I sink into his desk chair, the papers clutched in my trembling hand. Everything replays in my mind with new, sickening context—his insistence I stay with him, his family's knowing looks, his perfectly timed appearances whenever I mentioned leaving.
And that’s when I see them.
Three white envelopes, tucked just beneath a stack of bills. Crisp. Untouched. My name printed across the front in government style text.
I blink. Lean forward. No—no.
Fingers trembling, I pick them up.
The first one is thick. I tear it open like it might explode and out slides my passport.
The other? My bank cards. My replacement driver’s license. All of it.
Every piece of the identity I thought was lost and not yet re-issued, sitting here—just sitting here—like this wasn’t the answer to all the stress, the helplessness, the calls to embassies and banks.
It’s been here. The whole time.
My hands go numb.
My chest clamps like a vice. I can’t get air. My lungs seize, my body curling into itself as panic swells in a violent tide.
No no no no no—
I clutch the edges of the chair as if it’ll anchor me. As if I’m not about to go under.
It’s not just the envelope. Not just the cottage. Not just the lies. It’s the fear, the suffocating, clawing fear I thought I buried a lifetime ago.
The same fear I lived with every day of my childhood. Of being watched. Controlled. Cut off. Of never trulyowningmy freedom.
Of being told what I needed. Where I should go. Who I should be.
I escaped that. I ran across oceans to escape that.
But now—God—what if I’ve just fallen into it all over again?
My throat burns. My vision warps. I grip the envelope so hard it crinkles.
I know this is irrational. I know Grant isn’t him. He hasn’t raised his voice. He hasn’t locked a door.
But that doesn’t matter when the memories don’t ask permission. They just flood in, uninvited.
The sound of tires on gravel jerks me back to reality. Grant's truck. He's back early.
I shove the papers back into the folder but keep the plumber's report, the email and my Identity documents in my hand. Evidence. Proof that I've been played for a fool.
My heart pounds as I walk to the kitchen, standing rigidly by the counter as the front door opens.
“Hey, meeting got canceled,” Grant calls cheerfully. “Thought we could—” He rounds the corner and sees me, his smile faltering at my expression. “What's wrong?”
I hold up the papers. “Care to explain these?”
His face drains of color. “Mia, I can explain—”
“You own the cottage.” Each word is precise, razor-sharp. “The one that was still being repaired after the flood.”
He steps forward. “Yes, but—”
“And it's been fixed. For weeks.” I slap the plumber's report on the counter. “Two fucking weeks, Grant! You've been lying to me this whole time!”
