Marriage Agreement.
My vision narrows. My ears ring.
Dad doesn’t look up. He can’t. He’s staring at the paper like it’s salvation.
Mr. Voss watches me, patient, certain. “A simple ceremony. Quick. Discreet. After that, your father’s debt disappears.”
I taste metal.
“Bathroom,” I say, and my voice doesn’t sound like mine.
Dad nods instantly, relieved I’m not screaming. “Yeah, okay.”
Mr. Voss gestures graciously. “Take your time.”
I walk to the bathroom on legs that don’t feel like mine.
I lock the door and brace both hands on the sink.
In the mirror, I look like a girl trying to play adult and failing. Hazel eyes too bright. Freckles across my nose. Hair slipping out of its clip in thick chestnut waves. A mouth too soft for the way my heart is pounding.
Curvy. Soft.
And suddenly I feel too much of everything. Too round, too visible, too easy to judge. Like my body is the first excuse people reach for when they want to decide what I deserve.
My gaze drifts up.
The small window above the tub is cracked open. Cold air slips in.
My heart slams.
I’m not tiny. Climbing through that window is going to be awkward. Messy. Loud.
But staying will be worse.
I climb onto the tub, fingers fumbling with the latch. It sticks. I push harder until it gives with a scrape.
I freeze, listening.
Nothing.
I haul myself through.
My hips catch for a second and panic flashes hot, but I twist and force myself out, dropping into the night.
The landing jars my knees. Pain shoots up my legs. I bite it down and run.
I run until my lungs burn and my hair whips into my face, cardigan flapping open, the dress clinging to my thighs with every stride.
Behind me, a door slams.
Voices.
Then an engine starting.
Ice floods my veins.
I cut down a side street, then another, turning blind, praying the dark will hide me.
