Chapter 3
Heather
“You don’t want me to stop,” Ryan said, his fingers never pausing. “Your body is telling me exactly what you need.”
“No.” I struggled against his hold, panic rising in my throat. “I can’t… this isn’t who I am anymore. Please, just stop.”
Before he could respond, I twisted away from him, stumbling off his lap and nearly falling as my legs gave out. The training underwear and the sweats were still tangled around my ankles, and I kicked frantically to free myself as I backed toward the dining room.
“Heather, wait—”
“No!” I turned and ran, my bare feet slipping on the hardwood as I fled to the far corner of the dining room. I sank down against the wall, pulling my knees to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible.
“Just leave me alone,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. “I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll clean the house and do the laundry and I won’t crash the car again. I’ll be the perfect wife, just please don’t make me—”
“Don’t make you what?” Ryan’s voice came from the doorway, gentle but insistent.
“Don’t make me want things I can’t have,” I sobbed. “Don’t make me be someone I’m not supposed to be.”
The look of incomprehension on my husband’s gorgeous face wrenched my heart.
“Babe,” he said. “I don’t want you to be anyone other than yourself.”
I couldn’t do it. I knew whatever I did I would only make things worse.
The instinct to protect myself, to keep my sanity, took over.
It made no sense at all, and I could see that even as I headed down the worst possible path.
My mind grasped at some abstract level that sanity would never come, let alone stay, if I acted so irrationally, but it didn’t matter. I had to make this stop.
“Bullshit!” I yelled, surprising myself with the loudness of my own voice, the rawness of my tone. God help me, I knew I could do a convincing impression of a fucking bitch if I had to. “You’ve done nothing but try to change me since we met.”
Ryan’s brow furled. I watched him work hard to keep the absolutely appropriate expression of bemused disbelief off his face.
“This isn’t working!” I screamed. “I’m… I’m out of here. Don’t…”
I stood up, one hand out in front of me in a stop gesture, the other down between my thighs to cover my pussy, as if I could retain some shred of dignity that way.
“Don’t follow me,” I finished, my voice cracking. “I’m going to pack my things and figure out how to get out of this fucking town.”
Ryan took a step toward me, his face a mixture of hurt and confusion. “Heather, you don’t mean that. You’re upset, but we can work through this—”
“No, we can’t!” I backed further into the corner, my hand still pressed between my legs. “This was a mistake. All of it. The marriage, moving here, pretending I could be what you need. I can’t do this anymore.”
“What are you talking about?” His voice was softer now, almost pleading. “I love you exactly as you are. I don’t want to change you—”
“Then why the training underwear?” I shot back. “Why the spanking? Why are you suddenly acting like some kind of… of dominant husband when that’s not who you are?”
The words hung in the air between us, and I saw something flicker across his face—doubt, maybe, or recognition.
“Because,” he said slowly, “I thought it was what you needed. What we both needed.”
“Well, you thought wrong.” I grabbed my sweatpants from the floor, trying to pull them on with shaking hands while keeping myself covered. “I don’t need anything from you except for you to let me leave.”
“I’m not letting you leave.” The firmness in his voice made me freeze. “Not like this. Not when you’re running from something that could help us both.”
“Help us?” I laughed bitterly. “How is this helping? How is any of this helping?”
But even as I said it, I could feel the lie in my bones. My body was still humming with unfulfilled need, still craving the very thing I was running from. The training underwear lay discarded on the living room floor like evidence of my surrender, and I couldn’t bring myself to look at them.
“I need to go upstairs,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I need to pack.”
Ryan stepped aside, and I bolted past him, taking the stairs two at a time. Behind me, I heard him sigh heavily, then the sound of his footsteps moving toward the kitchen.
In our bedroom, I pulled my suitcase from the closet and began throwing clothes into it haphazardly.
Where would I go? I had no family nearby, no friends outside of Scipio.
The NMA had helped me start over once, but going back to them now felt impossible.
They’d want explanations, and I couldn’t—wouldn’t—tell them the truth about why I was leaving.
I was folding a sweater when I heard the doorbell ring downstairs. My hands stilled as I listened to Ryan’s footsteps crossing the foyer, the sound of the front door opening.
“Thank you for coming,” I heard him say, his voice carrying up the stairs. “She’s gone upstairs.”
My blood turned to ice. He’d called someone. While I’d been upstairs frantically packing, he’d been making phone calls. I crept to the top of the stairs, my heart hammering as I tried to see who was at the door without being spotted.
“Heather?” A woman’s voice called up, calm and professional. “My name is Mrs. Chen. I’m here to help. Could you come down, please?”
I pressed myself against the wall, barely breathing. Through the banister rails, I caught a glimpse of a large man in some kind of uniform stepping into view. The sight of him made my stomach drop.
“Babe.” Ryan’s voice carried up the stairs, and there was something in his tone that made me want to run. “I think this is for the best. I asked for help.”
Help. The word echoed in my mind as I backed away from the stairs. What kind of ‘help’ required a man in uniform? What had Ryan told them? My legs felt like water as I stumbled back toward the bedroom, my mind racing with possibilities, none of them good.
I made it to the bedroom door and slammed it shut, turning the lock with trembling fingers. The click seemed impossibly loud in the sudden silence. I leaned against the door, my chest heaving as I tried to think, tried to figure out what was happening.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs made me freeze. Slow, measured steps that seemed to echo my heartbeat. Then Mrs. Chen’s voice again, closer now, just outside the door.
“Heather, I understand you’re frightened. But we really do need to talk. Your husband is concerned about you, and frankly, so am I after what he’s told me.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. My throat felt closed, my whole body shaking as I pressed myself against the door.
