Chapter 53 On a timeline
The car is right where I left it. The afternoon air is cooling, but my skin feels flushed. I reach the car, my hand hovering over the door handle, ready to finally take control of this narrative.
Then I see it.
My hand slips off the metal. My heart restarts with a violent, sickening thud. I do a double take, blinking hard as if I can reset my vision, but the reality doesn't change. The front tire is flat. Not just low, not a slow leak...it’s been shredded. The rubber is splayed open. It’s a clean, deep and intentional slash.
"No, no, no."
I crouch slightly, hand brushing the tire. My breath stalls in my throat. I stand up too fast, then walk around the car once. Then again. The other tires are fine, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t fix anything.
"You've got to be kidding me," I whisper, my voice cracking. Someone walked onto my property, reached down, and took a blade to my car. The sound of measured, heavy footsteps crunching on the gravel breaks the silence. I turn, the blood rushing to my face so fast it makes my ears ring. George is walking toward me, his pace leisurely, his hands tucked neatly into his trouser pockets. He looks perfectly at peace, his expression calm, like I’m overreacting. Something in me instantly snaps.
“What the hell is this?!”
The rage that hits me is white-hot. This isn't just a power play anymore, it’s a violation.
"You..." I breathe out, my hands curling into tight, shaking fists at my sides. "You slashed my fucking tire?"
He stops a few feet away, his gaze drifting down to the ruined rubber before lifting back to mine. He doesn't look guilty. He doesn't even look smug. He just looks like a man who carried out an order.
"Bastian mentioned you might be stubborn about the commute," he says, his voice maddeningly calm. "He thought it best to remove the temptation of a... less reliable vehicle."
"Less reliable?" I roar, stepping toward him, the "careful, Kaden" text finally clicking into place like a sinister puzzle piece. "This is fucked up! You can’t just—” I gesture sharply at my car, my voice rising. "Tell your boss he’s a goddamn lunatic if he thinks this is how he gets me to cooperate!"
George doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even offer the courtesy of a defensive stance. With a slow, agonizingly casual tilt of his head, he gestures toward the mouth of the driveway. "I’m parked down there," he says, his voice as flat as the rubber on my front wheel. "Let's go."
I stare at him, speechless.
"Fuck no," I eventually snap, my voice trembling with a heat I can’t regulate. "And if you don't turn around and walk away, I’m calling the cops."
He sighs, a sound of pure exhaustion. "I don’t have the patience for a tantrum, Kaden. Someone will be by to deal with the tire. It needed to be replaced anyway, the tread was a safety hazard." He checks his wristwatch, the movement final. "We’re already running late. Start walking."
I feel the urge to swing at him, to see if I can actually crack that porcelain composure, but before I can even shift my weight, he moves. He steps toward my car, his hand dipping into his pocket. He pulls out a set of keys, but he doesn't use the fob. Instead, he rests the jagged, silver edge of a key against the paint of my driver’s side door.
The breath hitches in my throat. My eyes go wide, fixed on that sharp metal point.
"Start walking," he repeats, his voice dropping into something lower, something that sounds like the cold scrape of steel.
"You wouldn't dare," I hiss, though the conviction in my voice is dying a fast, painful death.
"You sure about that?" He applies a fraction of pressure. Not enough to drag it, just enough that I notice. My breath catches. Every nerve in my body spikes. I can almost hear the clear coat screaming. "Bastian is very particular about time. And don't get me wrong, I'd rather be doing literally anything else than playing chauffeur to you. But instructions are instructions."
He looks at me then, and for the first time, I see the sheer, robotic dedication in his eyes. He isn't a person right now, he’s an extension of Bastian’s will. He’s the physical manifestation of the fact that when Bastian wants the world to stop turning, it stops. He gestures toward the street again, a silent, mocking invitation. "Any time now."
I stand there for a heartbeat, caught between the urge to scream and the terrifying realization that I'm completely outmatched. I hate this guy. I hate his suit, I hate his watch, and I hate the way he makes me feel like a pawn in a game I never agreed to play.
"Asshole," I mutter under my breath, but I step forward. Because I’m not about to stand here and watch him carve into my car. Because apparently this is the level we’re operating on now. Because Bastian doesn’t ask, he arranges. George falls into step behind me like a shadow I can't shake. I reach the car, the door already clicking open as George bypasses me to take the driver’s seat. I slide into the back, the leather cool, and I just stare out the tinted window as my house disappears, wondering if I’ll even recognize the version of me that eventually comes back to it.
"We have to make a pit stop first," George announce.
I lean back into the expensive leather, a sharp, jagged laugh barking out of me. "Don't let my kidnapped schedule get in the way of your errands."
Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror. His are like twin pools of stagnant water....flat, composed and utterly unbothered. Mine are burning with enough fury to melt the tinted glass between us. I look away first, my chest tight. I hate that I’m a glutton for this specific brand of punishment, returning to the flame like a moth that’s already lost half its wings.
The pit stop is a storefront that looks like it belongs on a street where people pay for the air they breathe. We don’t even turn off the engine. A man in a crisp white shirt rushes out, a fancy looking bag in his hand. He hands it to George, who passes it back to me with the kind of indifference usually reserved for junk mail.
"What's this?" I ask, staring at the bag as if it might bite.
"I was meant to play shopping assistant while you tried on half the inventory," George says, shifting the car back into drive. "I suppose I should thank you. You saved me a very tedious afternoon."
Before I can shove the bag back at his head, the privacy screen begins to hum, sliding up like a guillotine blade. "Get changed," George’s voice comes through the speakers, muffled and detached. "We're on a timeline."