Page 71 of Their Arrangement

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The laces were pulled too tight. My spine arched in the wrong direction. My muscles shook.

Still nothing.

I bit back a sound.

Not because I didn’t want to cry.

Because I didn’t want to make noise.

Noise meant vulnerability.

Noise meant someone might hear.

And if someone found me here—sweating, crumpled, shaking—they’d win.

I’d become the punchline in every whisper down the hallway.

The girl in Wolfe Lawlor’s corset.

The one who tried to survive inside it—and couldn’t.

I blinked hard.

Pressed the back of my head to the wall.

And whispered, “Just breathe.”

But breathing hurt.

Because this wasn’t mine.

This wasn’t power.

This was control—worn like silk.

And I’d put it on anyway.

And now I couldn’t get it off.

My ribs burned. My spine ached. Every inhale was a punishment I’d agreed to. And maybe that was the worst part—how willingly I’d stepped into the trap. How beautiful it had looked when he dressed it around me.

How safe I’d felt inside a cage.

The lace bit harder the longer I sat.

I shifted.

The pressure didn’t ease. It climbed.

Claustrophobic. Flesh-bound. Precision-cut agony.

I reached behind me. Once. Twice. My hand slipped against the satin boning. Couldn’t find the edge.

Couldn’t find myself.

I choked on a breath I couldn’t take fully.

“Please…”

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