Chapter 16

place of your own. Money. You wouldn't have to worry about anything." He was trying

to paint a picture of security, but it came out sounding like a description of a prison.

"A place of my own?" Angie echoed, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on her

lips. "And would this place of my own come with... a keeper? Someone who expects

me to be available at all hours, to cater to their whims?" She was not asking; she was

stating, laying bare the true nature of his proposition with a precision that was

unnerving. She was holding up a mirror to his intentions, and he didn't like the

reflection he saw.

Silas's jaw tightened. The illusion of control was slipping. He had intended to lure her

with promises of freedom, but she had twisted his words, exposing the underlying

subjugation. "I'm offering you a way out, Angie," he said, his voice sharp, impatient.

"Not a prison. It's your choice."

"Is it?" Angie replied, her voice remaining steady, her gaze unwavering. She took a

clean glass and began to polish it, her movements still economical, precise. "Because

it sounds like you've already made the choice for me. You've decided what I deserve,

what I need. You've decided that I'm someone who needs 'helping' by you." She

paused, letting the implication of his condescension settle. "And that's not the kind of

help I'm looking for, Silas."

She was subtly disarming him. By not reacting with fear, by responding with logic and

pointed questions, she was dismantling his carefully constructed image of power. He

was used to people cowering, begging, or trying to appease him. Angie was doing

none of those things. She was engaging him on an intellectual level, a playing field he

rarely frequented and felt increasingly outmatched on.

He leaned back, a flicker of anger in his eyes. "You're being foolish, Angie. You're

throwing away a golden opportunity."

"Am I?" she asked, her voice still soft, but now with an edge of something that felt like

amusement. "Or am I simply recognizing that the 'golden opportunity' you're offering

is, in fact, made of lead? Heavy, suffocating, and ultimately, worthless." She placed the

polished glass on the shelf with a soft click. "You see me as a bird trapped in a cage,

Silas. And you think you're offering me the key. But you're mistaken. I'm not the bird.

I'm the one who built the cage."

The statement landed with a quiet thud, a stark contrast to the boisterous

atmosphere of the club. Silas stared at her, a dawning, unwelcome realization

beginning to dawn. He had seen her as a creature of instinct, easily swayed by desire

or fear. He had failed to recognize the calculated mind behind the placid exterior. He

had been so focused on his own predatory instincts, he had completely overlooked

the fact that he was walking into a meticulously laid trap.

He remembered the way he had instructed Boris to engage Maya, creating a

diversion. He glanced towards the entrance, a faint unease stirring. Boris was

supposed to keep Maya occupied, to prevent her from interfering. But as he scanned

the room, he saw no sign of Boris, nor of Maya. His usual enforcer was nowhere in

sight, and Maya, the ever-vigilant shadow of Angie's back, was conspicuously absent.

Then, a small, almost imperceptible movement caught his eye. Across the bar, near

the service exit, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was a man he recognized, a

small-time informant he sometimes used for discreet information gathering. The man

was holding a small, dark object, and he exchanged a subtle nod with Angie before

melting back into the darkness. Silas didn't know what the man had given her, but the

fact that she had made contact, had orchestrated a clandestine exchange while he

was busy congratulating himself on his own cunning, sent a fresh wave of unease

through him.

Angie, sensing his heightened attention, offered another of those unnerving, small

smiles. "You know, Silas," she said, her voice regaining a touch of its earlier softness,

but now laced with a chilling knowingness, "sometimes the hunter becomes the

hunted. It's all about perspective, isn't it?" She gestured subtly towards the dim alcove

near the service exit. "And sometimes, the best way to get rid of a shadow is to step

into the light, where it can't follow."

Silas's eyes followed her subtle gesture. He saw the faint outline of a security camera,

discreetly mounted above the alcove. A camera he hadn't noticed before, one that

Silas, in his arrogance, had never bothered to investigate. He realized with a jolt that

his earlier monologue, his veiled threats and boasts, had likely been recorded. His

attempt to isolate Angie, to corner her, had instead provided her with irrefutable

evidence of his intentions.

He felt a cold dread creep up his spine. He had been so preoccupied with setting his

own trap, so confident in his ability to manipulate Angie, that he had failed to notice

she was the one guiding him, step by careful step, into hers. The rough edges of his

plan, the crude manipulations of Boris and the staged argument, were all part of

Angie's strategy. She had used his own predictable methods to her advantage, turning

his brute force into a weapon against him.

