Chapter 6

I handed the phone over without another word. Marcus took it, turned it face-down on the counter, and walked out of the kitchen. A minute later I heard the heavy click of a metal case shutting somewhere near the front hall, followed by the soft scrape of a key turning in a lock.

The house felt weird without the phone. Not empty—just quiet in a way that made every small sound stand out. The refrigerator hummed. A floorboard upstairs settled. My own breathing seemed too loud. I stood bare-chested in the kitchen, still holding the spatula I’d grabbed out of habit, and stared at the empty spot on the counter where the phone had been. Three weeks of messages, pictures, late-night commands—all of it locked away inside something I couldn’t reach.

Marcus came back carrying a thick folder and a laptop. He set everything on the dining table, sat down, and opened the laptop without looking at me. The blue light of the screen lit the side of his face. He started reading, turning pages slowly, making occasional notes with a black pen. He didn’t speak and I was certain that didn’t need to. The fact that I was standing there shirtless, waiting, was already the first rule in action.

I finished the eggs and toast because I didn’t know what else to do. When I set the plate in front of him he nodded once, still reading. I made my own plate and sat across from him and the silence soon started to feel suffocating. I kept glancing at the hallway, toward wherever he’d locked the case.

After breakfast Marcus finally spoke.

“Dishes. Then vacuum the living room. After that, wipe down the baseboards in the hallway.”

That was it. No extra explanation, nothing about the third rule yet. Just the list, said in the same low voice he used when he told me to open the door last night. I nodded and started clearing the table. He went back to his paperwork.

I washed every plate, every fork, and the frying pan. I dried them and put them away exactly where they belonged. When I finished, Marcus was still at the table, but I could feel him watching. Not in a way that crept me out. Every time I moved, it felt like the tension between us increased.

I plugged in the vacuum and ran it over the living-room carpet carefully. The machine was loud, so loud that it threatened to deaf me but even over the noise I kept expecting him to say something but he didn't.

Instead, he'd randomly turn the pages of the file in front of him, making a soft scratch of his pen.

When the vacuum was put away I started on the baseboards. I got down on my knees with a damp cloth and worked my way along the hallway, wiping dust that had collected for months. My bare back felt exposed under the cool air from the vents. Every few minutes I glanced toward the dining room. Marcus never looked up for long, but when he did, his eyes held mine for a second longer than necessary. That single second was enough. My pulse jumped. I looked away first every time.

The morning crawled. Without the phone there was nothing to distract me from the awareness of him in the other room. I kept replaying the moment he locked the case—the solid click, the finality of it. I wondered if the key was in his pocket. I wondered if he could feel me thinking about it from across the house. What I hated the most was the silence in the house. It wouldn't have been awkward if I was alone with my phone.

I finished the baseboards and stood in the doorway of the dining room, waiting. Marcus closed the folder, stacked the papers neatly, and leaned back in the chair. His eyes moved over me once—chest, stomach, the waistband of my shorts—then settled on my face.

“Kitchen floor next,” he said. “Mop it properly.”

I nodded again and went to find the mop. While I filled the bucket I realized something that made my stomach tighten, he wasn't just hovering or repeating instructions, infact, he wasn't checking my movement at all.

It felt like he had a discernment gut, one that could tell if I was doing the work right and doing because he simply expected that and the expectation itself was the control.

By the time the floor was dry, the clock on the wall showed almost noon. Marcus had moved to the living-room couch with his laptop. I stood in the middle of the clean kitchen, bare feet on the cool tile, and the question finally pushed its way out of me.

“Are you going to give the phone back?”

He looked up at me as if he had been expecting that question to escape my lips. The laptop screen reflected in his dark eyes for a second before he closed it.

I couldn't tell why but my heart was pounding as I waited for him to respond and when he finally did, my jaw dropped in disappointment.

“That depends,” he said.

It took me a moment to recollect myself, “On what?” impatiently, I asked another question, “You said 5 days in your rule, it's not going to be more than 5 days right?” I asked, hoping his response wasn't going to send my mind ablaze,

“Depends,” he said again and in a calm down, I impatiently asked again,

“On what?”

“On whether you learn to trust that I decide when you need it.” He set the laptop aside and rested his forearms on his knees. “Right now you want the phone because it was the only place you felt safe admitting what you want. Without it, you have to admit it here. In this house. With me looking at you” he said, causing me to swallow hard.

“I locked it away for a reason,” he continued, “Every time you reach for it in your head, you’re thinking about the rules instead of the device.”