Page 11 of The Secretary Volume II

And her?She’s about to buy in.

She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s already ours.

She hesitates, gripping her phone like she’s waiting for a last-minute intervention.Maybe a bank alert reminding her she can’t afford this.Maybe a tiny shred of common sense screamingdon’t do it.But desperation is a hell of a salesman.

I see it in the way her fingers tighten around the lease agreement, her lips pressing together like she’s trying to convince herself this is smart.Responsible.Necessary.

It isn’t.

But it’s exactly what I need her to do.

I like this part—watching people make the choices that lock them in.That’s the real power.Not coercion, not force, justnudgingthem toward the inevitable.

She takes a breath.Then another.And then, with a final glance at her reflection in the leasing office window, she steps inside.

Game on.

11:57 AM.Right on schedule.

She’ll sign that lease.She has no choice.She hitAccepton the Shergar invitation, then she accepted the job.Just as he knew she would.And now, she needs a place to live.

That car of hers isn’t a long-term solution—no respectable employee rolls into work smelling like stale drive-thru grease and failure, pulling wrinkled blouses from the trunk like a sorority girl after a walk of shame.

This is what he loves.Watching them box themselves in, choice by choice, until the walls close in.Until they think they’ve done it to themselves.

He likes this part even more than the breaking.

It’s been three days since her interview.Three days since she walked out of Shergar and found thatlittle messagewaiting for her in her inbox.Three days of no response.No follow-up.No confirmation beyond that sterile HR welcome email.

And now, with her finances circling the drain, she’s betting onusto be real.

Bold move.

I tilt my head, considering.She doesn’t strike me as reckless.A little cynical, yes.A little too sharp to be easily swayed.But not reckless.

Still, the choice is hers.That’s what matters.

She’s signingbecause she wants to.Because she thinks she’s taking control.Because, in some dark, twisted way, she’s convincing herself she’s winning.

I smile at the thought, rolling a cigarette between my fingers.

By the time she realizes what’s really happening, it’ll be too late.

11:59 AM.

Still inside.

I light the cigarette, exhaling slowly as I glance out the window.

Across the street, a barista dumps a bucket of ice into the storm drain.A dog walker wrestles with a leash tangled around his legs.A girl in yoga pants scrolls mindlessly through her phone while her latte sits untouched.

The world goes on, blissfully unaware of howvery, very interestingLena Blackwell is about to become.

12:01 PM.

The door opens.

And there she is.

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