The "minor commotion" he had orchestrated on the other side of the club, the staged

argument between his paid regulars, had also been a part of Angie's plan. She had

used the distraction to her advantage, to facilitate the exchange with the informant,

to ensure that his clumsy attempts at diversion only served to facilitate her own

counter-moves. He had thought he was conducting an orchestra of his own making;

in reality, he had been a clumsy pawn in a far more intricate game.

He looked back at Angie, and for the first time, he saw not a timid barmaid, but a

strategist. Her calm demeanor wasn't meekness; it was control. Her quiet observation

wasn't fear; it was reconnaissance. He had seen what he wanted to see, had projected

his own desires onto her, and in doing so, had completely underestimated the depth

and cunning of his opponent. He had set a trap for the hunter, and the hunter, it

seemed, had been waiting for him all along. The game was far from over, but the

tables had just been turned with a silent, devastating precision. He had walked into

her world, believing he was in command, only to discover he was merely a piece on

her board, moving exactly where she intended him to go. The air, which had seemed

thick with his dominance, now felt heavy with his impending downfall. The carefully

constructed facade of his power was beginning to crack, revealing the vulnerable man

beneath. And Angie, the supposed prey, was the one holding the hammer.

The air in Angie's small apartment in South Central was thick with a different kind of

tension than the smoky haze of the club. Here, it was a palpable energy, a hum of

preparation that vibrated through the worn linoleum floors and the thin walls. Silas

had seen it as a humble dwelling, a place of transient occupation, a pit stop before the

grander life he envisioned for her. He saw peeling paint, a sputtering radiator, the

evidence of a life lived on the margins. He was blind to the fortress, the meticulously

crafted sanctuary she had been building, not with bricks and mortar, but with an

intimate knowledge of its every secret.

Angie moved through the familiar space with a practiced grace, her senses sharpened,

her focus absolute. She knew the exact spot on the third floorboard from the doorway

where a careless step would betray an intruder. She knew the precise angle of the

evening sun that cast a deceptive shadow by the window, a perfect blind spot for

observation, or for an ambush. Every scratch on the doorframe, every water stain on

the ceiling, was a map to her territory, a testament to her resilience. Silas's arrogance

had painted her as a victim, a pawn to be moved, but he had underestimated the quiet

power of someone who understood their own domain with an almost primal instinct.

This apartment wasn't just a place to live; it was an extension of herself, a shell that

held a core of steel, ready to be unleashed.

She wasn't stocking it with weapons in the conventional sense, no gleaming firearms

or heavy clubs. Her arsenal was more subtle, more insidious. It lay in the precise

placement of furniture, the way a seemingly innocuous rug could be tripped over with

devastating effect, the strategic arrangement of objects that could be used as

improvised tools, or even as distractions. She tested the locks, not just the main door,

but the small, often-overlooked latch on the fire escape window, the flimsy bolt on

the closet door. Each click, each turn of a key, was a silent affirmation of her control.

She was transforming her vulnerability into a weapon, her perceived weakness into a

strength that Silas, in his macho world, would never comprehend.

The neighborhood itself, South Central, was a crucial element in her strategy. Silas

saw it as a mark of her desperation, a further testament to her need for his "rescue."

He associated it with grit, with struggle, with the kind of people who were easily

overlooked, easily dismissed. For Angie, it was a cloak of anonymity, a place where the

comings and goings of a single woman making subtle adjustments to her

surroundings would go unnoticed, unremarked upon. The cacophony of street life –

the distant sirens, the shouts, the blare of car horns – was a symphony that drowned

out the quiet preparations happening within her walls. It was a world that embraced

the shadows, and Angie was learning to dance within them.

She remembered the stories her grandmother used to tell, not of grand battles, but of

clever women who used their environment to their advantage. The way a carefully

placed bucket of water could deter a trespasser, the way a strategically placed mirror

could reflect light into an attacker's eyes, blinding them long enough to escape. These

were not the tactics of a brute force, but of intelligence, of observation, of a deep

understanding of human nature and the predictable patterns of aggression. Silas

operated on the assumption of immediate confrontation, of a direct, physical power

play. Angie was preparing for a different kind of war, one fought with wits, with

foresight, and with the very environment he disdained.

