Page 37 of Shy Girl

retreating to a safer place. When I whimper, it’s no longer feigned; the sounds of distress slip out, raw and uncontrollable. Either he notices, or he doesn’t care. My guess is the latter; he does not care.

I try to create order from the chaos, dividing my days into fragments:this is morning light, this is evening light, this is his dinner hour, this is his resting hour.But even that slips away. Time bends and warps, its edges frayed. The days stretch, and the nights swallow them whole.

I survive, though. I endure the cold, the hunger, the exhaustion. I tell myself this can’t last forever, that something will break before I do. But when the thought creeps in—that this might not end, that I might stay here, in this cage, in this life, until I disappear completely—the spiral begins.

I bite down on the panic, hard, and anchor myself to the small, mechanical acts that keep me sane: breathe in for four, hold for four, breathe out for four. Repeat.

EIGHTEEN

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Nathan strides intothe room, grinning, his teeth sharp and predatory. The smile isn’t joyful—it’s a weapon, a gleaming blade honed with control, satisfaction glinting in his eyes like the punchline to a joke only he finds funny.

“It’s done,” he says, his tone light, conversational, like he’s telling me the weather or what’s for dinner. The casualness of it cuts deeper than anger ever could.

He pulls me out of the cage. The leash snaps onto my collar, the click louder than it should be, reverberating in the taut silence between us. My knees tremble as I follow him, each movement hesitant, my body braced against the weight of his words.

We stop in front of a door I’ve never seen open. It has loomed there since I arrived, a part of the house I trained myself to ignore. Nathan places a hand on the handle, turning to me with that same unnerving grin, and then swings the door wide.

The room is pink—violentlypink. It punches me in the chest, a pastel assault so sudden my eyes squint against it. Bubblegum walls framed with frilly white trim; a plush pink rug spreads across the

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floor like candy floss. The sweetness of it clogs the air, so cloying it makes my stomach twist.

The furniture looks ripped from a nightmare of childhood nostalgia. A small white bookshelf overflows with children’s books and there’s a battalion of stuffed animals in a small wooden chest, their button eyes unblinking, fixed on me. But the bed—small, twin-sized, absurd—is the centerpiece. Its pink quilt is edged with lace, a confection of faux innocence, but it’s the headboard that anchors me: two pairs of silver handcuffs dangle from its edges, glinting in the soft light.

The windows are boarded up, the planks painted pink to blend in with the walls. The effort to disguise the room’s suffocation only amplifies it. The entire space feels toxic, a grotesque trap, sweetness layered over steel.

“This is your permanent room,” Nathan says, stepping back, his voice rich with satisfaction. He gestures like a game show host presenting a prize. “Go on, girl, climb up on the bed.”

He unhooks the leash and waits, his grin unwavering. My body obeys before my mind catches up, crawling onto the bed in hesitant, jerking motions. The mattress is too firm, the lace scratching my skin with every shift, a reminder that I can’t escape it.

“You’ll sleep here every night,” he continues, matter-of-fact, like he’s explaining a schedule. “When I’m gone for long periods, you’ll be handcuffed to the bed. Until I can trust you.”

Trust.The word twists, hollow and sharp, its weightless promise pressing into me. His tone is casual, but the permanence in it is a cold hand around my throat.

“You have a bed. A room. Isn’t that great?” His voice turns falsely enthusiastic, his grin stretching wider. He waits for me toagree, the absurdity of his excitement curling my stomach into knots.

“Woof,” I say flatly.

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Nathan claps his hands, pleased. “I have another surprise for you,” he says, disappearing through the door.

For the first time, I’m alone and not on a leash. My eyes dart to the boarded windows, the vanity, the room itself, scanning for something—anything—that might help me escape. But the door swings open again before I can move, and Nathan returns, holding something in his hands.

A collar.

It’s pink, thick, with a silver heart dangling from the center. The charm glints in the light, the wordShy Girlengraved in delicate cursive.

Nathan holds it up like a trophy, his grin now sharper, crueler. “You are no longer Gia,” he says, his voice steady. “From now on, your name is Shy Girl. Got it?”

I nod, the motion quick, mechanical. “Woof,” I say, my voice trembling but firm enough to satisfy him.

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