I don't care about the jobs or the apartment anymore.
I'll waitress in a truck stop. Sleep in my car. Sell my blood if I have to.
Anything is better than staying here.
Anything is better than becoming the woman who walks up to the main house and begs him to finish what he started.
The rental car sits in the driveway where I left it.
I throw my bag in the back, slide behind the wheel, and turn the key.
Nothing.
My heart stutters. I try again.
The engine makes a grinding sound—metal scraping metal, something broken deep in its guts—and dies.
Again. Nothing.
I sit there, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, chest heaving, and feel the last fragile thread of hope snap.
Of course.
Of fucking course.
I pop the hood with trembling hands, even though I already know what I'll find.
Nothing obvious. No cut wires, no missing parts.
Whatever he did, he did it clean, almost professionally.
The kind of sabotage that looks like bad luck to anyone who isn't paying attention.
I'm paying attention now.
Every closed door. Every rejected application. Every "coincidence" that nudged me closer to him.
I see the whole trap now, laid out before me like a spider's web, and I'm already caught in the center.
The mechanic in town—the only mechanic in town—won't meet my eyes when he delivers the verdict.
Transmission. Expensive fix. Weeks for the parts, but it’ll have to go through the rental company and that’s a whole other headache.
"Weeks." I repeat the word flatly, watching his face for any crack in the performance.
"Sorry, ma'am." He shuffles his feet, studies the oil-stained concrete like it holds the secrets of the universe. "Best I can do."
I wonder how much Elias paid him.
I wonder how long ago he was bought.
Actually, I’m curious to know if every person in this town belongs to Elias Ashford, and I'm the only one who didn't know.
I walk back to the estate because I have no other choice.
It takes an hour.
The summer sun beats down on me like a punishment, and sweat soaks through my shirt, and my feet blister inside my boots until every step feels like walking on glass.
