Page 7 of Broken Doll

I just split my life in two. Forever after this moment will be “before” and “after” I signed on the dotted line.

Wasn't this what I really wanted every time I tested the boundaries, seeking the ultimate thrill with risky situations?

Let’s be real —I’m the poster child for this kind of clandestine recruitment. If anyone was made for this kind of lifestyle, it was me.

But that's the problem, isn't it?

I think about Isaac. And I feel nothing.

Not even fear for what this means. Not even loyalty. Just the dull certainty that I could walk away, right now, and go back to that life untouched, unchanged—and it would kill me.

Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually, the slow, creeping death of mediocrity would sink its teeth in, and I'd wake up one day old and brittle, choking on regret.

God save me but I need this.

The danger. The unknown. The adrenaline humming beneath my skin, electric and sharp.

And yet?—

The room is silent, but it hums with something heavier than sound.

A trap disguised as an opportunity. A contract disguised as a life sentence.

My pulse is loud in my ears, a steady, insistent drum. I glance at the contract in my hand again. Like it's waiting for me. Like it knows I'll sign.

I wet my lips. Swallow. My throat is too dry.

This is fucking crazy.

I should walk out of this frozen steel box and pretend none of this happened. I should go home, slip back into my dull, easy life, let Isaac's oblivious arms wrap around me, let my body mold back into the shape of the woman I was before tonight.

Maybe I’ll pump out a kid. Or get a dog. Slip into the monotony of a suburban life bleached and sanitized of anything resembling fun, excitement, and spontaneity.

I should.

But I won't.

Because that woman? She's already gone.

She disappeared somewhere between the moment I was thrown into that SUV and the moment I realized I liked the feel of the door locking behind me.

Somewhere between the whispered threats in the dark and the offer that doesn't sound like a threat at all.

I want this.

Not just the money, the power, the thrill. The transformation. The idea that I can be something—someone—other than the bored wife, the woman who settled, the reckless slut chasing cheap highs in dimly lit clubs.

A new purpose. A new life. A new way to burn the world down.

But still.

Still, there's a tiny, fraying thread inside me—something fragile, something weak, something whispering.

You can't take this back. You can't undo this. You can't unmake yourself once you start.

My fingers twitch.

I flex them. Curl them. Try to steady my pulse, but my heart is a fucking riot in my chest, pounding against my ribs like it wants out.

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