mistress. Sending something more bearable: [another playlist, darker, slower]

I allowed a soft, content sigh. The music, the text, the connection—it was enough to maintain some semblance of sanity in a weekend otherwise dominated by human folly.

The Weekend Dragged On

I spent the majority of the retreat in my assigned bedroom, black bathrobe wrapped tightly around me, scrolling through music, sketching gothic patterns, and occasionally texting meandering updates to Beckett. Every now and then, a teacher would knock, hoping to pull me into a group activity or conversation.

“Diana, surely you’ll join us?” one asked, cheerfully insistent.

I looked at him, cool, calm, and entirely detached:

I do not wish to.

The bewilderment on his face was deliciously satisfying. These people, all so desperate to bond, so eager to be “positive,” had no idea that I had survived weekends like this hundreds of times—without noise, without forced interaction, without pretense.

Texting Beckett for Sanity

During lulls in the retreat, I texted him, detailing my subtle rebellions:

They made us do trust falls. I declined. Someone fell. Hilarious.
Wish you were here.

He responded with a mix of gentle sarcasm and warmth:

I am glad you are okay, Mistress. Malcolm is keeping me company as instructed.

Our texts became our lifeline. Notes about music, small jokes, and shared complaints about human incompetence kept us tethered to sanity.

The Weekend’s End

Finally, the retreat ended. My bag was packed, my robe swapped for my usual black attire, and my black boots clacked softly against the polished floor. I ran into Beckett in the parking lot, and all restraint melted.

“Prince!” I whispered, enveloping him in my arms.

“I missed you so much, Mistress,” he murmured, holding me tightly.

The twins ran ahead, placing themselves strategically around us like little gothic guardians. We walked together back to the manor, laughing quietly, teasing each other, and holding hands with an intensity that could have melted the retreat facility’s walls.

Private PDA in the Manor

Back home, the manor smelled faintly of lavender and nightshade. Beckett took my hand as we settled onto the couch.

“You’re my Mistress,” he said softly.

“And you’re my Prince,” I replied, finally smiling.

Persephone and Hades sat nearby, unbothered, even rolling their eyes at our overt affection.

For the rest of the evening, we remained entwined. The retreat, the distance, the foolish teachers—they were all irrelevant. Here, in our gothic sanctuary, surrounded by family and love, the world fell away.