The thought makes my stomach turn. Asking Rolan for permission to leave is already humiliating, a grown woman requesting clearance to walk through a gate. Asking Rolan for permission to go see Landon is a whole other territory. It requires explanation and context. Vulnerability I’ve been hoarding like currency.
But the alternative is worse: Landon finding the estate, showing up at the gate and asking for me. Whatever Rolan is — businessman or whatever — I do not want those two worlds to touch.
I check the time. It’s 5:00 p.m. Dinner is at six. Angelina confirmed that Rolan is back this afternoon. He’s in his office.
I swallow my pride. It tastes like ash.
I knock on his door.
“Come in.”
He’s behind his desk, looking like he did the first time I came to this office.
“Miss Calloway.” He glances up from his laptop. “What can I do for you?”
I bite my lip. A nervous habit. A terrible nervous habit in front of this man, because his eyes track the motion — a flicker, barely perceptible, his gaze dropping to my mouth and returning to my eyes in under a second.
But I saw it. And my body, the traitorous, short-circuited, still-recovering-from-the-kitchen mess of a body, responds with a flush I can’t control.
“I need to leave the property,” I say. “This Sunday. My day off.”
I brace for the no. The flat, monosyllabicnofrom last time. The wall.
He doesn’t say no.
He stands and moves around the desk but stops at the front edge, leaning back against it, arms crossing over his chest. The position pulls the shirt taut across his shoulders.
“I believe I was clear,” he says. “No exit without authorization. Until further notice.”
“I understand. But this is important. A personal matter that I need to handle in person. I’m asking for an exception.”
He studies me. The arms stay crossed. The posture stays casual — deceptively casual.
“If you want to leave,” he says, “you’ll have to pay for it.”
The words land.
Pay for it.
The transaction model. Everything in this house is a transaction.
“How much?” I ask. Maybe I can portion some amount from my salary.
Changing his expression, he uncrosses his arms. He doesn’t move toward me, but the energy shifts. The temperature drops. Or rises. I can’t tell anymore.
“Sit down,” he says, nodding toward the chair across from his desk.
I hesitate. The last time he told me to sit, I ended up on a counter with my shorts on the floor. But this is a chair. A normal chair. In his office. During business hours.
I sit.
He remains standing, leaning against the desk and looking down at me.
“How badly do you want to leave?” he asks.
The question is a trap. If I sayvery,I give him leverage. If I saynot that badly,he says no.
“Very,” I decide.
