Page 34 of Under His Control

I lay my palms on the table, staring at my phone and tablet in rising alarm.

Communication access, financial access, my identity, and my artwork, which is a source of income. That’s my whole life on two devices within his grasp, far away from mine.

My free will under his control.

I glare at him. “Give me back my things.”

He ignores me. “When it looked like I might lose to you and your mother, I researched prison life to see what would be waiting for me. I learned new inmates go through an intake process. During this process, they take your belongings, your clothes, and perform a strip search. Stand up and remove your clothes.”

I don’t know what to say at first. I can’t even move except for my eyes and lips opening wider.

“Jacob…” I breathe out. “What you made me do last night was inappropriate. What you’re asking me to do now is worse. Way worse!”

He scowls. “For the next two weeks, you’ll immediately follow my orders. Protesting is disobedience. What happens when you disobey me?”

Three strikes, you’re out.

I stare at him with wide eyes then dart a glance at my devices.

Would he stop me if I grabbed my things and left?

I doubt it. He would be better off if I did. I would be worse off if I did. After my struggle to get back home, I’d soon be “kneeling and cleaning” for Cedric Rourke. A lot more than that too.

Jacob’s implication is clear. I’m not his maid. I’m his prisoner. The barbed wire fence discouraging my escape is the worse reality waiting outside the warden’s house.

I rise unsteadily. The chair legs scraping on the wooden floor is loud in the tense silence.

I don’t want to do this.

I can’t.

My lips part to plead with Jacob again. The determined glint in his eyes and his forbidding expression makes me close my mouth.

“Protesting is disobedience” is the sort of thing a dictator would say, and dictators don’t listen to pleas for mercy.

With shaking hands, I peel off my shirt then hold it up to my front. My skin is warm from embarrassment and Jacob’s unwavering stare.

“Are you really going to help me when the two weeks are up?” I ask, my voice shaky.

“That’s a pointless question. If I say no, you’ll be out the door. If I say yes, you won’t know whether or not I’m telling the truth.”

“I’ll believe you if you say yes. Please. I just need to know that this game you’re playing will be worth it in the end.”

“This isn’t a game, Penelope.” His voice is as hard as his expression. “This is my way of doing what the justice system didn’t do—punish you. Not just because of the harm you caused me, but how your lies might have harmed others.”

“What others?”

“The many women who actually suffer sexual assault. Do you know what my lawyer said to me? What made him confident at first my case would be an easy win?” He scoffs and shakes his head. “He said, ‘Less than ten percent of rape accusations lead to a conviction.’

“It’s so low because victims often aren’t believed. They don’t have enough proof. Their motives are called into question. What do you think happens when there are false accusations of sexual assault? It reinforces suspicion when a real accusation comes along, and makes it harder for a deserved conviction to happen.”

Fresh, overwhelming guilt floods me with discomfort. All these years, I’ve been so focused on how my actions hurt him, I never considered how it hurt others too.

What I did was so destructive, it’s hard to accept it can’t be fixed. I can’t go back in time and resist my mother’s pressure to lie for her.

A sudden spike of hate for her rises in my chest. How could she do that to me? I was just a kid. Her kid. She forced me to do something terrible for selfish reasons, and now she’s dead while I’m still alive, stuck with constant guilt and shame.

Then that spike returns to its baseline of resentment. In the end, Mom didn’t get off easy.