The phantom ache in my shoulder blade , the spot where Ethan had slammed me into the cabinet , was a constant, throbbing reminder of the terms of our relationship.
Intimate one moment, disposable the next. I didn't see him for days, and the silence was worse than the pain. The silence forced me to replay the shame of the kiss and the terror of the push, all under the heavy, oppressive shadow of Mrs. Grant.
Since the Mayor's office incident, Mrs. Grant's gaze had sharpened. She knew I had been in that office. She knew Ethan had put me there, removing her loyal Elara. Her silent scrutiny was a cold, constant threat, confirming that I was now a target. I was caught between Ethan's manipulative desire and her institutional vengeance. My rational mind screamed for safety, but the phone in my pocket felt like the only anchor I had. I was addicted to the terrifying high of being chosen.
The text finally came on Friday night, a little past midnight, when the entire house was sunk deep into the silence of heavy sleep and expensive security.
[12:14 AM] Ethan: Maintenance room. Now.
No greeting. No explanation. Just a curt, chilling command. The message was already deleted from his end, of course.
I pulled on my worn sweater, my heart doing a frantic, trapped-bird rhythm against my ribs. Don't go. Delete the message. Sleep. My rational mind screamed. But three desperate forces rose up to crush that voice:
The first was pure survival. If I said no, I risked Ethan's dangerous anger, but the greater fear was losing the one shield I would have against Mrs. Grant. Her silent, institutional power would crush me far more slowly and completely than Ethan's rash violence. I had to comply to live.
The second was trauma. The persistent guilt I carried about my family whispered that I must be useful, that I must prove my loyalty. If I failed this task, I would confirm my unworthiness, just as I felt I had failed Kian and my mother.
The third, most terrifying force, was addiction. The agonizing silence was broken. He needed me. He had reached out. The risk was terrifying, but the thought of disappointing him, of sinking back into the endless gray of invisibility, was unbearable.
I chose him. I had to.
Creeping through the dark hallways of the Grant house was like moving through a vast, wealthy graveyard. Every floorboard seemed to creak louder under my weight, every shadow seemed to hold the outline of Mrs. Grant's judgmental gaze. The sheer hostility of the wealth pressed down on me.
I reached the Maintenance Room door, which was unlocked , confirmation that Ethan had been here before me.
In the corner, the security monitor console glowed faintly. My hands were slick with cold sweat. I focused entirely on the image of Mrs. Grant's cold face, confirming my fear that if I didn't perform, I would be the next one to "retire."
My phone vibrated again.
[12:28 AM] Ethan: Check back gate entry logs. Tuesday 9 PM - 1 AM. Need a clear photo of all entries/exits.
I followed the instructions mechanically, my trembling fingers navigating the system. The logs were there: license plates and precise entry times from the night the Mayor met his associates. The presence of a black, unmarked sedan that stayed for hours confirmed this was high-stakes business.
My phone flash felt deafeningly bright in the gloom. I steadied my hands, took three overlapping photos, and backed out of the system, wiping the console screen with my sweater sleeve to erase any trace of my presence.
I didn't hesitate. I had already made the choice to move past the shame of the push. I needed his protection, however toxic.
[12:45 AM] Sasha: [3 photos attached]
I scrambled back up the stairs, my heart not slowing until I was safely behind the locked door of my small room. I waited, staring at the ceiling, feeling the intense, sickening high of shared risk.
A few minutes later, my phone vibrated one last time.
[12:50 AM] Ethan: Good. Don't delete the photos. Don't talk about this.
That was all. Just absolute command.
I sank onto my cot, the adrenaline crashing, leaving me exhausted and hollow. I had done it. My trauma, my desperate need for belonging, and the fierce threat of Mrs. Grant had pushed me across the line. I was now his accessory.
I was no longer just running from my past. I was actively running into the greatest danger of my life, proving my loyalty to a man who, at the first sign of trouble, would throw me under a speeding car. And that terrible certainty, mixed with the anticipation of his next text, was the only thing keeping me alive.