“I’m going to count to three,” the woman continued, her voice still calm, but with an edge of authority that made my skin crawl. “If you don’t open the door, Officer Martinez will open it for you. One.”
My eyes darted around the room, looking for escape, for anything. The windows were too high, and even if I could get out, where would I go barefoot in nothing but sweatpants and a t-shirt?
“Two.”
The sound of metal on metal made me step back from the door. A key. They had a key to my own bedroom.
“Three.”
The lock clicked open, and I watched in horror as the door swung inward. The large man in uniform filled the doorway, his presence making the room feel impossibly small. Behind him, I could see Mrs. Chen—a middle-aged Asian woman in a crisp business suit—and beyond her, Ryan’s stricken face.
“Heather,” Mrs. Chen said, stepping into the room with the confidence of someone who belonged there. “I’m Mrs. Chen from Selecta Solutions. Your husband has enrolled you in one of our programs designed to help couples work through communication difficulties.”
“I don’t want your help,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I just want to leave.”
“I understand that’s how you feel right now,” Mrs. Chen replied, her tone infuriatingly patient.
“But sometimes we need outside intervention to break through the barriers we’ve created for ourselves.
Would you prefer to come with us quietly, or will it be necessary for Officer Martinez to assist you? ”
My eyes darted between the uniformed man and the woman, then past them to Ryan’s face.
He had seemed bewildered just a few minutes ago, but now he looked so certain, so calm, like this was just another problem that could be solved with the right approach.
The betrayal cut deeper than any physical pain.
“You can’t do this,” I said, my voice growing stronger. “I’m an adult. I can leave if I want to.”
“Actually,” Mrs. Chen said, consulting a tablet in her hands, “your husband has legal authority to make decisions regarding your mental health care under the New Modesty marriage contract you both signed. And given the circumstances—the reckless driving, the lies, the self-destructive behavior—I think intervention is clearly warranted.”
Officer Martinez took a step forward, his hand moving to something on his belt. “Ma’am, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice.”
The room felt like it was spinning. I looked wildly around, but there was nowhere to go. The window was too high, and I’d never make it past the officer to get through the door. My suitcase sat half-packed on the bed, a pathetic reminder of my failed escape attempt.
“Ryan,” I said, trying to put all of my heart into my voice, all of my love and desperation. “Please don’t do this. Just let me go. Please.”
But when I looked at his face, I still didn’t see the confusion or guilt I’d expected.
Instead, I saw that steadiness again, and suddenly it made my knees weak—his quiet certainty that this was the right thing to do, that with a little professional help we could work through our problems and learn to communicate properly.
That look broke something inside me. He really believed this would help us. He had no idea what he was doing to me, what memories this was stirring up, what doors he was opening that I’d fought so hard to keep closed.
I broke down sobbing, my legs giving out as I slumped against the wall. “Please,” I whispered through my tears. “Please don’t make me do this.”
Officer Martinez moved forward, pulling something from his belt. Handcuffs. The metal caught the light as he approached, and I felt the last of my resistance crumble.
“I’m sorry it has to work this way,” I heard Ryan say from the doorway, his voice so firm it drew a whimper from my chest. “I really am sorry, babe, but I think this is what you need.”
The officer’s hands were surprisingly gentle as he helped me to my feet and turned me around.
The metal was cold against my wrists as he secured them behind my back, and I found myself staring at the pale yellow walls of our bedroom, memorizing every detail as if I might never see them again.
The framed photo of our wedding day on the dresser.
The book I’d been reading, still open to page forty-three on the nightstand.
The indent in Ryan’s pillow where his head had rested just this morning when everything had still been normal.
Officer Martinez guided me toward the door, his grip firm but not painful. My legs felt disconnected from my body, moving without my conscious direction.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked as we started down the stairs, my voice sounding hollow and strange.
“To a Selecta Solutions facility,” Mrs. Chen replied from behind us. “It’s a comfortable environment where you’ll receive the support you need to work through these issues.”
The front door stood open, and beyond it I could see a white van parked in our driveway.
The red SELECTA logo on the side seemed to pulse in my peripheral vision, corporate and threatening.
Our neighbors’ houses looked so normal, so peaceful.
Mrs. Patterson was watering her garden next door, apparently oblivious to the drama unfolding twenty feet away.
“The program typically lasts a few days,” Mrs. Chen continued as we walked toward the van. “Your husband will visit you at appropriate times, and he’ll be kept informed of your progress.”
Officer Martinez opened the van’s rear door, revealing a bench seat with built-in restraints. The casual efficiency of it all made my stomach turn. This wasn’t some one-off emergency intervention—this was a system, a process they’d clearly used before.
“Ryan,” I said, turning to look at him one last time. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing this to me?”
He stepped closer, his blue eyes soft with what looked like genuine concern. “Because I love you,” he said simply. “And because I think you’re in pain, and I don’t know how to help you any other way.”
The sincerity in his voice was almost worse than anger would have been. He really believed this was an act of love, not betrayal.
Officer Martinez helped me into the van, securing additional restraints around my waist and ankles. The bench was surprisingly comfortable, upholstered in soft gray fabric that felt expensive. Through the tinted windows, I watched Ryan and Mrs. Chen talking in low voices on our front porch.
“There are some preferences you’ll need to indicate online regarding Heather’s training program,” I heard Mrs. Chen say. “As soon as you fill those out, our staff can begin working with her.”
Training program. The words sent a chill down my spine. This wasn’t just couples therapy. Between my thighs, I felt a treasonous warmth that drew a sob of humiliation from my chest. Chad had said that, sometimes—that he wanted to train me to be his perfect little fuck toy.
Never, I swore to myself. Even if… even if this had something to do with that…
Never.