The paper slipped from my numb fingers, drifting to the floor like a feather. Or a nail in my coffin.
I'd thought I was so fucking smart. Thought I'd found a loophole in the universe where desperate girls got free money from stupid rich people. But the universe didn't have loopholes. It had contracts. And I'd signed mine in triplicate.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
Against every instinct, I answered. "Hello?"
"Good morning, Miss West." The voice was male, cultured, with a hint of amusement that made me want to throw my phone out the window. "I trust you received our notification?"
"Who is this?"
"Dr. Gabriel Mire. Director of the Institute that bears my name. I've been looking forward to meeting you, Lilah. Your psychological profile was quite... interesting."
"My what now?"
"The past three months have been most illuminating. Your spending patterns, your social media activity, your work performance. You've built quite a nice life with our money, haven't you?"
Cold sweat broke out along my spine. "Have you been watching me?"
"Observing. There's a difference. Every good study begins with a baseline, after all." His voice was calm, almost gentle, like he was explaining something to a child. "I'm particularly curious about your reaction to authority figures. Your manager at the bar submitted several complaints about your 'attitude problems,' I believe?"
"You talkedto my boss? What the fuck—"
"Language, Lilah. We'll work on that." Something in his tone made my stomach drop. "Seventy-two hours. Do try to get some rest. You'll need it."
The line went dead.
I stood there in my underwear, holding my phone, bat forgotten on the floor. Three months of thinking I was free. Three months of spending their money, building a life I couldn't afford to lose. Three months of baseline observation, apparently.
The contract I'd signed felt like a living thing, somewhere in that drawer, pulsing with all the subclauses I'd skimmed over. Physical restraint. Sexual conditioning. Temporary identity restructuring.
All rights of refusal revoked upon activation.
What the hell had I done?
I sank onto my couch, the nice one I'd bought with their money, in my nice apartment I'd rented with their money, and laughed until it turned into something else. Something that tasted like fear and felt like falling.
Seventy-two hours.
The countdown had begun, and I'd started it myself, with a signature and a smile and the absolute certainty that I was smarter than everyone else in the room.
Turns out, I wasn't even smart enough to read the fine print.
The folder still sat in my drawer, under the takeout menus. I pulled it out with shaking hands, spreading the pages across my coffee table like evidence of my own stupidity. This time, I read every word. Every. Single. Word.
Section 12-A: Participant acknowledges that preliminary observation period may include but is not limited to: surveillance of daily activities, behavioral pattern analysis, psychological profiling through indirect means...
Section 23-C: The Institute reserves the right to initiate participation period at any time within one calendar year of contract signing...
Section 35-F: Participant waives all rights to legal recourse once funds have been accepted and participation period has been activated...
Section 47-B: All rights of refusal revoked upon activation. This includes but is not limited to: refusing transport to facility, refusing participation in research protocols, refusing to complete the full duration of the study as determined by Institute staff...
"Fuck," I whispered. Then louder: "Fuck!"
I threw the papers across the room, watching them flutter down like the world's most expensive confetti. This wasn't happening. Couldn't be happening. People didn't just sign away their rights in coffee shops. Rich institutes didn't really kidnap people for psychological sex studies.
Except.
