THE WORDS THAT DON’T LET GO

The apartment felt different when I got back.

Too quiet. Not peaceful—watchful.

I locked the door behind me, twisting the bolt twice even though I knew how useless that would be if someone truly wanted in. The silence pressed against my ears, thick and deliberate, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

I dropped my bag by the door and leaned against it, eyes closed.

You were never supposed to be visible yet.

The message replayed in my mind, over and over, like a bruise you keep pressing just to confirm it’s real.

Not Adrian.

I knew that with the kind of certainty that settles in your bones. Adrian Blackwood didn’t send warnings. He issued outcomes. He didn’t hide behind anonymous numbers or half-spoken threats.

If Adrian wanted me afraid, he’d make sure I understood exactly why.

I pushed myself upright and walked deeper into the apartment, flicking on lights as I went. Everything was where I’d left it that morning. Couch. Table. The half-read book on the armrest. The faint lemon scent of the cleaner I used every Sunday.

Normal.

Too normal.

I checked my windows. Locked. Curtains drawn. No signs of disturbance.

And yet my skin prickled, that instinctive awareness that comes when you realize the rules you thought governed your life… don’t apply anymore.

I went straight to my bedroom and pulled the contract from my bag.

The folder felt heavier than paper should.

I sat on the edge of the bed, the city’s glow filtering in through the curtains, and opened it with deliberate care. Not rushed. Not panicked.

Focused.

Because this time, I wasn’t skimming.

This time, I was reading like my life depended on it.

The first pages were the same sterile language I remembered—roles, expectations, confidentiality clauses written with surgical precision. Everything phrased to sound reasonable. Professional. Almost generous.

We take care of our own.

That was the tone.

I flipped pages slowly, eyes scanning each line, each subsection. The compensation section still made my stomach tighten. The numbers were obscene for an assistant role. Even now, seeing them printed there felt unreal.

There was a price attached to me.

And the longer I stared at the document, the more I understood that the price wasn’t just financial.

I turned another page.

Another.

My pulse began to climb.

Somewhere between page seventeen and eighteen, the language shifted.

Not obviously. Not enough for someone rushing or desperate to notice.

But it hardened.

Legal terms stacked on top of one another. Clauses cross-referenced to other clauses. Conditions buried inside conditions.

I slowed further.

That’s when I saw it.

Termination.

My fingers tightened around the edge of the page.

I leaned closer, rereading the heading, then the paragraph beneath it.

"The Employee may not terminate this Agreement prior to the completion of the stated term without written consent from the Employer."

I blinked.

Read it again.

Once more, slower.

May not terminate… without written consent…

My breath came shallow.

“No,” I whispered.

I scanned the rest of the paragraph, heart pounding louder with each line.

"Any attempt to prematurely exit this Agreement without authorization will be considered a breach of contract and subject to penalties outlined herein."

Penalties.

Plural.

My mouth went dry.

I flipped the page with shaking fingers, scanning for the referenced penalties, dread crawling up my spine like ice water.

There they were.

Financial repercussions that made my stomach drop.

Confidentiality violations that extended far beyond the six-month term.

Language vague enough to mean almost anything—and specific enough to ruin me.

I sat there in the half-light of my room, contract open on my lap, the realization sinking in with brutal clarity.

I hadn’t signed a job offer.

I’d signed permission.

The room felt smaller.

Hotter.

My thoughts spiraled, sharp and relentless.

Why wasn’t this explained?

Why didn’t I ask?

Why did he look at me like that when I signed?

Recognition.

The memory hit me like a punch.

Not satisfaction. Not relief.

Recognition.

Like he’d known I would sign even without understanding.

Like the contract had been waiting for me.

I snapped the folder shut and stood abruptly, pacing the room.

This wasn’t legal. It couldn’t be. Contracts didn’t work like this—not real ones, not enforceable ones. There had to be a loophole. A clause I was missing. Something I could use.

I opened it again, this time flipping backward, hunting.

But the more I read, the clearer it became.

Every exit had a lock.

Every lock required him.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

I froze.

Slowly, I reached for it.

No new messages.

Just a notification from my bank.

The deposit.

My stomach twisted.

I stared at the number on the screen, the reality of it crashing down on me all at once.

He’d already paid me.

Not just for my work.

For my compliance.

For my silence.

For my presence.

I sank back onto the bed, the weight of it pressing into my chest until breathing felt like effort.

Adrian Blackwood hadn’t trapped me with force.

He’d done something far worse.

He’d made it legal.

I don’t know how long I sat there.

Minutes. Hours. Time blurred, stretched thin by the constant thrum of fear and realization.

When my phone buzzed again, I nearly dropped it.

This time, it was a message.

Adrian Blackwood:

You should be home by now.

I stared at the screen.

No question.

No concern.

Just certainty.

I typed, erased, typed again.

Me:

I am.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Adrian Blackwood:

Good.

My jaw tightened.

I waited.

Another message followed.

Adrian Blackwood:

Did you read the contract?

My heart slammed against my ribs.

So he knew.

Of course he did.

I swallowed and typed back.

Me:

I’m reading it.

The pause this time was longer.

Too long.

Then—

Adrian Blackwood:

And?

I stared at that single word, anger flaring through the fear.

Me:

You didn’t tell me I couldn’t leave.

The typing dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.

When his reply came, it was measured. Controlled.

Adrian Blackwood:

You didn’t ask.

The bluntness of it stole my breath.

Me:

That clause isn’t normal.

Adrian Blackwood:

Neither is my world.

I closed my eyes.

This was the moment.

The point where I either folded—or pushed back.

Me:

You let me believe I had a choice.

Several seconds passed.

Then—

Adrian Blackwood:

You did.

My hands shook.

Me:

Then give it back.

The reply came slower this time. Deliberate.

Adrian Blackwood:

Not yet.

I felt something inside me crack.

Me:

You can’t own people.

Adrian Blackwood:

I don’t.

Another pause.

Then the message that made my breath hitch.

Adrian Blackwood:

I protect what I invest in.

I looked down at the contract still open on my bed.

At my name printed neatly on the page.

Miss Hale.

The words from earlier echoed back to me.

People don’t leave him.

Not because they can’t run.

But because by the time they understand the rules—

They’re already inside the cage.

My phone buzzed one last time.

Adrian Blackwood:

Get some rest, Iris.

The familiarity of my name unsettled me more than the clause ever could.

Adrian Blackwood:

Tomorrow, we’ll talk.

I set the phone down slowly, my chest tight, thoughts racing.

Tomorrow.

I stared at the ceiling long after the city lights dimmed, the contract lying open beside me like a sleeping beast.

I didn’t know who was watching.

I didn’t know what they wanted.

But one thing was painfully clear now—

I wasn’t just involved.

I was bound.

And whatever this was becoming?

It was no longer something I could simply walk away from.