Ever since the world went silent and my voice became something fragile, unreliable—something I had to fight for every single time I tried to speak.
The doctors had explained it clinically—scar tissue, nerve damage, permanent trauma to the vocal cords from prolonged strain and chemical exposure.
I could manage short sentences if I spoke slowly, deliberately. Anything longer scraped my throat raw, left me hoarse and shaking. By the end of a day like this, my voice felt flayed.
But I refused to whisper.
Not for him.
“-if I were y-your sister,” I said, forcing the words past the burn in my throat, “y-you wouldn’t do th-this t-to me. Th-thisis my only m-means of l-livelihood, Mr. H-Hargrove—and y-you kn-know it.”
Hargrove’s expression shifted, the smug satisfaction draining away, replaced by something darker and far more dangerous.
His jaw tightened.
He sat back, then leaned forward, forearms braced on the desk, like a man preparing to strike.
“If I were your brother,” he said, lips curling, “I wouldn’t let a deaf-and-dumb like you anywhere near my family.”
The words were slow. Precise. Chosen to wound.
“Get out of my office.”
Spit flew as he snapped the last word, his mouth twisting with contempt. I watched every detail—the tremor in his jaw, the way his fingers dug into the armrests until his knuckles went white.
This wasn’t just anger. This was a man furious that something he believed he owned had spoken back.
I felt the familiar pull of fear in my gut. The instinct to fold. To apologize. To survive by shrinking.
I didn’t.
Instead, I smiled.
Small. Controlled. Dangerous.
“I... have this conversation on record,” I said carefully. “I will report you to the authorities for illegal termination. And ha-harassment.”
The effect was immediate.
His eyes widened. He shot to his feet so fast the chair skidded backward, slamming into the wall with a sharp jolt I felt more than heard. His face flushed an angry red.
“You’re lying!”
I was.
But he didn’t need to know that yet.
“I guess y-you’ll find out,” I said, turning toward the door, every step measured, my spine straight despite the tremor running through me.
That’s when he lunged.
One meaty hand clamped around my upper arm, fingers digging hard enough to bruise. He yanked me backward so violently I stumbled, my shoulder slamming into the edge of the desk. The other hand darted for the pocket of my apron, groping for my phone.
“Don’t touch me with your filthy hands,” I snapped, the words tearing out of my throat.
“Hand over the phone,” he barked. “Now.”
I twisted in his grip, pain flaring down my arm, but I didn’t look away from his face.
