Thin logic. Tissue-paper rationalization that dissolved the moment I examined it too closely.
But it was all I had.
The contract sat in my memory like a brand. Every clause. Every term. Every place I'd initialed away pieces of myself until nothing remained except the signature at the bottom.
Belle Reiss.
My stomach growled.
I ignored it.
Hunger was easy. Manageable. A problem I could solve by simply enduring. Unlike everything else.
The house settled again. Quieter now. No footsteps on the stairs. No knock at the door. Just the awareness that he was down there, eating dinner meant for two, completely unbothered by my absence.
That bothered me more than it should have.
I wanted him angry. Wanted proof that my defiance—however small, however pointless—landed.
But Gideon Jones didn't do anger.
He did patience.
The kind that outlasted every defense until you broke from exhaustion rather than force.
I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapped my arms around them, and stared at the door. Waiting. For what, I didn't know. For him to come drag me downstairs? For the lock to click and trap me here? For the next six months to fast-forward past this moment into something survivable?
The rain intensified. And I sat. And waited. And hated that I was already counting down.
I considered running.
The thought arrived fully formed, sharp enough to hurt.
I knew where the front door was. Two floors down. Hardwood that wouldn't muffle footsteps, but I could move fast if I needed to.
The windows in this room didn't lock from the outside. I'd checked while he gave me the tour he pretended was courtesy instead of claiming.
One floor up from the ground. Manageable drop if I hung from the sill first.
The driveway curved through trees thick enough to hide in. Dark enough to disappear into.
I still had my phone. Could call an Uber… even if I wasn't sure my card would go through.
I could be gone in under three minutes.
Four if I grabbed the suitcase.
The fantasy unspooled with awful clarity: Driving back to the city, hands shaking in my lap, checking the rearview every thirty seconds. Reaching the hospital just as they process the payment reversal. Walking into my father's room and watching his face collapse when I tell him the money's gone. Watching him ask why. Watching him realize. And after—because there would always be an after—Gideon would come.
Not immediately.
Not in a rage.
He'd let me think I'd won first. Let relief settle just long enough to feel real.
Then he'd arrive.
Calm.
