Page 20 of When Love Found Us
I don’t have a social security number.
I mean, I do.
But if I write it down, if I let those numbers exist anywhere outside my head, he’ll know. And if he knows, maybe Winston will, too. Maybe this will be the thing that tips him off, that puts him back on my trail, that unravels everything I’ve done to disappear.
“Is there a problem, Blythe?” Atlas’s voice is low, unreadable, but there’s something beneath it. It could be frustration, or maybe anger. It’s impossible to tell. Either one will land a smack across my face if I miscalculate the moment.
I’ve seen it before—how quickly annoyance turns into something worse. How a clipped breath, a slight twitch of a jaw, the way a man’s hands tighten at his sides can be the only warning before the world tilts sideways.
I push away from the desk, keeping my movements controlled. Small, measured. If I move too fast, if I let him see the panic rising up my throat, I’ll lose the one thing I have left—control over my own escape.
“I don’t need the job this bad,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. I turn away, heading for my purse, the only thing I own that hasn’t been taken from me. “You can keep it.”
Silence stretches between us, thick enough to choke on. I don’t look back. If I make it to the door, I’ll walk away, forget this place, forget him. I can figure something else out. I always do.
Then he speaks, and every muscle in my body locks up.
“See, that’s the thing.” His tone is different now, measured. Calculated. “If you don’t fill this out now, I’m calling the sheriff.”
I freeze mid-step.
His words slam into me with the force of a strike. My breath falters, my fingers gripping the strap of my bag so hard it digs into my palm.
He wouldn’t.
Would he?
I turn back slowly, keeping my face neutral, but my pulse is a wild drumbeat against my ribs. “You mean your brother,” I say, hoping the words come out steady, but there’s a tremor beneath them.
Atlas doesn’t blink.
I met his brother yesterday, along with his sister-in-law. They both seemed nice, he was kind, but maybe they weretookind. Now I wonder if it was a trick, a setup. Get me comfortable, make me think I’m safe, then push me out the second I let my guard down. Maybe I was never meant to last here. Maybe they wanted me gone from the start.
I should leave.
I should get out of here before I make this worse.
But then it happens.
The scent of bacon hits me again, thick and greasy, and nausea rolls through me so violently it’s like my body is rejecting the entire moment, the entire town. My stomach twists, and I know before it happens that I won’t make it to the bathroom.
The second I lurch forward, my knees go weak, my vision tunnels, and I brace for the impact of hitting the floor. But it never comes.
Atlas is there.
His hands catch me before I collapse, his grip strong but not punishing, one hand curling around my arm, the other pressing against my back as I double over, choking on the bile rising in my throat. Heat rolls over my skin, my stomach flipping as I retch, my entire body trembling from the force of it.
Humiliation washes over me in thick, suffocating waves.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to disappear, to shrink into nothing, to not exist in this moment where I am weak and exposed and utterly helpless. I hate this. Hate how my body betrays me, hate that I can’t even leave with dignity, hate that I have to stand here with him witnessing all of it.
His grip tightens just enough to keep me upright, and I wait for it—the recoil, the disgust, the moment he pulls away like I’m something to be scraped off his shoe. But it doesn’t come.
Instead, his voice is quieter than before. “Blythe, are you okay?” It’s so soft, almost caring—disarming.
I shake my head, swallowing hard, my throat raw.What are you doing? This guy can just snap you like a twig and destroy you faster than Winston did.
“I’m fine.”
