Page 23 of Shy Girl

I swallow hard, my throat tightening around the collar. My mind floods with questions, each one branching into another.How would this work? What are the boundaries?

But one question was the most important.

“And the pay?” I ask, my voice low, controlled, though my pulse is quickening.

“Generous,” he says, his tone almost playful. “Enough to cover your rent—and then some. I am willing to pay off all your debt.”

I take a step back, needing space, needing air. My fingers brush against the edge of the desk behind me, grounding me.

“I thought you said you didn’t want anything transactional?”

He smiles again. “That was a test,” he steps closer to me. “And besides, it’s notreallytransactional. I get more satisfaction from a beloved Girl Pet more than anything.”

His words settle heavy in my chest until I feel like I can’t breathe and the room is spinning. “I’ll... need to think about it,” I hear

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myself say as I look around the room. Anywhere but directly at him.

“Of course,” he replies smoothly, as though he expected nothing less. “But I’ll need your answer soon. This kind of opportunity doesn’t come around often.”

His words hang in the air, a mix of promise and pressure. I nod again, my thoughts spiraling, unable to focus on anythingbut the weight of the collar around my neck and the faint glint in his eyes as he watches me.

“Well,” he says, his voice light and steady, as if this conversation hasn’t been anything but extraordinary. “Since you need time to think about it, I’ll bid you adieu, my lady. Shall I walk you out?”

The casualness of his tone catches me off guard. My mind latches onto it, dissecting every word, every inflection, as though it might reveal some hidden meaning. I have so many questions—too many to organize neatly in my head. But I don’t ask any of them. Instead, I nod, my body responding automatically even as my mind spirals. He steps behind me and unbuckles the collar around my neck and then he leads me back through the house, his pace measured, his posture unhurried. The sound of his shoes tapping against the floor is sharp, rhythmic, each step an echo that feels oddly final. I count them instinctively—ten to the hallway, thirteen to the door.

When we get outside, I reach for my car handle, eager to leave, to escape the overwhelming weight of everything that has just happened. But before I can open the door, I feel his hand on my shoulder.

His grip is firm, not forceful, but enough to make my heart hitch forward, a beat out of sync. He turns me around, and for a moment, I can’t meet his eyes. I focus instead on the sharp line of his blazer, the faint glint of his watch, before I feel him press something into my hand.

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It’s heavy, firm. I look down, my mind already categorizing the texture and size before I fully process what it is. A roll of cash, thick and tightly bound.

“Twelve hundred,” he says, his tone even, almost clinical. “Enough to pay your rent this month.”

I stare at him, my thoughts scrambling to connect the dots, to make sense of the gesture. The sheer physicality of the cash feels jarring, real in a way that the rest of this evening hasn’t.

“There’s more where that came from,” he continues, his voice steady, calculated. “You’ll be getting double that. Every week.”

The words reverberate in my head, repeating in perfect loops. Double. Every week. I feel the edges of the bills pressing into my palm, grounding me even as my thoughts spiral.

I manage a nod, though it feels mechanical, disconnected from the storm inside my head. “Thank you,” I say, the words soft and automatic, devoid of meaning but necessary to fill the silence.

He steps back, his hand falling away from my shoulder, and I turn quickly, sliding into the driver’s seat of my car. The door closes with a satisfying click, and I immediately lock it, pressing the button twice to ensure it is secure.

I start the engine and pull out of the driveway.

The drive home is silent, the roads dark and empty. My mind loops through the same thoughts, dissecting every moment, every word, every action. $1,200. Enough to pay rent. $2,400 every week after that. And he’s willing to pay off all my debt, whatever that means. The numbers click into place like puzzle pieces, the logic undeniable. That kind of money—it changes everything.

But then the other details intrude: the collar, the cage, the absurdity of barking, crawling, submitting to his strange requests. My chest tightens, and I grip the steering wheel harder, counting the ridges beneath my fingers as a way to steady myself.

Can I do this? Eight hours a day, every day, acting like a dog?

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