I Am Not Your Pawn Anymore

Three days.

Anaya lay curled on the floor near the foot of the massive king-sized bed. Her throat was parched, her lips cracked and dry. She hadn't eaten since they locked her in.

The silence of the room was broken only by the muffled sounds coming from the living room down the hall. Laughter. The pop of a cork.

Champagne.

They were celebrating. The merger must have gone through. Adele Townsend was probably out there, clinking glasses with Barrett, her perfectly manicured hand resting on the sleeve of his undoubtedly replaced, custom-tailored shirt.

A sharp pain radiated through Anaya's chest. It wasn't heartbreak. It was physical. Her heart, weakened by days of stress, dehydration, and the crushing weight of impending doom, was giving out.

She tried to crawl toward the door. Her fingernails scratched against the hardwood floor, leaving faint, white trails.

I can't die here, she thought. Not like this.

Her vision blurred. Black spots danced in front of her eyes, merging until the room was swallowed by darkness. She heard the lock click.

The door opened. Light flooded in, blinding her.

Barrett stood in the doorway. He held a document in his hand.

"Anaya?" he said. He sounded annoyed, not concerned. "Get up. The lawyers are here."

She tried to lift her head, but it was too heavy. She saw him step closer, his shadow elongating, turning into something monstrous.

Devil, she thought.

With the last ounce of strength in her body, she reached into her sleeve. She had hidden a broken piece of a plastic pen there, a pathetic weapon. She thrust it toward him.

Her hand moved through empty air. Her body convulsed once, then went limp.

"Anaya!" Barrett's voice changed. Panic? It didn't matter.

The darkness took her.

GASP.

Anaya shot up in bed, her lungs sucking in air with a violence that made her ribs ache.

She clutched her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Thump. Thump. Thump. It was beating. It was strong.

She was sweating. Her pajamas were soaked, clinging to her skin.

She looked around wildly.

This wasn't the penthouse. The walls were painted a soft, peeling cream. The window was small, covered by cheap plastic blinds that let in slices of bright, morning sunlight. The air smelled of old coffee and dust, not lavender.

Her apartment. Her old apartment in Brooklyn.

She scrambled for the nightstand, her hands shaking so hard she knocked over a glass of water. It shattered, but she ignored it. She grabbed her phone.

She pressed the home button. The screen lit up.

May 12th.

The year... it was three years ago.

Anaya stared at the date. She unlocked the phone, locked it, and unlocked it again. She pinched her arm, hard. Pain bloomed, sharp and real.

It wasn't a dream. Or maybe the last three years had been the nightmare.

The phone in her hand buzzed, vibrating against her palm.

The screen flashed a name: BOSS.

Barrett.

Her thumb hovered over the green button. It was muscle memory. Pavlovian conditioning. Barrett calls, Anaya answers. For ten years, she had been his shadow, his fixer, his doormat.

Pick it up, her brain screamed. Apologize for being late.

Then, the phantom sensation of the cold floor under her cheek returned. The sound of Adele's laughter. The suffocating darkness of that bedroom.

Anaya's hand recoiled as if the phone were a burning coal.

She stared at the screen as it rang. And rang. And rang.

It went to voicemail.

The silence that followed was deafening. It was the loudest sound she had ever heard.

She stood up and walked to the tiny bathroom. She turned on the faucet, splashing freezing cold water onto her face. She looked up at the mirror.

The woman staring back was younger. The dark circles under her eyes were gone. There was life in her skin. But the eyes... the eyes were different. They weren't the soft, hopeful eyes of a girl in love. They were hard. Flinty.

She remembered today. May 12th.

This was the day Barrett was going to announce his engagement to Adele Townsend. He was going to ask Anaya to coordinate the press release. He was going to ask her to pick out the ring.

A cold, cruel smile touched her lips.

"Not this time," she whispered to her reflection.

The phone buzzed again. A text message.

Barrett: Where are you? Bring the Townsend files. Now. The board is waiting.

Anaya looked at the imperative command. The arrogance of it. He thought he owned her. He thought she was just a piece of office furniture that had temporarily misplaced itself.

She typed a reply. Her fingers moved steadily, without a hint of a tremor.

Anaya: I quit.

She hit send.

Then, she held down the power button. She watched the screen go black.

She tossed the phone onto the bed and pulled her suitcase out of the closet.