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I got surveillance dressed up as love.

The hypocrisy.

The absolute, breathtaking audacity of a man who kept a color-coded chore chart and had opinions about dish towel placement, currently whispering hon to someone who was not me.

Then the feeling shifted, and something stranger moved underneath it.

Because honestly? Good. Good for whoever hon was. Good for them getting whatever they wanted. Ben could whisper sweet nothings into twelve phones simultaneously, could have a rotating cast of hons on speed dial, could build an entire social calendar around people who were not me, and as long as it kept those hands occupied and pointed elsewhere, it was the best news I’d heard all week.

The indignation wasn’t jealousy. It had nothing to do with wanting Ben for myself. What burned was the imbalance of it, the sheer lopsided mathematics of our arrangement.

Ben had rules for everything. Rules that had weight and consequence and teeth. Rules that applied only in one direction, which was toward me, and only from one source, which was him.

Every restriction, every camera, every approved dish and measured silence—chains, every single one of them. Chains he’d fitted around me while apparently wearing no chains himself.

The fury was clean. Almost purifying.

I won’t do this anymore.

I moved down the hall before fear could tackle me from behind.

What if he came out? What if he heard the floor creak? What if one camera angle caught me wrong and he questioned me later?

Let him question the empty house.

In the entryway, I slipped into my shoes without checking whether they were aligned. The violation felt obscene. Wild. I grabbed my keys from the third hook then paused with my hand on the front door.

My fingers tightened around the knob.

For half a second, I wanted to slam the door hard enough to rattle every perfectly hung picture frame. I wanted the whole damn house to flinch for once.

At the last second, caution dug its claws in, and I eased the door shut softly behind me.

On the porch, night air hit my face. Pine and damp grass. Freedom smelled ridiculously like a lawn that needed mowing.

I turned toward the bungalow, raised both middle fingers, and held them there.

“Eat glass,” I whispered.

Then I sprinted to my car.

My hands trembled so badly I fumbled the keys twice before getting the door open. Once inside, I sat behind the wheel and stared through the windshield at the cheerful yellow paint, the white trim, the flowers blooming obediently near the steps.

A hysterical little laugh burst out of me.

“I’m committing a felony against beige domestic hell,” I told the dashboard. “Somebody alert the authorities.”

Starting the car felt like setting off fireworks in my chest.

The engine turned over, and I nearly cried from how normal it sounded. No alarms. No sirens. No hand reaching through the window to drag me inside.

I backed out of the driveway before my fear could body-slam my bravery.

At the end of the street, my foot hovered over the brake. I could turn left and circle the block. I could go back inside, pretend I’d forgotten something in the car, and spend the rest of the night locked inside the same old terror.

I turned right.

Rebellion was not graceful. Mine had sweaty palms, a racing heart, and a suspicious rattle somewhere near the glove box. But as the yellow house disappeared in the rearview mirror, something bright and reckless cracked open in my chest.