Chapter 8
MOLLY
Iwake up three times that night, my heart pounding, unsure where I am until my eyes adjust to the soft glow of the skyline outside the window. The expanse of lights makes the huge room look even bigger, and the bigger it looks, the smaller I feel.
I miss the closet-sized bedroom in my tiny apartment where the heater always rattles, the pipes make weird noises, and my textbooks are stacked under the window because I don’t have a bookshelf.
I miss my crooked thrift-store lamp and the ugly quilt I got at a yard sale, because it reminded me of something I might have wrapped around myself as a kid on a cold night.
This apartment is too perfect, too polished.
The sheets are stiff and unused. They smell like fancy detergent, and even though I’m sure the thread count is higher than my salary, I miss my jersey sheets.
The worst part is not knowing how long I’ll be trapped in this place.
It hasn’t even been twelve hours, and I’m already mourning my life.
I get up and pace the room without even realizing I’m moving. I pace from the window to the door and back again. My footsteps echo. My mind won’t settle. There is a hum under my skin, restless and sharp, as if my body is reminding me that I should be home getting ready for work. It’s maddening.
Worse, I keep pressing my palm to my stomach without realizing it. The tiny life inside me is only the faintest promise, nothing visible, nothing I can feel yet. But I know. I know in a way that sits deep and warm and secret inside my chest.
There is no way I’m going to tell him now.
Maybe not ever. I knew he was dangerous, but last night proved that there’s something much more sinister going on.
He had men following me, for Christ’s sake.
I didn’t even tell him my name, so he must have used my phone number to track me down. Who does that?
Dangerous people. That’s who.
As soon as I finish breakfast in the enormous kitchen, I grab my bag and tell myself that no man is going to stop me from living my life. I will go to work. I will teach my kids. I will return to the life I built for myself long before Samuil existed in my orbit. Today will be normal.
Except nothing is normal anymore.
Samuil comes into the kitchen just as I’m pouring tea into a tumbler. I feel him before I see him, his presence so commanding and weighty.
“Are you going somewhere?” he asks, curious.
When I turn to face him, narrowed eyes stare back.
“Yes,” I answer simply. “I’m going to work.”
“Molly—” he starts, but I don’t let him finish.
“If I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that everything can be negotiated,” I say in a rush, letting out the speech I’ve been practicing in my head all morning. “So, here’s my counteroffer. I will stay here. I will let your goons follow me. But I am going to work.”
“That’s not negotiable,” he says firmly. I cross my arms and scowl at him, seeing his armor already cracking.
“I can’t just not show up,” I tell him. “They’ll fire me.”
“You’ll find another job,” he says.
“I don’t want another job,” I argue. “I love my job. I love my kids. So you will let me do this my way, and I won’t make your life hell for the foreseeable future.”
He lets out a breath and assesses me slowly. He’s probably wondering exactly how serious I am about that threat.
“You can go today,” he finally says. “But if anything happens, we’re trying it my way. Deal?”
“Deal,” I agree enthusiastically, reaching out my hand to shake.
He snorts as he takes it and gives it one firm shake.
“I need to go make some phone calls,” he says vaguely, disappearing back down the hallway.
By the time I reach the lobby, two men are standing by the door pretending to read newspapers.
They give me a small nod. I ignore them and push forward, determined not to be intimidated by shadowy guardians who now apparently trail me everywhere I go.
When I reach the school, there are two new custodians mopping the floor in the hallway outside my classroom.
They nod too, with the same stiff acknowledgment, the same eyes watching every person who walks by.
It doesn’t take a genius to realize Samuil has hired them.
That’s probably the phone call he made. He probably extorted someone on the board to authorize non-district personnel in the building.
They’re not fooling anyone. They don’t even carry the little walkie-talkies real custodians have clipped to their belts.
I inhale deeply to keep myself from snapping.
I can do this. I can teach. I can be normal.
For the first half of the day, I almost convince myself it’s working.
My students are talkative and loud, but they’re always that way.
They ask questions about the math worksheet and argue about whose turn it is to clean the whiteboard.
They seem perfectly themselves, with no clue about the storm that’s brewing in my life. They make me feel like myself.
Then comes recess, and as I’m leading them outside, one of the “custodians” stops me for a chat.
“It’s not safe for you to be outside,” he murmurs, his voice low. “It’s harder for us to protect you out there.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I hiss. “I have to take my kids out for recess.”
