Page 42 of Shy Girl

Nathan enters. I don’t hear him at first, but I feel him—the weight of his presence shifting the air in the room. My body stiffens. He stops behind me, his reflection towering over mine, and the room feels suddenly smaller.

“What do you see, girl?” he asks, his voice calm, measured, but sharp enough to cut.

I stare at the floor, unsure if I’m supposed to answer. The silence stretches, and when it becomes unbearable, I let out a soft bark just to appease him.

He crouches beside me, his hand brushing against my shoulder. His eyes meet mine in the mirror, and I hate the way it feels like he’s searching for something, like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.

“I see potential,” he says. His tone is low, almost tender, but it sticks in my throat like something sour.

The words sit heavy in my chest, their weight spreading, suffocating. His hand lingers on my shoulder, the pressure just shy of comforting, before he stands and leaves. The door clicks shut behind him, but the sound doesn’t break the spell the mirror has cast.

I stay there for a long time, my eyes locked on the stranger in the glass.

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I sit in front of the mirror for hours, the floor gnawing at my knees, the reflection in the glass warping as the light shifts in the room. The golden frame gleams faintly, mocking, its ornate edges curling like fingers around the truth it holds. My mind drifts, unmoored and slippery, to the app. To the flicker of messages. Names and faces blurred together now, like smudged ink.

I think about the other men. The ones who called me beautiful, who promised to treat me like a queen, who filled my inbox with carefully crafted lines about respect and affection. The ones who wanted nothing more than a warm body across the table, a companionable laugh over wine that tasted like money. The ones who wanted more but dressed it in velvet, wrapped it in promises of fun, of ease, of no strings.

I scroll through those memories like a faded photo album. The man with the yachts, his profile picture a sunlit grin, who wanted someone “spontaneous.” The one who signed every message with a rose emoji, “darling” spilling from his fingers like a reflex. The man who quoted poetry like he owned it, who wrote in sprawling paragraphs about art and soulmates and destiny.

None of them had felt real. Too smooth, too curated, as if they’d rehearsed their lives for an audience. Too eager to show me the spotlight without asking if I wanted to be seen.

Then there was Nathan.

Nathan didn’t bother with poetry. He didn’t wrap his intentions in silk. His messages were short, blunt, carved clean with the precision of a scalpel. He didn’t promise adoration or indulgence.

And now, here I am. Kneeling on this cold floor in the gilded cage he’s built for me, staring at a reflection that barely feels likemine. My hair is limp, my posture hunched. The bruises on my skin—some yellowing, some dark and purple, casting shadows

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across my arms, legs, and back. The collar gleams in the glass, a perfect circle trapping me where I am.

I wonder if I chose wrong—or if I’d ever had a choice at all. What were the odds, out of everyone on that app, that I’d choose Nathan, and Nathan would choose me?

This was fate, and I was cursed. Terrible luck of epic proportions. Cosmic Karma for something I did in my past life. It was the only explanation.

He was the first message I got on the app. The first ping in the empty, cavernous inbox. His words were direct, no flowers, no fluff, just a plain introduction that didn’t even bother with a compliment.

It was almost like he could feel the desperation radiating from me through the screen, as if I had unknowingly sent out a telepathic plea to every man on the app:pick me, choose me, save me.His message cut through the static like a blade.No hi beautifulno roses, no pretense.

I could have had the man who wanted me for my smile, for the way my face glows in candlelight. The man who would’ve draped diamonds around my neck, who would’ve flown me to Paris just to watch me sip wine beneath the Eiffel Tower. And even though I wasn’t looking for any of those things, it sounded nice. Meeting someone who would’ve kept me intact, untouched, unchanged. But I didn’t.

I chose the man who wanted not who I was, but who I could become.

A pet.

A prisoner.

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I’m dreaming ofa feast—pizza and chicken salad sandwiches and burgers and little mini donuts and big steaming bowls of ramen when I hear Master Nathan scream, a raw, guttural sound that rips through the house and claws its way into me. It startles me awake, my body jerking, my heart pounding like it’s trying to escape. His grief is so loud it feels alive, heavy and thrashing, filling the air with its weight. My stomach knots, instinct taking over. I feel the guilt before I understand it, a sharp, reflexive thing burrowing deep, like somehow this is my fault—like I’ve failed him in a way I can’t even name. The walls seem to close in tighter, the pink trim mocking in its sweetness, and I sit frozen in the dark, every muscle tense, waiting for his grief to turn its head and find me.

A couple of hours later, I get my answer. Nathan staggers into the room, grief etched deep into his face, his hair sticking up on all ends, his breath thick with whiskey. He moves like his body has forgotten how to hold itself upright, dragging himself to the edge of the bed and collapsing there, head hanging low. I lay frozen, every muscle locked, afraid to even breathe. My heart hammers in my chest as the silence stretches, heavy and endless.

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