Page 59 of His Orders

One line.

You can go now. 412 Whispering Pines Lane. Fifteen minutes.

That’s it. No signature. No warning. Just a command, casual and cruel, like he already knows what I’ll do. Because he does.

I dial his number. He picks up on the second ring.

“How do you know I’m alone?” My voice is quiet but firm. I want him to hear the control I’ve clawed back, even if it trembles around the edges.

There’s a pause. Then laughter, low and full of disdain, rolls through the receiver like a storm gathering at the edge of a calm sea.

“Oh, Ivy,” he says softly, the way one might speak to a child who hasn’t yet learned her place. “You really don’t understand what I’m capable of, do you?”

I grip the phone tighter, knuckles whitening.

“I’ve always known where you are,” he continues. “What you eat. What you wear. Who you talk to. And now, who you sleep with.”

My heart clenches.

“I’m giving you the chance to end this the easy way,” he says, voice dropping into something darker, more calculated. “Don’t make me change that.”

The line goes dead.

I’m already on my feet, the croissant untouched, my stomach twisting with nausea and fear. I move through the café like I’m underwater, the warmth of the bakery clinging to my coat as I step outside into the frigid brightness of late December. The world moves around me, cheerful and unaware. Somewhere down the block, a brass quartet starts to playO, Holy Night. I walk faster.

The cab driver doesn’t say a word when I give the address. I sink into the back seat, pressing a hand to the low curve of my belly. The baby is still. Quiet. But I whisper to her anyway.

“It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

Whispering Pines Lane is half-forgotten by the city, a place where time seems to slow and even the streetlights flicker morecautiously. The office park is a graveyard of glass and concrete, its faded signs and cracked asphalt the only witnesses to the deal I’ve just made with myself.

The cab pulls away. I’m alone.

The air is colder here, sharp against my cheeks as I step into the lot. The building ahead looms in silence, three stories of shuttered windows and faded glory, like a corporation that once believed it would last forever and collapsed under the weight of its own ambition. The parking lines are barely visible beneath a thin dusting of snow. A single black car sits in the center, idling.

He’s already here.

My boots crunch over the icy gravel as I cross the lot, each step measured. I keep my arms wrapped tightly around myself, both for warmth and for courage. The scent of pine drifts faintly through the wind, mingling with something else—oil, smoke, memory.

The car door opens.

And Daniel steps out.

He looks exactly the same and somehow worse. The coat is new. The smirk is not. His eyes gleam with satisfaction, like a man who just watched a checkmate unfold exactly as he planned. He opens his arms like he expects me to fall into them.

“Ivy,” he says, as if the last two years were just a dream I had while napping in his arms.

I don’t move. I don’t speak.

He drops his arms and walks toward me slowly, his shoes barely making a sound on the gravel. When he reaches me, he pauses,head tilted like he’s studying a painting he hasn’t quite decided whether to buy again.

“You look tired,” he says. “But beautiful.”

I keep my chin lifted. “This ends here.”

His smile twitches.

“I’m not going with you, Daniel.”

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