Page 57 of Shy Girl

“You’re free to go,” he says, the words so flat, so devoid of anything, they feel like they might fall and shatter between us.Free. To go.

I stand there, my knees locking, my heart slamming into my ribs, waiting for the hook, the twist, the knife to land. My head swims with the possibilities, the cruel scenarios he might be playing out.

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But he just stands there, watching me with that same blank stare, his face carved out of nothing.

I look back at the counter. The sight of my belongings hits like a fist, the memories rushing in too fast, too vivid. They look wrong now, foreign, like props from a movie I barely remember acting in. My throat tightens.

“Free?” I whisper, the word catching in my mouth. It doesn’t feel real. It feels like a test, a cruel little game he’s thought up to see if I’ll fail one last time.

He doesn’t answer, just watches me with his unreadable face, his silence stretching out into something massive and unbearable.

I take a step toward the counter, my legs shaking, my whole body trembling under the weight of what this could mean. The floor feels unsteady beneath me, like it might open up if I get too close. Each step feels impossibly long, like I’m wading through a dream.

When I reach the counter, I pick up the jacket first. It feels stiff in my hands, the fabric rough and strange. I struggle to get my arms in the sleeves, my hands clumsy and shaking. The shoesare next, heavier than I remember, their weight foreign against my feet. I glance up at him, watching him watch me, his eyes tracking every move like he’s cataloging it.

Then he moves. Walks to the hallway closet, casual, like this is nothing, like this is just a normal day. My breath catches. I know what’s in there. The safe. I’ve seen him open it a dozen times, his back always blocking the keypad.

He punches in the code, and the faint beeping echoes through the room, each tone landing too loud. I stand there frozen, my hands gripping the edge of the counter, watching as he pulls out stack after stack of cash. Neat bundles, the edges crisp and sharp, like they’ve never been touched. He doesn’t even glance at me as he shoves them into a pillowcase, the fabric sagging with the weight.

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He walks back to the counter and drops the bag beside my purse with a thud. “There you go,” he says, his voice so casual it makes my stomach turn. “Two hundred thousand dollars. For your time.”

The numbers hit me like a slap. I stare at the bag, my mind spinning, trying to make sense of it, trying to figure out what this is. A bribe? A payment? A joke?

“What?” My voice is hoarse, cracked, the word barely there.

He shrugs. “I told you, you’d be compensated. I’m a man of my word.”

The room tilts. The cash. My purse. The open door. None of it feels real. I glance back at him, waiting for the punchline, the trap, the thing that will make this all fall apart.

But there’s nothing. Just his empty face, his hands shoved back into his pockets, his posture still too casual, too loose. “Take it,” he says, his voice firmer now.

I stare at him, waiting for the catch. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything else, just watches me with that same blank expression.

I want to ask him why. I want to demand answers, to scream, to cry, but I stay silent. The rules still feel too heavy, too ingrained, holding me back even now.

He steps closer, the air between us charged and sour, his tone tightening like a noose. “Let me explain something to you,” he says, his words clipped, cold, steady as a scalpel. He’s rehearsed this. It’s in the careful way he delivers each sentence, the calculation in his eyes, like he’s been waiting for this moment, sharpening it into a weapon. “If you go to the police, they won’t believe you. I’ll tell them you took the payment I gave you seven years ago. I’ll show them the messages. The ones where you agreed to do this. You came herewillingly.”

The words land heavy, stacking up in my chest like stones. My breath catches, my face burning cold as the weight of it presses

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down on me. He’s not wrong. I can already see the flickering courtroom fluorescent lights, the slow shake of heads, the disbelieving looks. The lawyer’s sneer as he holds up the messages like damning evidence.

“It won’t look good for you, Gia,” he says, and the sound of my name feels like a hook sinking into my skin. He’s using it now, softening his tone, trying to make it land just right. “You can take the money and live a great life, or you can spend years in court trying to convince people you were kidnapped and held against your will. Even then, you might lose. You’ll be worse off than you were when you got here.”

His voice is calm, rational, almost kind, like he’s offering me a way out, like he’s doing me a favor. But it’s the tone that scares me the most—the casual assurance that he’s won, that I’ve already folded. He steps back, his posture loose, his hand resting near the bag of money on the counter as if to say,Your choice.

I stand there, frozen, my body heavy and trembling, my mind spiraling in tight, endless loops. He’s right. Of course, he’s right. No one would believe me. I know how they treat women like me. They’ll see me for what he’s turned me into. I agreed to this.

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