Chastity #2
Dad's jaw worked. His hands flexed on the wheel. The silence stretched long enough that I thought he wouldn't answer. Then, "Because he won't expose us."
Us.
The word landed like a punch.
Not you. Not your reputation. Not even the family.
Us.
Whatever this was—whatever history lived between them, whatever misunderstanding Dad refused to name—it went deeper than me. Bigger than a garden photo. Wider than one month of forced proximity.
I was collateral damage in a war I didn't understand. A chess piece moved across a board I couldn't see. And my father had just traded me to the enemy to protect something he valued more.
The house felt different when we walked through the door. Like the walls had shifted inward while we were gone. Pressing closer. Stealing air. Making everything feel compressed and fragile. Less safe.
Mom stood at the kitchen island. Hands braced against the marble. Shoulders hunched forward in a way I'd never seen before. She looked up when we entered. Face drawn. Eyes red-rimmed. The careful polish she always wore cracked around the edges.
She moved toward me. Arms outstretched. The familiar gesture of comfort she'd offered a thousand times before. Every skinned knee. Every failed test. Every heartbreak that felt world-ending at seventeen.
But this was different.
I stiffened without meaning to. Body going rigid before she even touched me. Some instinct firing. Some warning bell ringing low in my gut that said nothing about this was comforting. Nothing about this was protection.
Her arms wrapped around me, anyway. Held me close. I stood there locked in place. Breathing in her familiar perfume—stronger than usual, like she'd reapplied it recently—feeling her fingers press into my back.
She whispered against my hair. "It's just for a little while."
The words trembled. Fragile. Desperate. Like she was trying to convince herself more than me.
Dad's voice cut in from behind us. Flat. Factual. "Thirty days."
Thirty days sounded like a sentence. Like time I'd have to serve. A punishment for crimes I didn't commit. For being in the wrong place. For needing help with a zipper. For existing as leverage in a war I still didn't understand.
Mom pulled back. Kept her hands on my shoulders. Searched my face like she was memorizing it. Like I was leaving for years instead of weeks. Like something irreversible was happening and we both knew it but couldn't name it.
She said softly, "This will protect everything."
The same vague, all-encompassing promise that meant nothing and everything simultaneously.
I looked between them. Mom's anxious face. Dad's rigid posture. The space between them that suddenly felt wider than it should. "Protect from what?"
The question hung there. Simple. Direct. Demanding an answer I knew wouldn't come.
Neither of them spoke.
I climbed the stairs slowly. Each step heavier than the last. My legs moved on autopilot while my mind spun in circles. Chasing questions I couldn't answer. Trying to piece together fragments that refused to fit.
My bedroom door clicked shut behind me.
I leaned against it. Let my weight press into the solid wood. Breath shaking. Ribs tight. Like my lungs had forgotten how to expand properly.
Thirty days.
The number kept circling. Looping. Counting down before it even started.
I pushed off the door. Moved toward my closet. Pulled out the suitcase I'd used for college. The familiar weight of it somehow made everything more real. More final. More terrifyingly inevitable.
I unzipped it across my bed. Started packing. Mechanical at first. Muscle memory taking over where thought failed.
Jeans folded neatly. Sweaters stacked. Underwear tucked in the corner. Toiletries gathered from the bathroom. Toothbrush. Face wash. The vanilla lotion I'd used since high school.
My hands moved but my mind stayed blank. Empty. Refusing to process what I was actually doing. Where I was actually going. Who I'd be living with.
Then I paused.
On my dresser—a framed photo I hadn't looked at in months.
Me and Connor. Arms around each other. Grinning at the camera like we had forever figured out. Young. Stupid. Naive enough to think intensity meant love.
My chest tightened. He'd been charming too. Sweet at first. Flowers and late-night conversations and promises that felt permanent. Then jealous. Watching my phone. Questioning my friends. Making everything feel like a test I kept failing.
Controlling.
Explosive.
He never hit me. I told myself that mattered. That it meant something. That I was overreacting when my stomach twisted before seeing him. When I started choosing my words carefully. When I learned to navigate his moods like walking through a minefield.
