My life reduced to a sentence that needs polishing.
I stand slowly, legs stiff like I’ve been sitting too long. Like I’ve been holding myself too tightly for too many days.
I want to ask her for a phone.
I want to ask her to let me call my mother.
I want to ask if I can go outside by myself for five minutes without being followed like a suspicious package.
But my throat closes around the words.
Because I already know the answer.
And because asking will make them look at me like I’m about to become a problem again.
So I nod.
“Okay,” I say, because it’s the easiest word in the world when you’ve been trained to surrender.
We step out into the hallway. Evan is already there.
Of course he is.
He’s leaning against the wall like he belongs here, like this is his natural habitat. He smiles when he sees me.
It’s that smile again. The one he uses in photos. The one he uses on waiters. The one he uses when he’s being “patient.”
“There you are,” he says, like I’m late to a meeting.
His hand comes to my elbow. Light. Possessive. Guiding me forward.
My skin reacts instantly, like it remembers the way his fingers ripped my phone away, the way his voice turned low and cold in the car.
I force my body not to flinch.
Because flinching is information.
“How are you feeling today?” he asks, like he cares.
I stare straight ahead. “Fine.”
He hums like that’s the right answer.
“Your father says your work has been great,” Evan continues. “He’s impressed.”
My throat tightens at the mention ofhim.
“I’m glad,” I say, because my mouth keeps doing what it’s been trained to do. Smooth, agreeable, manageable.
Evan guides me toward the elevator. His palm stays on my elbow.
I glance down at it, a wave of panic hitting so fast I almost stumble. They’ll never leave me alone.
Not here. Not anywhere. Not ever.
We ride the elevator down, the silence inside it heavy. Evan checks his watch. I stare at the numbers above the door like they might save me if I memorize them.
When we step outside, a driver is waiting.
