Chapter 13 #2
— G
Not even his full name.
Like I should already know who owned me.
I crumpled the note in my fist, squeezing until my knuckles went white. The paper crackled, resisting, before finally compressing into a tight ball. It should have felt satisfying—destroying his careful instructions, rejecting his authority in this tiny, meaningless way.
It didn't.
Because the words were already burned into my brain.
6 PM.
Punished.
Home.
I threw the wadded paper across the room. It bounced off the wall and rolled under the dresser—out of sight but still there. Still real. Still waiting.
My phone sat on the nightstand where I'd left it yesterday.
A lifetime ago. Before the study. Before the punishment. Before I'd learned what it meant to kneel.
I grabbed it with shaking hands, thumb hovering over the lock screen.
The clock read 9:47 AM.
I had eight hours and thirteen minutes.
He gave freedom in inches and leashed me in miles.
I stripped out of yesterday's clothes like shedding dead skin.
The jeans hit the floor first, denim pooling around my ankles. When I stepped free, I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror.
Stopped.
Stared.
My knees were mottled purple and yellow—ugly blooms spreading across bone. The rug had left its mark. Evidence I couldn't deny, couldn't hide, couldn't pretend away.
I grabbed fresh jeans from the drawer he'd filled without asking, yanking them on too fast. The fabric dragged across the bruises, and I hissed, jaw clenched against the sting.
A shirt next. Clean. Simple. High-necked.
My fingers fumbled with the collar, pulling it snug against my throat. The pressure made something inside me seize—his hand tangled in my hair, controlling everything, holding me exactly where he wanted.
I couldn't breathe right. Couldn't swallow without remembering.
"Stupid," I whispered. "So fucking stupid."
For letting him see me afraid. For signing the contract in the first place. For needing the money. For having a father too proud to save himself. For being too weak to save either of us.
I grabbed my keys and ran. The car roared to life. I drove fast, reckless, like speed could strip yesterday from my skin.
It couldn't.
The key turned in the lock with a familiar click.
I pushed the door open, stepping into the bookstore like crossing a threshold into safety. Into normalcy. Into the one corner of my life that Gideon's money hadn't touched, his hands hadn't claimed, his voice hadn't ruined.
Except.
The air felt wrong. Not stale—I'd only been gone two days. But different somehow. Displaced. Like the molecules had rearranged themselves in my absence, recognizing I didn't belong here anymore.
I stood in the doorway, hand still gripping the frame, waiting for the relief to come.
It didn't.
The shelves looked the same. Yellow lamps exactly where I'd left them. Staff recommendation cards in my handwriting, faded and curling at the edges. The slight mildew smell I could never quite eradicate mixing with old paper and coffee grounds from Monday's forgotten mug.
My bookstore.
My sanctuary.
My home.
It felt like a stranger's house when the owner just died.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself inside.
The floorboards creaked under my weight—a sound that used to comfort, used to ground me.
Now it felt accusatory. Like the building itself knew I'd abandoned it.
Sold myself. Chosen my father's life over this place that had kept me alive after my mother's death.
I dropped my bag behind the counter, fingers trembling as I started the morning routine.
Lights on.
Register counted. Chalkboard quote changed—though my hand shook too badly to make the letters neat.
Each motion felt performative. Like I was playing the role of the woman who used to work here, who used to care about margins and inventory and whether the mystery section needed reorganizing.
That woman was gone.
I didn't know who'd replaced her.
The thought made my throat close.
I turned the sign from CLOSED to OPEN with numb fingers.
And heard—
The unmistakable whine of a power drill. Cutting through the quiet like a violation.
I froze, hand still on the sign.
The sound came again. Louder. Closer. From somewhere deep in the store where storage met the back office.
My pulse spiked.
I moved toward it on instinct, rounding the corner of the history section, pushing through the narrow hallway that led to—
Three men in hi-vis vests and dust masks, tool belts heavy at their hips, standing in my storage room like they owned it.
One knelt by the baseboard, prying loose rotted wood I'd meant to fix for months. Another measured the wall with a laser level. The third flipped through blueprints spread across my father's old desk, making notes in mechanical pencil.
"Can I help you?"
The words came out sharper than I intended. Sharp enough that all three men looked up, mild surprise crossing their faces.
The one with the blueprints straightened, pulling down his mask to reveal a weathered face that had seen too many job sites. He checked his clipboard with professional detachment.
"Interior repairs and upgrades. Paid in full by a…" His eyes scanned the paperwork. "Gideon Jones."
The way he said Jones told me he was reading it exactly as written. Formal. Legal. Binding.
My heart dropped into my stomach.
Kept falling.
"There must be a mistake." My voice sounded far away. Hollow. "I didn't authorize this."
The foreman shook his head, matter-of-fact.
"No ma'am. But he did. Insisted it be done immediately. Said something about structural concerns and—" He flipped a page. "—'ensuring a safe working environment for the owner.'"
Owner.
He'd called me the owner. Like I still had control here. Like this place was still mine to decide for.
The words hit harder than last night's humiliation. Sharper than his hands controlling my movements. Crueler than the contract I'd signed in desperation.
This was my sanctuary.
My independence.
My one place untouched by his money, his influence, his suffocating presence.
And he'd reached into it, anyway.
Without asking. Without warning. Without giving me the dignity of choice.
"How long?" I managed.
"Three weeks. Maybe four, depending on what we find behind the walls."
Three weeks of strangers invading my space. Three weeks of noise and dust and evidence that nothing—nothing—was beyond Gideon's reach.
The foreman was already turning back to his blueprints, dismissing me.
In my own damn store.
I stood there, hands clenched at my sides, fighting the urge to scream at them to leave. To throw their tools into the street. To reclaim this one small corner of autonomy before it slipped away entirely.
But I didn't.
Because the work was already paid for. Because refusing would only prove I couldn't handle my own business. Because Gideon had made sure—again—that I had no good options.
Only compliance dressed up as gratitude.