“Touching you is not on my agenda, so stop worrying about something that’d never happen.”
It was good news. Very good news.
So why was I slightly disappointed when he said that? Oh, that’s right. Because I did know what his hands felt like on me. And they felt good. More than good. Great. And that was when he simply carried me from place to place.
“I will report back to your parents,” he said without missing a beat. “And, as expected, your phone must be confiscated once again. That didn’t take long. I’ll go grab it.”
He turned around and went upstairs, not giving me a chance to cool off, to explain nicely that I couldn’t touch meat. It made me vomit. And that it wasn’t just about murdering innocent animals, but also about the environment.
I couldn’t believe he was taking my phone again. I also couldn’t believe I was dumb enough to follow Keller’s plan without considering the consequences. That biting feeling of aloneness slammed into me again.
It was then, in a complete moment of madness and desperation, that I decided to do the undoable. To run away. I didn’t have a plan. Nor did I have car keys. Or a phone. But I’d had enough. Ransom was pushing me too far, barging into my life, taking my credit cards, my cars, demanding things I didn’t know how to give him. I wasn’t even sure what it was he wanted from me. My entire existence seemed to aggravate him.
Jamming my feet into my sliders, I swung the entryway door open and trudged outside. To freedom. To independence. To…what the hell was that, sticking to the bottom of my shoe?
I bent down to pick it up. Ugh. It looked like an unsolicited leaflet or something. Seriously, did anyone actually fall for these things? Their only purpose seemed to unnecessarily kill trees.
Crumpling it in my fist, I started making my way out of my gated neighborhood. A rush of adrenaline coursed through my veins. With it, came fear. I had no idea what to do. A part of me assumed I was just going to give Ransom a little scare, sit in the park for a few hours, then come back and renegotiate the terms of my imprisonment with him. I also needed to find a trashcan to throw away the leaflet. I couldn’t believe that this was my life now. A week ago, I was hanging on the rooftop of a skyscraper, drinking vintage champagne with movie stars.
I was about a hundred feet away from the gate surrounding my neighborhood when my Nissan LEAF appeared in my periphery, zipping past sprawling villas and eye-popping pools. Ransom had gotten dressed, and even managed a close shave before coming to pick me up.
“Get in.” He slowed the car to match my stride.
I stared ahead, determined not to give him what he wanted.
“I already told you, you’re not allowed to leave the house without supervision. I can’t protect you without your cooperation.”
“Cooperation!” I exploded, coming to a halt. I turned around to face him, feeling my eyes wildly dancing in their sockets. “Are you kidding me? You take everything I have and own, everything that represents me, you treat me like a spoiled child, you call me Brat, and also a bitch once—yes, I heard your conversation with Tom—and you don’t even tell me what kind of so-called danger I’m in. And you want my cooperation? I’m completely in the dark.” I flung my arms sideways. “I have no idea what’s going on, and you don’t seem to care. You’re doing a miserable job.”
He stopped the car. Got out. Rounded the car. I stayed rooted in place. He couldn’t kidnap me in broad daylight, could he? I supposed technically, he could. There was not a soul in sight.
But he didn’t. Instead, he stopped a few feet from me.
“You’re right.”
“No! Don’t give me that. I am entitled to my…wait, what did you just say?” My face twisted in confusion.
“I said you’re right. I could have given you more context to what was happening, and I chose not to. We can still rectify that. Privately. In your house.”
This was my time to bargain. I needed to pick my battles smartly.
“First things first, I do not want meat in my fridge.” I raised my hand. “This is absolutely non-negotiable. It makes me physically sick to see.”
His jaw ticked, but he didn’t answer, which I took as confirmation that he heard and intended to comply.
The air between us stilled, as if the world was holding its breath to hear the verdict.
“I will not put meat in your fridge,” he said finally.
“Thank you.” I wrung my fingers together. The paper dropped from my hand.
“What’s that?” Ransom asked, already bending down to pick it up.
“Some leaflet I was about to throw in the recycling can.”
He smoothed the white paper—who knew? Maybe Ransom was one of the suckers who could be convinced to join a sauna Zumba class?—but when I noticed the color drain from his face, I realized this was no ordinary leaflet.
“We have to go. Now.” Ransom grabbed my hand, tugging me to the car.
It scared me. I’d never seen him express emotions other than boredom or anger. I climbed into the passenger’s seat of my car. He drove us up the road, back to my house, glancing at the rearview mirror. A lot. Like he was expecting to see someone.
“What was in the leaflet? An ad for penis enlargement? Are you all geared up to book a consultation meeting?” Naturally, I thought this would be a good time to break the ice with a terrible joke.
Ransom did not look amused. He did, however, look like he was going to break the steering wheel, the way he held it in a chokehold.
Finally, he spoke.
“Your parents hired me to monitor your whereabouts and to ensure your safety. This was their chief goal. However, there is a side goal, and that is to bring you to relative independence and teach you the value of money. They would also like to see you taking more responsibility over your life, and find a profession that requires more commitment than posting pictures on TikTok.”
“Instagram,” I corrected him. “I wish I could break into TikTok.”
“Whatever.” He slid the vehicle into my garage.
“So, basically, you’re my parole officer.”
He killed the engine, got out of the car, rounded it, and opened the door for me. I had a feeling it was a safety measure, not a statement of gallantry.
“Correct.”
Ransom turned, making his way to the house, the crumpled leaflet still in his hand.
“And what happens if I fail?” I trailed behind him, fascinated. He seemed to have had a very long conversation with my parents, something I couldn’t say for myself in the last three years.
I was experiencing a moment of epiphany. Or maybe—God forbid—self-awareness. What if my family had been avoiding me in a bid to make me do better? Should I try? I mean, Hera did invite me to her rehearsal. And paid for everything. I should be trying, too, shouldn’t I?
“Not my problem, not my fight. I guess they’ll find another, less expensive way to make your life miserable until they bend you into shape.”
“They don’t seriously expect me to work, do they? An actual real job, I mean.”
“Is your blood too blue for manual work?” His pointed expression was a punctuation mark.
“No,” I weighed my words carefully, “but I’m useless. I’m not good at anything.” I couldn’t believe I’d let these words get out of my mouth. I was usually so private about my shortcomings.