He’s going to make us live in this lie.
And no one is coming to save us.
Jason’s voice echoes down the hall. “Settle in. Make yourselves comfortable.”
As if this is just a normal night. As if we belong here.
I press the girls into the bed, wrapping my arms around them like I can shield them from the nightmare we’re trapped in. The pink walls mock me. The white curtains breathe like lungs in the breeze. This isn’t home. It’s a prison disguised as one.
Emma is curled against my chest, her soft breaths warming my skin. Ella is tucked close at my side, her grip never loosening. My fingers tremble as I brush Ella’s hair back, checking for any sign of the drug Jason used on her.
Her breathing is steady, her pupils normal. No sluggishness or other lingering effects.
I exhale, tension bleeding from my shoulders. She’s okay.
“Are we going to be stuck here forever?” Ella’s small voice shatters the silence.
I squeeze them both tighter. No. No, I won’t let that happen.
But I can’t promise that. Not yet.
Before I can answer, Jason’s voice cuts through the heavy air, far too cheerful. Like this is all perfectly normal.
“Hungry?”
My stomach knots. I want to refuse, but the truth is, the girls haven’t eaten since yesterday. Their little bodies need food, no matter who’s offering it.
I swallow my pride. My rage. The fear screaming inside me. I have to keep them alive first. Everything else comes later.
I nod, guiding them to the door.
The dining area is as eerily staged as the rest of the house. The same wooden table I remember from our old place. Thesame floral placemats. Even the smell—cheesy, buttery warmth—hits me like a gut punch.
Jason stands at the stove, wearing a fucking apron. He stirs a pot, humming to himself like a picture-perfect dad in a Sunday commercial.
Mac and cheese. The girls’ favorite.
I feel their tiny hands squeeze mine as they take in the scene. They know. Even at five years old, they know this isn’t right.
Jason turns, all smiles. “Just in time! I made your favorite, girls.”
Emma and Ella don’t move. Their hands stay tight in mine, their bodies rigid. Smart girls.
I force my feet forward, guiding them to the table. The plates are already set, bright pink plastic bowls filled to the brim.
Everything in its place. Perfect. Controlled.
The girls sit, but their hands find each other under the table, gripping tightly. I stay standing for a beat longer, forcing myself to take the seat across from Jason.
Emma finally speaks, her voice barely above a whisper as she stares at her bowl.
“Secret Agent Damon makes it better.”
Ella’s little foot connects with Emma’s shin under the table. Emma gasps, eyes wide with betrayal, but she clamps her lips shut when she sees my warning look.
Jason stills. The soft clink of the spoon against ceramic stops.
I feel the shift in the air before he even turns around. The tension pulls taut, stretching so thin, I can hear my own pulse hammering in my ears.
