I Am Not Your Pawn Anymore

Ting Er Xiao Ling

Barrett handed me a Montblanc pen and a legal document, his voice as cold as the rain lashing against his Tribeca penthouse. He told me to sign an admission of guilt for an SEC violation I never committed. "Eighteen months in prison, Anaya," he said, adjusting his cufflinks without looking at me. "The trust fund is set up. You'll get twenty million dollars the moment you step out." I was being sold. The man I had loved for ten years, the man whose secrets I had kept, was trading my freedom to save his merger with Adele Townsend. He had scrubbed the digital logs of Adele’s illegal trades and pinned everything on me. When I refused, he didn't see my heartbreak; he only saw a malfunction in a business transaction. "Do not speak her name," he hissed when I mentioned Adele’s fraud. "This merger is bigger than you." He forced the pen into my hand, calling me dramatic while his security guards dragged me to a locked bedroom to "cool down." I spent three days parched and starving, listening to the muffled sound of champagne corks popping down the hall. They were celebrating my destruction. My heart finally gave out in that luxury cage, the darkness swallowing me as I realized I was nothing more than a disposable asset to him. I died in that room, alone and betrayed by the person I trusted most. How could he do this? How could a decade of loyalty be worth less than a stock price? Why did I let him treat me like a sacrificial lamb for so long? GASP. I shot up in bed, my lungs burning, but I wasn't in the penthouse. I was in my old, peeling Brooklyn apartment, and the date on my phone was May 12th—three years ago. My phone buzzed with a text from Barrett: "Where are you? Bring the Townsend files. Now." A cold, cruel smile touched my lips as I typed the reply that would start his nightmare. "I quit."

Modern Crime Revenge

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The fountain pen felt like a lead weight in Anaya's hand. It was a Montblanc, heavy, black, and cold-just like the man standing by the floor-to-ceiling window.

"Sign it, Anaya. We're running out of time."

Barrett Meyers didn't turn around. He was adjusting his cufflinks, his silhouette sharp against the gray, storm-battered skyline of Tribeca. The rain lashed against the glass, a chaotic rhythm that matched the thumping in Anaya's ears.

She looked down at the document on the mahogany desk. Admission of Guilt regarding SEC Violation 10b-5.

It was a lie. All of it.

"Two years," Barrett said, his voice flat, devoid of the cadence that usually charmed boardrooms. "With good behavior, you'll be out in eighteen months. The trust fund is set up. Twenty million dollars, accessible the moment you step out of the facility."

Anaya's stomach twisted. A violent, physical rejection of his words rose in her throat. She looked at his back. The broad shoulders she had leaned on. The neck she had kissed.

"You're selling me," she whispered. Her voice cracked, dry and brittle.

Barrett finally turned. His face was a mask of perfect, icy control. He glanced at her trembling hand, and she saw the flicker of annoyance in his eyes. He didn't see her pain; he saw a malfunction. A delay in the transaction.

"I am protecting the company," he corrected her, walking toward the desk. "And I am compensating you for your sacrifice. It's a transaction, Anaya. Don't make it emotional."

"Adele," she said. The name tasted like ash. "Adele Townsend authorized the trades. Her signature is on the digital logs. You scrubbed them."

The air in the room dropped ten degrees. Barrett stopped. He placed his hands on the edge of the desk, leaning in. He was using his height, his presence, to suffocate her. It was a tactic she had seen him use on competitors a thousand times. She never thought she would be the target.

"Do not speak her name," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "This merger is bigger than you. It's bigger than us. If Adele is implicated, the Townsend deal collapses. The stock tanks. I won't let that happen."

"So I go to prison."

"You get twenty million dollars."

Anaya let out a laugh. It was a short, sharp sound, devoid of humor. It sounded like something breaking.

"You think I'll survive prison?" she asked. She stood up. Her knees knocked against the heavy desk, a dull thud that vibrated up her thigh. "With what I know? With the secrets I hold for this family? I won't make it to the first parole hearing, Barrett. You're not sending me to jail. You're sending me to the slaughterhouse."

Barrett's jaw tightened. He reached out, grabbing her wrist. His fingers were warm, but his touch sent a shiver of pure terror down her spine. He tried to force the pen back into her hand.

"Sign the paper, Anaya. Stop being dramatic."

The touch triggered it.

The memory of the future-or the fear of it-flashed before her eyes. Gray walls. Metal bars. A shank made of a toothbrush handle. The coldness of a concrete floor.

Her pupils contracted. Her breath hitched, trapped in her chest.

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