Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Henrietta (Blythe)
I don’t know what terrifies me more—that he might hit me or that he’ll figure out who I really am.
My fingers dig into the edge of the counter, the smooth surface grounding me just enough to stop my hands from shaking.
My chest rises and falls too fast, the air too thin, the room too small.
I focus on the paper in front of me, but the letters blur.
The lines where I’m supposed to write my information stretch and distort, a trap waiting to snap shut the second I give myself away.
I don’t have a social security number.
I mean, I do.
But if I write it down, if I let those numbers exist anywhere outside my head, he’ll know.
And if he knows, maybe Winston will, too.
Maybe this will be the thing that tips him off, that puts him back on my trail, that unravels everything I’ve done to disappear.
“Is there a problem, Blythe?” Atlas’s voice is low, unreadable, but there’s something beneath it.
It could be frustration, or maybe anger.
It’s impossible to tell.
Either one will land a smack across my face if I miscalculate the moment.
I’ve seen it before—how quickly annoyance turns into something worse.
How a clipped breath, a slight twitch of a jaw, the way a man’s hands tighten at his sides can be the only warning before the world tilts sideways.
I push away from the desk, keeping my movements controlled.
Small, measured. If I move too fast, if I let him see the panic rising up my throat, I’ll lose the one thing I have left—control over my own escape.
“I don’t need the job this bad,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even.
I turn away, heading for my purse, the only thing I own that hasn’t been taken from me.
“You can keep it.”
Silence stretches between us, thick enough to choke on.
I don’t look back. If I make it to the door, I’ll walk away, forget this place, forget him.
I can figure something else out.
I always do.
Then he speaks, and every muscle in my body locks up.
“See, that’s the thing.” His tone is different now, measured.
Calculated. “If you don’t fill this out now, I’m calling the sheriff.”
I freeze mid-step.
His words slam into me with the force of a strike.
My breath falters, my fingers gripping the strap of my bag so hard it digs into my palm.
He wouldn’t.
Would he?
I turn back slowly, keeping my face neutral, but my pulse is a wild drumbeat against my ribs.
“You mean your brother,” I say, hoping the words come out steady, but there’s a tremor beneath them.
Atlas doesn’t blink.
I met his brother yesterday, along with his sister-in-law.
They both seemed nice, he was kind, but maybe they were too kind.
Now I wonder if it was a trick, a setup.
Get me comfortable, make me think I’m safe, then push me out the second I let my guard down.
Maybe I was never meant to last here.
Maybe they wanted me gone from the start.
I should leave.
I should get out of here before I make this worse.
But then it happens.
The scent of bacon hits me again, thick and greasy, and nausea rolls through me so violently it’s like my body is rejecting the entire moment, the entire town.
My stomach twists, and I know before it happens that I won’t make it to the bathroom.
The second I lurch forward, my knees go weak, my vision tunnels, and I brace for the impact of hitting the floor.
But it never comes.
Atlas is there.
His hands catch me before I collapse, his grip strong but not punishing, one hand curling around my arm, the other pressing against my back as I double over, choking on the bile rising in my throat.
Heat rolls over my skin, my stomach flipping as I retch, my entire body trembling from the force of it.
Humiliation washes over me in thick, suffocating waves.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to disappear, to shrink into nothing, to not exist in this moment where I am weak and exposed and utterly helpless.
I hate this. Hate how my body betrays me, hate that I can’t even leave with dignity, hate that I have to stand here with him witnessing all of it.
His grip tightens just enough to keep me upright, and I wait for it—the recoil, the disgust, the moment he pulls away like I’m something to be scraped off his shoe.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, his voice is quieter than before.
“Blythe, are you okay?” It’s so soft, almost caring—disarming.
I shake my head, swallowing hard, my throat raw.
What are you doing? This guy can just snap you like a twig and destroy you faster than Winston did.
“I’m fine.”
It’s a lie.
A flimsy, useless lie.
But I need him to believe it.
I need to get out of here before this spirals into something I can’t control.
Before he decides I’m a problem that needs fixing before, he starts asking questions I can’t afford to answer.
Before he becomes just another man standing between me and my escape.
Atlas doesn’t move.
He doesn’t let go.
His grip is firm but careful, keeping me upright without making me feel caged in.
It’s the restraint that unsettles me the most. The consideration.
I don’t trust it.
“Blythe.” His voice is lower now, less of a command, more of an offering.
“You’re not fine.”
“I am,” I whisper.
His jaw tenses, his fingers flex slightly where he’s holding me up.
“You just threw up all over my shop.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, humiliation licking at my skin like fire.
“I’ll clean it.”
“That’s not the point.” He exhales through his nose, then shifts his grip, not releasing me but not holding on tighter either.
“Come upstairs.”
My pulse spikes.
“No.”
“We need to talk.” His voice is calm, too calm like he already knows I’m going to lose this fight.
I try to step back, but my legs aren’t cooperating, my body still weak and shaky.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“There’s a lot to talk about.” He studies me, gaze sweeping over my face, my posture, like he’s trying to piece something together that I’m desperate to keep him from seeing.
“You’re sick?—”
“I’m not sick.” The words rush out too fast, too sharp, and his eyes narrow slightly, catching on the edge of my desperation.
“You’re throwing up, you look like you’re about to collapse, and you want me to believe that’s normal?”
I grind my teeth, hating that my body has betrayed me so publicly.
“It’s just something I ate.”
His expression darkens.
“That’s bullshit, and we both know it.”
I jerk against his hold, trying to put space between us, but he doesn’t let me go.
Not forcefully. Not in a way that makes me feel trapped.
But in a way that tells me he’s not going to let me run—not yet.
“Blythe.” His voice softens, threading through my defenses like a needle through frayed fabric.
“Come upstairs. Just for a minute.”
I shake my head.
“I need to go.”
“I’m not asking you to stay,” he says, and the quiet conviction in his tone makes my throat tighten.
“Just talk to me, and probably change your clothes. If after we’re done, you still want to leave, I’ll even give you money so you can head to another town.”
I want to believe him.
I need to believe him.
But trusting a man’s word has never worked out for me before.
I hesitate, staring at the door, at my purse still slung over my shoulder, at the street beyond this place that I should already be walking down.
But my stomach still churns, my body still feels like it’s running on fumes, and the idea of making it more than a few blocks in this state seems impossible.
Atlas watches me carefully like he knows exactly what’s going through my head, like he’s waiting for the moment I realize I don’t have much of a choice.
I hate that he’s right.
I hate that I let myself end up in this position in the first place.
But mostly, I hate that a part of me—some small, foolish part buried beneath years of survival instincts—is tempted to let someone else carry a little of the burden for once.
Just for a minute.
Just long enough to figure out where I’m going to head to.
I exhale shakily, avoiding his gaze.
“Fine, but just for a moment.”
His grip loosens, his expression unreadable.
“Let’s go.”
And just like that, I make another mistake.
I let him lead me upstairs.