But he broke things. Walls. Phones. Plates. The crack of ceramic shattering. The thud of his fist through drywall. The way he'd stand too close afterward. Too intense. Too possessive. Breathing hard. Watching me watch the damage. Daring me to say something.
I remembered the feeling. The trapped-animal panic. The constant calculation of how to be smaller. Quieter. Less likely to trigger whatever lurked beneath his charm.
Wyatt had stood close last night at the masquerade gala.
But it wasn't wild. Wasn't chaotic. Wasn't the barely-contained violence I'd learned to recognize.
To anticipate. To fear. His closeness felt…
measured. Deliberate. Like every inch of space he took had been calculated.
Chosen. Weaponized with precision instead of rage.
That almost scared me more.
I picked up the photo. Studied my younger self. The girl who thought she could fix someone. Who believed love meant accepting unacceptable things. Who confused control for care.
I survived that. Surely, I can survive this.
But Wyatt had a reputation. The Bounty Hunter. Violent. Temperamental. Unpredictable on ice. A man whose career highlight reel included broken bones and penalty minutes and commentators using words like "dangerous" and "volatile."
I imagined living under the same roof. Sharing space with someone built for controlled violence. Whose job required aggression. Whose scars suggested he'd survived things that would break other people.
My stomach twisted. Would he shout? Would he intimidate? Would he corner me in hallways and dare me to run?
Or worse…
Would he stay calm? Would he deliver threats in that low, controlled voice? Would he make me feel trapped without ever raising his hand? Would he prove that calculated cruelty cut deeper than fists?
I shuddered. Hated myself for even considering it. For comparing. For letting old wounds bleed into new fears.
I set the picture face down. Left it there. Didn't pack it.
"Chastity." My father's voice carried up the stairs. Not urgent. Not angry. Just steady. Final.
I zipped the suitcase shut. The sound sharp in the quiet. Definitive.
One last look around my room.
Childhood photos scattered across the dresser.
Me gap-toothed at six. Halloween costumes.
Birthday parties. First day of kindergarten with my backpack bigger than my body.
Awards lined the shelf above my desk. Academic excellence.
Debate team captain. Community service recognition.
Each one representing hours of work. Proof I'd earned my place. Proof I mattered beyond my last name.
Memories everywhere I looked.
This room had been mine since I was eight. Pink walls I'd begged to paint teal at thirteen. The reading nook Dad built by the window. The closet where I'd hidden during thunderstorms. Where I'd cried after breakups. Where I'd dreamed about futures that looked nothing like this.
Thirty days shouldn't feel this big. Shouldn't feel like leaving permanently. Like crossing some invisible line I wouldn't be able to uncross.
But it did.
I grabbed my bag. Lifted the suitcase off the bed. The weight of it felt wrong. Too light for a month. Too heavy for temporary.
My feet moved toward the stairs. Each step echoing. Counting down.
Dad stood in the foyer when I reached the bottom. Coat already on. Keys in hand. Ready. Efficient. Like this was just another appointment on his calendar. Another obligation to check off before moving to the next.
Mom lingered in the background. Hovering near the living room doorway. Hands twisted together. Face pale. Eyes wet but not crying. Like she was holding everything in by force of will alone.
Dad's voice came firm but softer now. "This is temporary."
I nodded. Wanted to believe him.
"Follow his lead."
My stomach tightened.
"Don't provoke him."
That word landed like a slap.
Provoke.
As if Wyatt's behavior—whatever it might be—would be my fault. My responsibility to manage. My job to navigate carefully enough that nothing went wrong. As if I was the variable. The risk. The problem. Not the man who'd orchestrated this entire nightmare.
I nodded again. Because what else could I do? What choice did I have?
The merger. The investors. The reputation. The empire we'd built. Everything bigger than me. Everything more important.
I stepped toward the door. And for the first time in my life, I didn't feel like I was leaving for networking. Didn't feel like I was representing the family. Didn't feel like the confident daughter stepping into leadership.
I felt like I was being handed over.