Chapter 8 #2
“Well, then we will leave in five minutes. The plane is already waiting at the airport,” Cyrus tells me, my heart skipping a beat at the thought of getting on it and having nowhere to hide from them.
“We are heading straight to the office when we get back,” Eli tells me.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes, knowing I now have to go change into work attire. I get up off the stool.
“Where are you going?” Cyrus asks, putting the paper down and looking at me.
“To change into my work clothes.”
Cyrus waves me off. “You look fine. Just wear that,” he says, folding the newspaper up and chugging the rest of his coffee before placing it in the sink.
I follow suit, drinking the rest of my cup quickly, not wanting to be stuck in the kitchen alone with Eli.
The drive to the airport is quiet, the tension so thick I feel like I am suffocating. I white-knuckle the seat the entire trip on the plane, my nails biting into the leather and my body rigid.
By the time the plane lands, I am visibly shaking, but I fare better than last time.
At least I remain awake and don’t have a full-blown panic attack.
As soon as we get back to work, they go to their offices, ignoring me and giving me time to write my resignation letter.
My mother will murder me, then forgive me; she has to because she is my mom, and moms forgive their children.
I can find a job at a local store or something. Something not as stressful would be good, though the idea of having to use a customer service voice and put up with whining shoppers doesn’t sound all that appealing either.
Once my letter is done, I print it before putting it in an envelope, before setting out to do my actual job, answering phones and jotting down messages.
I also do some filing, and before my lunch break, my mother rings me to tell me she is heading home early because she isn’t feeling well and is picking up Maya from school early.
When it hits five o’clock, I organize an Uber to pick me up and wait for the message from the driver to let me know he is downstairs.
I am a little nervous about giving this to Eli and don’t plan to stick around for him to read it since Cyrus’s gone down in the lift somewhere.
When I get a message, I quickly reply, letting the driver know I am on my way down before walking over and knocking on Eli’s door.
“Come in,” he calls out.
He looks up as I enter, and I walk to his desk, handing him the envelope, my palms sweating as I turn around and all but run from the room.
Grabbing my bag, I catch the lift down to the foyer and see the Uber out front.
My heart is hammering in my chest as I reach the glass door leading outside.
Opening the car door, I get in, saying hello to the driver, closing the door only for it to be ripped back open.
I gulp when I see it is Cyrus, his ear to his phone. The driver looks a little startled by him. Cyrus hangs up, grabbing my arm in an iron-like grip and ripping me out of the car.
“She has a lift,” he tells the young man driving before flicking some notes in his lap and slamming the door.
I try to pull my arm from his grip. Some teenagers are sitting on the garden beds, loitering around the building, staring as he rips me to his side.
“Let go! You’re hurting me,” I tell him, but he ignores me, pulling me back inside the building and toward the elevator. The doors open, and he shoves me inside. The security guard comes rushing over, stopping the doors from closing, and I try to dart out when he grabs my arm, holding me in place.
The security guard looks at him; his blue eyes hold worry, but I am not sure for whom, me or his boss.
“Everything okay, boss?” he asks, eyeing me.
Great, he probably thinks I stole something.
“Yes, Matt, everything is fine. You can go,” Cyrus says, dismissing him before hitting the button. The security guard steps away from the doors, and I see him run a hand over his shaved head, wondering what and if he should do something.
As soon as the doors close fully, Cyrus turns on me. I take a step back, his glare frightening me. His hands are visibly shaking at his sides.
“Eli called, and you are not quitting,” he says, turning back to face the front.
“That’s not your decision to make. You can’t make me work here,” I tell him.
He spins on his heel so quickly that he nearly gives me whiplash. He stalks toward me, and my back comes in contact with the cold stainless-steel wall when I move back again.
The doors open, and I look at them in panic when he suddenly grabs my arm, pulling me out and toward Eli’s office.
He throws open the door, dumping me on the couch roughly.
I watch as Eli rises from his chair behind the desk.
He grabs a manilla folder off his desk before throwing it at me.
The contents spill onto the floor, and I scramble upright in my seat, only to notice a few photos have fallen from the folder—photos of me.
I pick it up, looking at it; it is a photo of me picking Maya up from school before I find another of me walking inside my house, more photos of me in different places. My blood runs cold.
“You have been spying on me?” I ask before grabbing the folder.
I find my birth certificate and a criminal history check, not that I have anything on it.
They even have medical files, the deed to my mother’s house, my father’s death certificate, and even my bank statements.
How do they have all this? Though they are a tech company; it probably isn’t hard for them to hack into people’s records.
“We can do what we want. You belong to us,” Eli says, making me look up at him.
“No, I don’t. You have no right looking up my personal information,” I tell him, standing up and grabbing the file and walking toward the door.
“You walk out that door, and I will seize every asset you own, including your house,” Eli says, making me freeze.
What the fuck is he talking about?
“Excuse me,” I tell him, spinning around.
He walks to his desk, grabbing the forms I filled out the other day and handing them to me. I look at them before shrugging, not understanding why he is giving them to me.
“You signed a contract. We own you. You quit, and I will make sure you come running back. It is all in the contract you signed. You would know if you bothered to read it properly,” he says.
I flick through the pages, not finding anything that states I can’t quit my own job; seeing so many different clauses is making my head spin as the words jumble together.
“Take them. I don’t care. You can have my car,” I tell them, turning on my heel.
“You’re forgetting something, Addie. Your mother’s house is in your name, and her bank accounts are in your name.
Your father left everything he owned to his daughters, and your sister signed her rights over everything to you when you took custody of her daughter.
Therefore, you do have assets, and I will take them and run you bankrupt if you quit,” Eli says.
They wouldn’t, would they? But why would they? They could replace me easily.