Page 18 of Mortify

His eyes narrow dangerously. "Did you just question me?"

"I... Dylan, I love my job. I help people?—"

"You play dress-up in an ugly uniform and pretend to be important," he cuts me off. "It's embarrassing. When my colleagues ask what my girlfriend does, I have to admit you work? Like some common laborer?"

"I'm an EMT. I save lives." A spark of my old self flares, indignant.

"You're an embarrassment," he says flatly. "No woman of mine needs to work. You'll quit, and that's final."

"I can't just quit. They need me. We're already short-staffed?—"

"I don't give a fuck what they need." His voice drops, deadly quiet. "You seem to be forgetting how this works, Everly. You do what I say, when I say it. Or would you prefer I remind you?"

The threat hangs between us.

I know exactly what he means. Tuesday. 2 PM. Third floor.

"I'll... I'll think about it," I comment.

"No, you'll do it." He sets down his wine glass with careful precision. "This week. Tell them whatever lie you need to. Family emergency, health issues, I don't care. But you will quit."

"Dylan, please?—"

"Or," he continues as if I hadn't spoken, "I could have a chat with your brother. Heard prosthetics can be tricky. One wrong adjustment, one bad fall... Sixteen is so young to be paralyzed from the neck down, don’t you think?"

The wine glass shakes in my hand. "You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" He leans closer, breath hot on my face. "I warned you what would happen if you kept defying me. Actions have consequences, Everly. Your brother's already missing one leg. Want to see if he can function without the use of his arms, too?"

Bile rises in my throat. "I'll quit," I whisper, defeated.

"Good girl." He pats my cheek condescendingly. "See how easy that was? When you just... comply?"

I nod, not trusting my voice.

The wine glass weighs a thousand pounds in my hand.

"Now then," he says, standing abruptly. "Since you're here, might as well make yourself useful."

My stomach drops. I know that tone.

I know what comes next.

"Dylan, I'm really not feeling well?—"

"You never feel well when I want you," he snaps. "Funny how that works. Always some excuse. Headache, stomachache, tired. Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"No, I just?—"

He grabs my wrist, yanking me to my feet.

The wine glass falls, red liquid spreading across his pristine white carpet like blood.

The sight of it makes me freeze—he's obsessive about his apartment, about keeping everything perfect.

"Look what you did!" His face contorts with rage. "You stupid, clumsy bitch!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean?—"

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