Page 17 of Peak Cruelty

Marlowe

H e wheels me into the sunroom like I’m a guest with mobility issues and nowhere else to be.

Straps still on. Curtains still open. Light everywhere.

It’s beautiful.

That’s the part I hate.

Two armchairs. One low table. Fresh flowers. A carafe of water with lemon slices that haven’t browned.

This is a house that anticipates needs I didn’t ask to have.

“Poor Rachel,” I’d said on the way back from our excursion.

But I didn’t mean it the way he thought.

I meant— Poor Rachel , missing all of this.

He slows near the table, makes a half turn like he’s considering something else.

Then changes his mind.

Locks the wheels.

Then crouches again. Same level. Same proximity.

“If you need anything,” he says, “I’ll be in the next room.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Like what? A gun?”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.

“You’ll figure it out.”

He leaves. No threat. No slam. Just the kind of silence men use when they’ve run out of intelligent ways to communicate.

It’s fine. He’s not exactly what you’d call a great conversationalist. Let him wonder what I’m doing. Let the silence work both ways.

The straps are soft but firm—hospitality dressed as restraint.

The air in the sunroom is warmer than the rest of the house. The windows trap it. The heat clings.

The water is sweating in the glass pitcher.

A single lemon seed floats like it’s waiting for rescue.

I shift, testing how much give there is. Not enough to stand. Just enough to adjust my spine. The chair gives a mechanical creak, louder than it should be. I stay seated. Not out of fear—just because trying to get up when I know it’s impossible feels like giving him something.

I glance around. No cameras I can see. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.

And even if there aren’t—he’s still waiting to see what I’ll do. In his mind, I never leave the frame.

Across the glass, the ocean doesn’t care what room I’m in.

That’s probably the only honest thing here.

A breeze moves through the window crack. It smells like salt, heat, and whatever passes for conscience in a house like this.

My eyes drift shut for a second. Not from peace. Just the absence of obligation. No texts. No emails. No questions I don’t want to answer.

And no Ava.

That part sneaks in.

Quick. Sharp.

I tighten my jaw until it fades again.

At some point, I realize I’ve stopped thinking about escape.

Not forever. Just for today.

Because right now, no one’s asking me to make a phone call.

No one’s telling me to smile.

No one’s dropping hints about my weight or my “ambition problem.”

Right now, I’m not anyone’s wife, or aunt, or failure.

I’m just a woman in a sunroom, wearing clothes I didn’t choose, strapped to a chair I didn’t ask for.

And for the first time in a long time—no one expects anything from me. Sure breakfast was subpar, and my company sucks, but it’s not all bad. I’ve had worse vacations.

Time passes. The sun moves like it has somewhere better to be.

I track the sounds: A cabinet closes, slow and careful.

A floorboard creaks overhead.

Waves hit rock—steady, heavy, close.

The breeze shifts across my skin. It’s almost peaceful.

He’s underestimated how comfortable I can be in captivity.

I shift again, stretch my fingers out over the armrest until I can just barely reach the edge of the table.

Not to grab the water.

Just to prove I can.

When I hear him coming down the hall—soft soles, no urgency—I settle back into the chair and close my eyes like I’ve been resting the whole time.

Let him wonder what else he’s missed.

And how much more I’m willing to let him get wrong.