She examined the electrical wiring, not with a technician's eye, but with a

homeowner's understanding of potential vulnerabilities. A tripped circuit breaker

could plunge a room into darkness, creating confusion, chaos. A loose outlet, a flicker

of lights – these were not just annoyances, but potential levers of disruption. She

thought about the small, overgrown garden patch in the back, a forgotten space that

Silas would likely dismiss as overgrown weeds. But Angie saw it differently. She saw

the thorny bushes that could snag, the uneven ground that could trip, the dense

foliage that could conceal. It wasn't a garden; it was a natural defense, a living barrier.

Silas's perception of her was the foundation of her plan. He saw a woman trapped,

desperate, looking for an escape. He saw his offer of "protection" as a benevolent

gesture, a lifeline thrown to a drowning soul. He never considered that she might be

strong enough to swim, or even more importantly, that she might be capable of

building her own sturdy raft, and perhaps, even steering it towards a different shore

entirely. He was so consumed by his own vision of her, by his own desire to possess

her, that he had failed to see the woman who was actively, deliberately, and with

chilling precision, preparing to defend herself.

The memory of his patronizing tone, the way he'd described her current life as

"sordid," echoed in her mind. He had spoken of luxury, of comfort, of a life free from

the struggles he perceived. But his "comfort" was control, his "luxury" was ownership.

And Angie, who had clawed her way through life with nothing but her own grit and

intelligence, knew the true value of freedom. It wasn't about gilded cages, no matter

how comfortable they might be. It was about the ability to chart her own course, to

make her own choices, and to defend that autonomy with every fiber of her being.

She walked over to the window, peering through the dusty panes at the street below.

Cars rumbled past, their headlights casting fleeting shadows on the opposite building.

The sounds of the city, usually a source of comfort, now seemed to amplify the

isolation of her preparations. But it was a chosen isolation, a necessary prelude. She

wasn't hiding from Silas; she was preparing to meet him on her terms, in her territory.

She was turning her sanctuary into a trap, and Silas, in his eagerness to capture his

prize, was walking right into it. The hunt was on, but Angie was no longer the rabbit.

She was the wolf, patiently waiting in her own den.

She considered the small, chipped ceramic bowl on the kitchen counter, filled with

what appeared to be an assortment of keys and loose change. Silas would dismiss it as

clutter, the detritus of a disorganized life. But Angie knew that amongst those keys

were the ones to her reinforced back door, the ones she had painstakingly sourced

from a local locksmith who asked no questions. The seemingly random assortment of

objects was a carefully curated collection of potential tools, disguises, and escape

routes. She was a magician, not of illusions, but of the mundane, transforming the

ordinary into the extraordinary, the seemingly insignificant into the strategically vital.

Her mind replayed his words, "I could set you up." The insinuation was clear: he

would provide, he would control. He saw himself as a provider of necessities, a

dispenser of favors, a man who could grant her access to a world she couldn't

otherwise reach. He failed to grasp that Angie's true wealth lay not in material

Chapter 17

possessions, but in her resourcefulness, her resilience, and her unyielding will to

survive. She had survived worse than Silas, and she would survive him too, by turning

his assumptions against him, by using his own arrogance as the instrument of his

downfall.

She ran a hand along the cool metal of the radiator, testing its sturdiness. It was old,

worn, but it was bolted firmly to the wall. A potential anchor point. A place to secure

something, or someone. She pictured the dimly lit hallway outside her apartment, the

way the shadows clung to the corners, creating pockets of unseen danger. Silas relied

on brute force, on intimidation. But Angie understood that true power lay in control,

in anticipating every move, in creating a labyrinth from which escape was not just

difficult, but impossible.

The scent of brewing coffee, a familiar comfort, filled the small kitchen. She poured

herself a cup, the warmth a welcome sensation against the growing chill of her

resolve. Silas saw her as a creature of habit, predictable in her routine. He believed he

knew her rhythms, her weaknesses. But he didn't see the subtle shifts, the calculated

deviations. He didn't see the woman who was actively rewriting her own script, who

was using the very predictability he observed to her advantage, to lure him into a false

sense of security.

She remembered the night she first acquired the heavy-duty deadbolt for her main

door, the one that made a satisfying, resounding thunk when it engaged. She had

installed it herself, the unfamiliar weight of the tools in her hands feeling surprisingly

natural. It was a small act of defiance, a silent declaration that she was taking matters

into her own hands. Silas thought he was the one offering a lock and key to a better

life. He didn't realize she was already forging her own.

