Page 3 of Peak Cruelty

Marlowe

S ome women run to stay thin. I run to stay free.

It’s early—barely six. The kind of morning that feels stolen, like I slipped out before the rules could catch up.

The air is sharp, clean, threaded with the citrus scent the gardeners blast through the hedges twice a week. The sky is the pale kind of blue that looks filtered. And for twenty-nine blessed minutes, nothing hurts.

Not my body. Not my face. Not the lie.

There’s no staff. No problems. No expectations.

Just me. And the rhythm of my feet buying time.

Until I see him.

At first, I think it’s a piece of trash in the ditch—some shredded bit of insulation or a sweater that got dragged out of a moving truck. But then it shifts. Tries to. A twitch, small and shaky.

I slow down.

Then stop.

Take a closer look. Bone-thin. Fur like rusted velvet. A puppy with one leg tucked under awkwardly, and one eye half-closed like he's too exhausted to keep the world in focus.

I crouch.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, like I’ve known him all my life.

He doesn’t move. Just stares, the way broken things do—like maybe I’m not worse than whatever came before.

I slide my hoodie off, wrap him in it, carefully. He makes a sound—not pain, not panic. Just...relief.

And I fall in love.

Not the kind you plan for—the kind that crashes into you, bleeding. The kind that makes you lie to everyone else just to be honest with yourself.

By the time I make it back to the house, I’m sweating, out of breath, and already Googling emergency vet clinics.

The staff entrance is unlocked. No one sees me slip through.

I head for the laundry room. It’s warm, quiet, hidden from view. I set him on a towel. He licks my hand, once, like he knows better than to get his hopes up.

“You’re okay,” I say. “You’re safe.”

I believe it, too. For maybe twelve whole seconds.

Then I hear his voice.

“Why are you tracking mud through the house?”

I turn. He’s leaning in the doorway like he owns the air. Button-down open at the throat, Rolex peeking out just enough to catch the light. “What in the?—”

“I found him,” I say. “He was dumped. He’s hurt.”

He looks at the dog like it’s a roach on the marble.

He sips his espresso. “I can see that.”

“I’m taking him to the vet.”

“No, you’re not.”

“He’s injured.”

“That’s not your problem.”

My mouth falls open. Not because I’m surprised—but because he means it. Because he delivers it in that special way of his that means there’s no room for compromise.

“You have enough on your plate,” he says with conviction. “And you’re slacking as it is. You owe me, let’s not forget that. The last thing you need is something else to take care of.”

He picks up his phone. Presses a contact without looking.

“There’s an animal in the laundry room,” he says. “Take care of it.”

That’s all.

I step between them. My body moves before I think.

“Don’t,” I say.

“Marlowe.” He’s calm as usual. Dismissive. “It’s a stray. It’s not your cause.”

“He’s not a cause. He’s alive.”

He looks at the dog. Tilts his head. “For now.”

He turns to leave, but pauses at the door. “Marco will be here in twenty minutes.”

It's always twenty minutes with him. Like misery should be efficient.

And then he’s gone.

No argument. No raised voice. Just a quiet sentence, like a countdown you didn’t hear start.

I stay where I am. Kneel beside the puppy. His eyes are barely open now, his breathing shallow, as though he knows exactly what a man like Robert means when he says “take care of it.”

I press my face to his fur and breathe.

This isn’t the first time something I love has disappeared in this house.

Eventually, I pick him up.

I carry him to the guest bathroom. Shut the door. Lock it.

Turn the water on—not because I need it, but because silence feels worse.

I lay him on a towel that cost more than my first car.

He doesn’t cry.

I do.

Not loud. Not much. Just enough to sting.

If I were smarter, I’d leave. I’d find a way out of this. Today. This minute.

But it’s bigger than me.

I’m tired.

And tired doesn’t scream. Doesn’t run.

It just keeps folding laundry and pretending not to notice the blood on the floor.