The room looked different in daylight. Less oppressive. Still a cage, but one with better lighting.
That's when I saw it.
A folded piece of paper on his pillow. Crisp white against dark fabric. Positioned exactly center, like he'd measured the placement before leaving.
My stomach twisted.
I reached for it anyway—what choice did I have?—fingers trembling as I unfolded the single sheet.
His handwriting hit me first. Sharp angles. Controlled loops. Every letter precise, deliberate, exactly the right size. The kind of penmanship that came from someone who'd been punished for sloppiness as a child.
You may go to work today.
Permission.
Not a suggestion. Not kindness.
Permission I shouldn't have needed in the first place.
You will be home by 6 PM.
Home.
He'd called this place home.
My hands clenched, crinkling the edges of the paper.
If you are late, you will be punished.
No explanation of what that meant.
No clarification needed.
I'd learned last night exactly what punishment looked like in Gideon Bellerose's world.
The signature sat at the bottom—just a single letter, sharp and commanding.
— G
Not even his full name.
Like I should already know who owned me.
I crumpled the note in my fist, squeezing until my knuckles went white. The paper crackled, resisting, before finally compressing into a tight ball. It should have felt satisfying—destroying his careful instructions, rejecting his authority in this tiny, meaningless way.
It didn't.
Because the words were already burned into my brain.
6 PM.
Punished.
Home.
I threw the wadded paper across the room. It bounced off the wall and rolled under the dresser—out of sight but still there. Still real. Still waiting.
My phone sat on the nightstand where I'd left it yesterday.