The apartment, once a refuge, was now a strategic staging ground. Each object, each

architectural detail, was being assessed, cataloged, and repurposed. The worn

armchair by the window, which he'd likely dismiss as a piece of cheap furniture, could

become an obstacle, a vantage point, or even a weapon if needed. The flimsy curtain,

easily brushed aside, could be reinforced, made into something that could obscure

vision, or even provide a temporary barrier. Angie was creating a battlefield, and Silas

was walking into a war he hadn't even begun to understand. His perception of her as a

passive recipient of his power was the fatal flaw in his plan. He saw a victim; he was

about to face a survivor, a strategist, a woman who knew her sanctuary intimately,

and was ready to defend it with every ounce of her cunning. The South Central

apartment, dismissed by Silas as insignificant, was about to become the heart of a

storm he was woefully unprepared to weather. It was a sanctuary, yes, but for Angie,

it was also the ultimate weapon.

The air in the small apartment was a coiled spring, each breath a prelude to an

inevitable release. Maya's eyes, wide and darting, scanned the room as if searching for

an escape route through the very walls. She gripped Angie's arm, her knuckles white,

her voice a frantic whisper. "Angie, we have to go. Now. We can't stay here. He'll find

us. Silas will find us."

Angie met Maya's gaze, her own eyes holding a steady, unnerving calm amidst the

rising tide of Maya's panic. She squeezed Maya's hand, a silent reassurance that did

little to quell the tremor in her friend's fingers. "Run where, Maya? And then what?

He's not going to stop. Running just delays the inevitable, and it leaves us with

nothing."

"Anything is better than this!" Maya's voice cracked, a desperate plea escaping her

lips. "We can leave everything. Our jobs, this apartment, this city. We can just

disappear. We can go somewhere... anywhere. Somewhere he won't look. Somewhere

he can't reach us." Her gaze flitted to the window, as if Silas's shadow might already

be lurking there, a predatory silhouette against the fading light. "He's obsessed, Angie.

You can feel it. It's like a sickness, and we're caught in it. He'll never let us go, not until

he has what he wants."

Angie's gaze remained fixed on Maya, a flicker of sympathy in her steady eyes, but her

resolve was unshakeable. "And what does he want, Maya? He wants to control us. He

wants to own us. If we run, he'll just see us as something to be recaptured. He'll hunt

us with even more fervor. Running is giving him exactly what he wants – to be the

pursuer, and us, the pursued." She pulled her arm gently from Maya's grasp, her voice

softening but firm. "He thinks he owns everything he desires. He's mistaken. This city,

this life, it's ours. And I'm not giving it up without a fight."

"A fight?" Maya scoffed, a hollow sound that echoed the emptiness she felt. "What

kind of fight? He has power, Angie. Money, connections... he can crush us. He can

crush you. You've seen what he's capable of. You've told me the stories. He's not just

some... some admirer. He's a predator." Tears welled in Maya's eyes, tracing clean

paths through the dust that had settled on her cheeks. "My mom, she always said,

'When the wolves are at the door, you don't try to reason with them, you run.' Please,

Angie. Let's run. Before it's too late."

Angie walked to the window, looking out at the familiar, gritty streetscape of South

Central. The sounds of the city – a distant siren, the rumble of a passing car, the faint

chatter of voices from an open window – usually a comfort, now seemed to amplify

the isolation of their predicament. "Your mom was right, Maya. When the wolves are

at the door, you run. But what if you've already been running your whole life? What if

you've run so far and so fast that the only thing left is to turn around and face them?

What if the only way to truly escape is to stop running, and instead, build your own

defenses, brick by brick, choice by choice?"

She turned back to Maya, her expression earnest. "Silas thrives on fear. He thrives on

the idea that we're helpless, that we need him. If we run, we confirm that belief. We

tell him that he's right, that we're too weak to face him. But we're not. You're not. And

I'm certainly not." Angie gestured around the small apartment, her voice imbued with

a quiet strength. "This place, it might not be much to Silas. He sees peeling paint and

worn furniture. He sees poverty, a sign of our desperation. But I see a sanctuary. I see

a fortress. I see a place that knows my secrets, and that I know even better."