“Get a sub,” he suggests, showing no sign of flexibility. “And consider that if someone targets you out there, your kids could get hurt. You may not care what happens to you, but I know you care what happens to them.”
My eyes sting, and I realize he’s right. I ask Kelly if she can cover my recess, and know she’ll also need to cover my bus duty. This sucks.
I lie and tell her I slipped on ice last week and the doctor recommended I stay off uneven ground. I hate lying, especially to her.
When I hand Kelly the whistle and clipboard, one of my students looks up at me with wide, worried eyes. Her name is Taniya, a sweet girl who always draws flowers in the margins of her homework.
“Why can’t you come outside anymore?” she asks. “Don’t you like recess?”
I kneel beside her so I can keep my voice soft. “Of course I like recess.”
“Then why can’t you watch us anymore?” another kid asks, twisting his hands nervously. “Did we do something wrong?”
Their faces pierce straight through me. They are too young for fear like that. Too young to think adults leave because they’ve misbehaved. I swallow hard, unable to answer, because the truth is too big and too dangerous for children to carry.
Kelly jumps in quickly.
“Miss Rogers is helping with something special inside,” she says lightly. “She’ll be back to recess when she can. Go on now.”
They run off reluctantly, glancing back at me like they’re checking whether I’m really okay.
My heart aches so badly I can barely stand.
This can’t continue. I might be able to pretend around adults, but I can’t pretend around my students. They’re too observant. They feel everything. They know when something is wrong even if they don’t have the words to describe it.
After school, I go straight to the principal’s office. She looks surprised to see me without an appointment but waves me in. She has always been fair, always levelheaded, always able to see the bigger picture. I sit down and fold my hands together tightly.
“I need to request a temporary leave,” I say, forcing the words out slowly. “Just a week. Maybe two. I’ve got some personal things going on, and I worry it’ll be disruptive for the kids.”
She studies me over the rim of her glasses.
“I’m certainly sorry to hear that,” she says, her tone almost stern. “Especially because this is your first year. If you can’t show that you’re able to stick it out with these kids, we may have to reconsider your placement here.”
My throat tightens.
“I can come back. Soon. I just need some time to handle things.”
“I know you want to believe that. But right now, it’s not about what you want. It’s about what the students need. It would be better for us to bring in a full-time substitute to cover your class for the rest of the year. The kids need consistency.”
That blows a hole straight through my chest because she’s right. She’s just trying to do what’s best for the kids. And even though it feels like losing a piece of myself, I nod.
“I’ll fill out the paperwork,” I whisper.
Before I leave, she places a hand on my arm. “Whatever you’re going through, I hope you get the support you need.”
The words hit harder than she knows.
When I return to the penthouse, everything inside me feels scraped raw.
I slam my bag on the kitchen counter and start pacing again, faster this time.
The luxury surrounding me feels suffocating, like it’s pressing in on me from all sides.
The marble countertops, the tasteful artwork, the floor-to-ceiling windows. None of it comforts me.
Samuil emerges from his office and watches me silently for a moment. I can feel his eyes tracking me the way a predator watches its prey. Calm. Controlled. Focused.
“You’re burning holes in the floor,” he observes. “It’s unsettling.”
“Good,” I snap, refusing to stop. “Someone around here should be unsettled besides me.”
“It’s the only solution that keeps you safe.”
I whirl around, anger rising like a wave. “You should have asked me. You should have explained things. You should have given me one ounce of choice.”
His expression barely shifts, but something sharp glints in his eyes.
“I’m controlling. I won’t deny that. I’ve spent my entire life controlling every variable around me because it’s the only way to keep the people I care about safe.”
I stiffen. The people he cares about? That can’t include me. Not yet. But the room feels too small suddenly, the air too thick.
He steps closer. “Why does it bother you so much?”
I open my mouth, but the words that rise up feel too vulnerable and exposed. I try to swallow them down, but he just waits, that infuriating quiet forcing honesty out of me.
“I’ve never lived with someone who actually gives a damn about whether I survive.”
Silence settles between us.
He breathes once, sharp and low.
I look away quickly, ashamed of how raw it sounds. I wrap my arms around my stomach without thinking, protecting the secret he can never know. “I just want my life back.”
I turn away, unable to look at him anymore because the truth sits heavy and complicated inside me.