Time seemed to warp in the sterile conference room. The hum of the projector fan sounded like a jet engine in Calleigh's ears.
She reached out and took the pen. The metal was cold against her skin.
Aria smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. She tapped her foot against the floor leg. Tap. Tap. Tap. Impatient. Victorious.
Calleigh moved her hand over the signature line. She could feel the heat of their gazes on her neck. They thought she was broken. They thought she was a frightened animal who would gnaw off its own leg to escape a trap.
Heinrich's voice echoed in her memory from the night before, his back turned to her as he dressed for a gala she wasn't invited to. Don't cause trouble, Calleigh. I don't have the patience for your episodes.
He treated her silence as a defect, not a defense mechanism.
Calleigh's grip on the pen tightened.
Then, she opened her hand.
The heavy pen dropped. It hit the glass table with a loud clatter, rolling to the edge and falling onto the carpet with a muffled thud.
The sound was shocking in the quiet room.
Pick it up, Gerri snapped.
Calleigh lifted her head. For the first time in three years, she didn't look at the floor, or her hands, or the wall. She looked directly into Gerri Lloyd's eyes.
Her pupils, usually dilated with feigned fear, constricted into sharp points of focus. The vacancy was gone. In its place was a cold, grey steel.
Slowly, deliberately, Calleigh shook her head.
The air left the room.
Joan gasped, stepping forward as if to physically force Calleigh's hand. Mrs. Holman, you-
Calleigh flinched back, a dramatic, jerky movement, but her feet shifted, balancing her weight. If Joan touched her, Calleigh would break her wrist. It would be instinct.
You want to go to the sanitarium? Gerri stood up, her chair scraping screeching against the floor. You think I'm bluffing?
Calleigh raised her hands. Her movements were fluid now, precise. She signed a single word in American Sign Language. Her fingers formed the 'L' shape, tapping her thumb to her chin and then her forehead.
Lawyer.
The moment her fingers formed the word, a look of pure panic washed over her face, as if the gesture had escaped her against her will. She immediately dropped her hands and shrank back, her eyes wide with feigned terror at her own audacity.
Aria laughed, a harsh, barking sound. You have a lawyer? You don't even have a bank account that I can't see. Your conservatorship belongs to Heinrich. He is your lawyer.
Calleigh didn't waste time explaining. She turned on her heel and walked toward the door. Her stride was longer now, faster.
Joan moved to block the exit. You can't leave until Mrs. Lloyd dismisses you.
Calleigh didn't stop. She raised her left wrist, tapping the face of her smartwatch three times in rapid succession. It looked like a nervous tic.
It wasn't.
It was a panic signal linked directly to the Lloyd family's private security firm-specifically, to the kidnapping protocol.
In the pocket of Gerri's blazer, a phone began to ring. A harsh, urgent tone.
Gerri pulled it out, frowning at the caller ID. It was Heinrich's head of security.
What? Gerri barked into the phone.
Ma'am, we received a distress signal from Mrs. Lloyd's device indicating unlawful confinement. GPS puts her at your location. NYPD is being notified automatically unless we get a clearance code from Mr. Lloyd.
Gerri's face went pale. She looked at Calleigh, who was standing inches from Joan, waiting.
If the police showed up here, at an off-the-books clinic, with a fake psychiatric report on the table... the scandal would be catastrophic. Heinrich would destroy Gerri for bringing that kind of heat to the family name.
Let her go, Gerri hissed at Joan.
Joan blinked, confused, but stepped aside.
Calleigh pushed the door open. She didn't look back.
You walk out that door, Aria called after her, her voice shrill with anger, and you are declaring war on this family. You will lose, Calleigh. You have nothing.
Calleigh stepped into the hallway and hit the elevator button. She jabbed it repeatedly, her composure cracking.
The doors slid open. She stepped in and hammered the 'Close' button.
As the doors sealed shut, Calleigh collapsed against the mirrored wall. Her legs gave out, and she slid down to the floor, burying her face in her knees. Her breath came in ragged gasps.
She had done it. She had defied Gerri.
But now the clock was ticking.
The elevator chimed at the lobby. Calleigh forced herself to stand. She smoothed her dress, wiped the moisture from her eyes, and walked out.
The driver opened the door to the Maybach.
No, Calleigh signed.
She turned and walked to the curb, raising her hand to hail a yellow taxi. It was an act of rebellion so pedestrian, so un-Lloyd, that the doorman stared at her with his mouth open.
A taxi screeched to a halt. Calleigh climbed into the backseat, the vinyl smelling of stale pine air freshener.
Where to, lady? the driver asked, eyeing her through the rearview mirror.
Calleigh pulled out a second phone from a hidden pocket in her dress lining. A burner. She typed a message and held the screen up to the plexiglass divider.
The Vault, Tribeca.
Up in the penthouse, Gerri watched the taxi merge into traffic from the floor-to-ceiling window.
She turned to Dr. Evans. Start the protocol.
But she didn't sign, Dr. Evans stammered.
I don't care, Gerri said. Schedule the egg retrieval for next week. We'll sedate her if we have to.
Aria swirled a glass of wine she had poured from the sidebar. I'll leak the psych report to the press tonight, she said. By tomorrow morning, she'll be too busy fighting off the paparazzi to notice us stealing her ovaries.
In the taxi, Calleigh reached up and peeled the contact lenses from her eyes. She blinked, revealing irises of a piercing, clear grey.
She looked at her phone. A message from Nate.
On my way.
She leaned her head against the cool window, watching the city blur by. She wasn't Calleigh the mute wife anymore. She was a woman with a target on her back, and she was done hiding.
