Page 273 of His To Erase

I sit on the edge of the bed and breathe. I know—deep down—that once I sign those papers, I’m done. He won’t need me anymore. Maybe he’ll kill me. Maybe he’ll keep me locked up, perfectly preserved in some psycho version of Stepford Wife prison.

Hell, I’d sign the papers right now if it meant I could go home. I don’t even want any of this. I highly doubt he’d believe me if I tried telling him any of that though. I just want to sit on my couch, read a book, and eat stale popcorn. I just want to pretend none of this ever happened.

I don’t want any of it.

And I sure as shit don’t want him. But that’s irrelevant, isn’t it? Because what I want has nothing to do with it. He doesn’t care if I love him or loathe him—just as long as I sign on the dotted line.

Have you ever looked at yourself and realized you’re not inside your life anymore? You’re just watching it—like a movie you didn’t audition for—burning down behind a sheet of glass you can’t break.

Yeah, that’s me right now.

Hi. I’m Ani. But you might as well call me Alice, except this Wonderland doesn’t have talking animals or tea—it has guards with guns and a dress that fits a little too well for comfort.

The knock at the door is soft. “Five minutes,” someone says through the wood. “Be ready.”

For what, exactly?

Surely he’s not actually planning a wedding the same day we land. I mean—doesn’t he need a florist? A schedule? Maybe a psych evaluation?

The footsteps outside are already retreating, leaving me alone once again with my thoughts. It’s the kind of silence that sinks into your ribs and makes itself at home.

This is the part where I wish I could say something brave. Something clever. Something that sounds like survival. But the truth is, I don’t feel brave. I feel tired. Shaky. Hollow in places that used to be sharp. My heart's thudding like it’s trying to punch its way out of my ribs, and all I can think about is how fast everything unraveled.

I hate that I’m considering it. I hate that for one split second, I wonder if it would be easier to stop fighting. To just give in. To let them put the mask on me and pretend I belong here.

But I don’t. And I never fucking will.

I clench my jaw, curling my hands into fists, and stand. Sure, maybe I don’t remember everything yet, but I know this much, I’d rather walk straight into hell with my middle fingers up than stand here and pretend I’m not already burning.

Putting on the dress feels like surrender, and I hate that, but I do it anyway because what else am I going to do? Refuse and get slapped again? Yeah, no thanks. I’m too hot to have my cheek permanently dented from that fuckers hand.

My hands shake as I pull on the dress. It settles around me like it knows it doesn’t belong—clinging to my skin, molding to every inch like smoke with claws. The shoes are worse. I hateheels. They’re strappy, stiff, and tight in all the wrong places. These were clearly designed to look delicate while cutting off your circulation.

Which is perfect, all things considered.

There’s no clock in this room either, but I know it’s been at least five minutes. I sense the footsteps before I hear the boots coming down the hallway.

The bolt clicks and two new guards stand in the doorway. One gives a stiff nod. The other steps forward and extends a hand, like we’re about to dance. I stare at it, trying my best to hold in the laugh that’s coming up my throat. I try to walk right past, keeping my chin held high.

“Careful,” I mutter as they fall in on either side of me. “Wouldn’t want me tripping and signing the wrong name.”

Neither of them reacts.Tough crowd.

They don’t let me walk ahead—not really. One stays close at my back, the other half a step in front, boxing me in like I’m something fragile or dangerous.

We move past rooms I barely remember. I walk slowly, memorizing every step. Luckily I used to live here, so I’m sure I know where all the good hiding spots are, if I need them.

The main hall is cloaked in shadows. Literally. Only a few wall lamps are lit, like they’re trying to conserve electricity—or add to the dramatics. Either way, it’s too quiet.

I don’t know what I expected. Maybe music. Champagne. An altar made of bones. Something appropriately theatrical for the horror of it all. I don’t know, effort?

Instead, there’s a man at the long table in a grey suit with wire-rim glasses and a neat stack of papers in front of him. No one says it, but I know who he is. At least I think it’s safe to assume he’s either the lawyer they were talking about earlier, or the one who’s going to make all this official.

No one even looks at me when I walk in.

Frank stands off to the side, one hand around a glass of whiskey, with the smug calm of a man who thinks he’s already won. He’s not smiling, not exactly. It’s worse than that—he’s content, and he looks like he’s already tasting the victory.

I stop at the edge of the table but I don’t sit. Instead, I cross my arms on instinct.