It's also, unmistakably, a cage.
The door behind me doesn't lock. I check. But when I ease it open a crack, I see them: two men on either side of the hallway, backs straight, faces forward.
I close the door.
Okay. Okay.
I sink onto the edge of the bed and try to breathe. The mattress is impossibly soft, the kind of expensive-soft that makes you feel cradled. Under other circumstances, I might appreciate it.
Under these circumstances, all I can think about is the man who carried me here. His arms around me. His eyes on my mouth.
Stop it, Bailey.
My phone.
The thought cuts through everything else. My phone was dead in the bookshop, but maybe...
I dig into my pocket with shaking hands. It's there. Small and familiar and so beautifully ordinary.
I press the power button.
The screen lights up.
Seventy-three percent battery. Full signal. Everything working exactly as it should.
For one wild, hopeful moment, I think: I can call for help. I can call 911. I can call Heart and tell her I've been kidnapped by fictional characters and please, please come get me.
And then I see the date.
The date is wrong.
Not just wrong. Impossible.
According to my phone, it's three weeks ago. Three weeks before the day I walked into Hewhay's bookshop. Three weeks before Marilyn came into the studio. Three weeks before everything.
I stare at the screen.
I stare at it until the numbers blur.
Then, with fingers that don't feel like mine, I open my text messages.
They're there. All of them. Messages from Heart about work schedules. Messages from the group chat with the other assistants. A message from my mom asking if I wanted to come home for dinner next Sunday.
But the dates are wrong. Everything is from three weeks ago or earlier.
I check my email. Same thing.
I check social media. My accounts are there. My posts are there. My life is there, laid out in pictures and status updates, exactly as I remember it.
Except.
I scroll through Lauve Studio's page, looking for the post about Marilyn's wedding. The one that made Heart assign me to the account because she knew—sheknew—it would twist something in me.
It's not there.
Marilyn's wedding hasn't been booked yet. Because according to this timeline, Marilyn hasn't walked into the studio yet. Because according to this timeline, that day hasn't happened.
I open my contacts. Find Heart's number. My thumb hovers over the call button.
