Slightly is a lie. Everything about her stance, her shoes angled outward, her thumb worrying the pen – everything screams that today is not slight at all.
“Adjust it how?” I ask, walking toward her at an easy pace that makes the guards tense.
“No kitchen access,” she says, eyes flicking up to mine. “And your evening privileges are suspended until further notice.”
“Because of the scan,” I reply. There’s no point pretending we don’t both know. “Because someone saw something they didn’t like.”
She swallows. A small, controlled movement. “Because we need to prioritise your stability.” The word stability hangs between us like a blade. “And the baby’s,” she adds gently, and there it is – the shift. She’s not talking to me anymore; she’s talking to the thing inside me. It stings more than it should.
We walk toward the greenhouse, but even that feels wrong. The air is different. My senses sharpen as we approach the double doors – more guards stationed nearby, one pretending to read notes but holding the clipboard upside down. Inside, the air is warmer than usual, the humidity too purposeful, like they’ve cranked it up as an excuse to watch me sweat.
The roses droop under the weight of it all. I kneel beside the raised bed, fingers sinking into soil that’s been freshly turned. Someone’s been here. Not me. Not under my eyes. The thought needles me in a way I can’t immediately tame.
Callaway stands a careful distance away, not close enough to talk, not far enough to escape if I change my mind about behaving. She’s fraying, trying to hold a straight line when everything around her is bowing.
“Kayla,” she says, soft but fraying at the edges, “I need you to understand something.” Her voice dips into a register she only uses when she’s about to say something she knows I won’t like. “There will be another scan on Friday.”
I freeze. Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just a moment – a single beat of stillness where even the soil seems to sense the drop in temperature beneath my skin. “Another one?” I ask. “Didn’t we establish you got everything you needed yesterday?”
“It’s protocol,” she says quickly. But whenever she says ‘protocol’ I know what she really means is ‘The Director wants an update on what’s growing inside of me’. “It’s to make sure everything is progressing as it should.”
“Asitshould,” I echo. “Not me.”
She hesitates, and in that hesitation I hear everything she isn’t saying. I sit back on my heels and look at her. Really look. She’s exhausted. Haunted. Caught in a war between her conscience and her orders. It would almost be tragic if she weren’t the one holding the leash. She doesn’t protect me out of loyalty – she protects me because the Director has made it very clear what will happen if she doesn’t.
A guard steps closer. Too close. His boots scrape the concrete. “Careful there,” he says, and it’s meant to sound warm, paternal even, but it lands wrong. His eyes drop, just briefly, to my stomach. Then he lifts a hand as if to steady me, to touch me, to make a point about obedience. “Don’t strain yourself.”
He doesn’t get to finish the gesture; I’m already moving back, out of his reach, the recoil sharp and immediate. He freezes mid-step, unsure if he just made a mistake or if I’m making one.
“Don’t,” I warn, and it’s not a request. He lifts both hands, palms out, but not in time to hide the slip – the instinct to handle me like something breakable. Or something owned.
Callaway’s breath catches. “Kayla,” she says in that placating tone she uses when she doesn’t know which way I’ll snap. “He didn’t mean?—”
“They always mean,” I cut in. “That’s the problem.”
The greenhouse feels smaller suddenly, the glass walls bending inward, the air getting thicker, heavier. I can hear the blood in my ears, the soft thrum of the building’s vents, the faint ticking of the guard’s wristwatch. Too much noise in a room meant to be quiet.
“Kayla,” Callaway tries again, and I can hear the desperation beginning to bleed through. “We’re monitoring you closely now because…because we have to. The Director?—”
“Ah.” I smile without humour. “There it is. The Director. The one you won’t name. The one you report to every night when you think I’ve stopped listening.”
Her silence admits everything.
I stand, brushing soil from my hands. My movements are slow, deliberate, controlled.
The guards step back.
Good.
They should.
Every part of me feels wired, alert, a live current running under my skin, waiting for somewhere to go.
“Let me guess,” I say. “He thinks I’m a risk. He thinks I’m unpredictable. He thinks the baby” – the word tastes sour – “is at risk because of me.”
She doesn’t deny it. She tries to take a gentle step forward, but it’s too late. “Kayla, you need to understand that if there’s another violent incident, if you escalate again, the Director may authorise?—”
“Intervention,” I finish for her. “Extraction. Termination. Pick whichever medical euphemism helps you sleep.”