Maya shook her head, her fear a tangible barrier between them. "You're talking about

fighting him here, in this... this box? He'll overwhelm us. He'll break down the door.

He'll... he'll hurt us." The last word was barely a whisper, a confession of the deepest

dread that gnawed at her. She imagined Silas's imposing figure, his icy stare, the sheer

force of his will, and a wave of nausea washed over her. "He's not just a threat to us,

Angie. He's a threat to everything we've tried to build. And I don't want to lose it all. I

just... I want to be safe."

"And safety, Maya, isn't always found in running away," Angie countered, her voice a

low hum of conviction. "Sometimes, safety is found in standing your ground. In

making a space so inhospitable, so dangerous for the predator, that they choose to

look elsewhere. Silas thinks he's hunting a scared rabbit. He doesn't realize he's

cornered a cornered badger. And badgers, when they're cornered, fight back with

everything they have."

She moved to the small table by the window, picking up a heavy, chipped ceramic

mug. She turned it in her hands, her fingers tracing the imperfections. "He sees this

as a symbol of our struggle. He sees it as a reason why I should accept his 'generosity.'

But I see it differently. I see a tool. I see a weapon. I see the life I've built with my own

two hands, and I'm not going to let him tear it down because he feels entitled to it."

Maya hugged herself, shivering despite the stuffy air. "But... what about what he

wants? You're talking about fighting, but he's not just going to let us. He's coming for

Chapter 18

you, Angie. He's made it clear. He sees you as... as property. And when he realizes

you're not going to be easily acquired, he'll get angry. He'll get violent." The thought

sent another wave of fear through her, the primal instinct to flee screaming in her

mind. "Please, Angie. Just say yes. Let's just go. We can start over. We can find new

jobs, new lives. We can be free from this."

Angie looked at Maya, her heart aching for her friend's terror, but her resolve

hardening like tempered steel. "Freedom, Maya, isn't a place you run to. It's a state of

being. It's the refusal to be dictated to, to be owned, to be controlled. Silas offers a

gilded cage, a life of comfort in exchange for our autonomy. He thinks he's offering us

a way out of hardship, but he's really offering us a different kind of prison. And I'd

rather fight for my own messy, difficult freedom here, in a place I understand, than

live in his perpetual servitude."

She walked towards Maya, placing a hand on her shoulder, her touch firm and

grounding. "He's coming, yes. I know he is. And he's going to expect me to cower, to

beg, to run. He's going to expect me to be the woman he's always seen me as – weak,

dependent, desperate. But he's wrong. I'm not that woman anymore. And you're not

that woman either." Angie's gaze softened, a plea in her own right, but one for

courage, not for flight. "Don't you see, Maya? If we run, he wins. He gets to define us

as victims. But if we stay, if we fight, if we show him that this space, our space, is not

to be trifled with... then we win. We reclaim our power. We show him that he can't

just take what he wants. We show him that we are more than he ever imagined."

Maya's breath hitched, the desperate plea still on her lips, but her eyes, though filled

with fear, now held a flicker of something else – a dawning realization, a nascent

spark of defiance. The weight of Angie's conviction pressed upon her, a heavy

counterpoint to her own overwhelming dread. She wanted to believe Angie, to trust

in this defiant strength, but the specter of Silas, the embodiment of his power,

loomed large in her mind, a terrifying counterargument to Angie's unwavering

resolve. The chasm between running and fighting felt immense, a gulf that Maya, in

her current state of fear, found almost impossible to bridge. Angie's plea for defiance

was met with Maya's desperate yearning for safety, a conflict that hung heavy in the

charged air of the apartment, a testament to the deeply entrenched fears that Silas

had so effectively cultivated.

The silence that had descended upon Angie's apartment wasn't the peaceful quiet of a

night's rest, but a taut, breathing stillness that seemed to hold its breath. It was the

kind of quiet that settled just before a storm truly broke, when the wind died down

and the sky turned a bruised, ominous shade of grey. Maya, still trembling, had finally

sunk onto the worn sofa, her eyes glued to the window as if expecting Silas's imposing

figure to materialize from the twilight. Angie, however, moved with a deliberate,

almost unnerving calm. She poured them both glasses of water, the clink of the ice a

sharp, isolated sound in the oppressive hush.

"He's not going to burst through the door tonight, Maya," Angie said, her voice low

and steady, offering the glass to her friend. "Not yet. He's too... theatrical for that. He

likes to build the tension, to let us stew in our own fear. He wants us to know he's

coming, to feel the walls closing in." She took a slow sip of her own water, her gaze

sweeping across the room, not with fear, but with a keen, assessing eye. Every

shadow, every creak of the floorboards, was noted, cataloged, and filed away. This

wasn't the passive waiting of someone caught in a trap; it was the active observation

of a hunter assessing her territory.

The familiar cacophony of South Central, usually a comforting balm, seemed muted,

distant, as if the entire neighborhood was holding its breath along with them. The

usual late-night music spilling from open windows was softer, the boisterous laughter

of kids playing stickball had long since faded, replaced by the occasional, solitary bark

of a dog. Even the perpetual hum of traffic on the distant boulevard felt subdued, as if

the city itself was listening, waiting for the inevitable clash. It was as if Silas's

presence, even from afar, cast a palpable shadow over everything, muting the vibrant

pulse of life that Angie usually found so invigorating.

Angie walked over to the window, her movements fluid and unhurried. She wasn't

looking for escape routes; she was observing the terrain. The streetlights cast long,

distorted shadows that danced and writhed, creating phantoms where none existed.

But Angie saw through the illusion. She saw the chipped paint on the fire escape, the

overflowing bin at the corner, the usual late-night stragglers making their way home.

It was all familiar, all part of the tapestry of her life, a tapestry she was now

determined to defend. Silas might see it as a testament to her lack of ambition, a sign

of her vulnerability. Angie saw it as her battleground, her domain, and he was the

intruder.

"He thinks he's already won, you know," Angie murmured, her voice barely disturbing

the silence. "He's probably sitting in his opulent office, or his sprawling mansion,

toasting his impending victory. He's picturing me, cowering, packing my bags. He's

picturing you, begging me to run. He's got it all mapped out, his little chess game. He's

moved his queen, expecting the king to crumble." She turned from the window, a

faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips. "But he's forgotten one crucial

thing. This isn't a game of chess. It's a street fight. And I've been fighting on these

streets my whole life."

Maya watched her, a mixture of awe and terror warring in her eyes. Angie's

composure was a stark contrast to her own spiraling anxiety. It was as if Angie had

tapped into a reservoir of strength Maya didn't know existed. "But... how can you be

so sure he's not coming? What if he's just waiting for us to lower our guard? What if

he's watching us right now, right outside that window?" The paranoia was a

suffocating blanket, and Maya could feel herself gasping for air within it. Every flicker

of light, every unexpected sound, sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through her.

"He is watching, Maya," Angie confirmed, her gaze steady. "He's always watching. But

he's not watching for a scared rabbit. He's watching for a fight. He wants to see me

flinch. He wants to see me crack. And that's exactly what he's not going to get. This

quiet... this is me gathering my strength. This is me sharpening my claws. This is me

preparing for the moment he decides to make his move." She walked over to a shelf

crammed with old vinyl records, her fingers brushing over the worn spines. "He

thinks his power lies in money and influence. He thinks that's the only currency that

matters. He's wrong. Power comes in many forms. It's the knowledge of the streets,

the loyalty of your people, the unwavering belief in your own worth. And Silas... Silas

knows nothing about any of that."

The air in the apartment seemed to thicken, each moment stretching into an eternity.

Angie's focus was absolute, her mind a whirlwind of strategy and anticipation. She

was not just waiting for Silas; she was actively preparing for his arrival, dissecting his

likely tactics, anticipating his every move. She ran through the layout of the club in

her mind, noting every entrance, every exit, every potential hiding place, every

vantage point. She visualized the network of allies she had cultivated over the years,

the people who owed her favors, the people who would stand with her, not because

they were paid, but because they believed in her. These were the invisible defenses

Silas couldn't even comprehend, let alone breach.

"He'll try to isolate me," Angie mused, more to herself than to Maya, her voice a low

hum of thought. "He'll try to turn people against me, spread lies, create discord. He'll

use whatever leverage he has – threats, bribes, veiled promises. He'll want me to feel

alone, abandoned. That's his favorite tactic, isn't it? To make people believe they have

no one but him." She picked up a heavy, ornate paperweight from a small desk, its

polished surface reflecting the dim light. She turned it over and over in her hand,

aint, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips. "But he's forgotten one crucial