The pain in my hands had become unbearable. Tiny stones and dirt particles had embedded themselves in the cuts, making each movement a fresh agony. I straightened up, my back aching from the awkward position, and reached for my first aid kit.
"Just a little break?" Baylee's voice cut through the air like a whip. She stood watching me, her perfectly manicured hands resting on her hips, designer sunglasses shielding her eyes from the morning sun.
"I need to bandage my hands," I said quietly, opening the small medical kit. "They're bleeding pretty badly."
"Such a shame," she replied, but there wasn't an ounce of sympathy in her tone. She turned away, walking toward the small stream that ran along the edge of the property.
I wrapped a bandage around my right hand, wincing as the gauze stuck to the raw skin. The brief respite from pain was interrupted by the sound of sloshing water.
"Here's something that might help you appreciate what real struggle looks like," Baylee announced, returning with a large bucket filled with murky water.
Before I could react, she was directly above me, her smile vicious and triumphant.
"I thought this might cool you off," she said, tipping the bucket.
The liquid cascaded over my head and down my back. It wasn't just water—it was thick with mud and had a sickening organic smell that made my stomach turn. Animal waste from the nearby stream mixed with dirt and God knows what else.
I gasped, unable to stop myself from crying out as the cold, filthy mixture soaked through my clothes to my skin.
"Much better," Baylee said, setting the empty bucket down. "Now you look like someone who's actually working." She pulled out her phone, snapping photos of me standing there, dripping and humiliated.
"You're documenting this?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the pounding of blood in my ears.
"Christian wants daily reports on your progress," she replied innocently. "I'm just showing him how you're learning to appreciate hard work."
She gestured to the hole I'd been digging. "Back to work. Unless you'd prefer I tell Christian you're too soft and entitled for outdoor work?"
I returned to the hole, my clothes heavy with mud, my bandages instantly ruined. Each handful of dirt I removed was a reminder of what was happening here—and what would soon change.
---
The next morning, Baylee arrived earlier than usual, a large wooden box in her hands.
"I brought you some natural motivators," she announced, setting the box down near where I was working.
"What are those?" I asked, though something in her smile made me dread the answer.
"Local wildlife," she replied, lifting the lid just enough for me to glimpse movement inside. "Snakes and rats. Nothing too dangerous—just enough to keep you alert."
My blood ran cold. "That's not necessary."
"Oh, but it is." She opened the box wider, and I caught a glimpse of scales and fur before she tipped the container, releasing its contents into the tall grass surrounding my work area.
A rustling sound made me freeze. Something slithered through the grass mere inches from my foot—a snake, its pattern distinctive enough that I recognized it as one of the venomous varieties native to the area.
I scrambled backward, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Problem?" Baylee asked, watching me with undisguised pleasure.
"That's dangerous," I managed to say, eyeing the area where the snake had disappeared.
"Life is dangerous," she replied with a shrug. "Now get back to work. Exactly where you were before."
I hesitated, scanning the ground around me.
"If you're refusing," she said, pulling out her phone again, "I'll have to report your cowardice to Christian. He should know you lack the character needed for important work."
Slowly, I returned to the spot, every sense on high alert for the slightest movement or sound.
---
Over the following days, Baylee's campaign against me became increasingly systematic and dangerous. She sabotaged my water supply, leaving me parched under the relentless sun. She forced me to work through a severe thunderstorm, watching from her car as lightning flashed overhead.
"Christian says adversity builds character," she called out as rain soaked me to the bone.
Each evening, she sent him detailed reports—accompanied by photos and videos—about my "character development" and "learning to appreciate honest work."
Today, she'd brought something new—a container of food that smelled rancid.
"Lunch," she announced, tossing it at my feet. "Don't say I never give you anything."
I opened the container cautiously. The sandwich inside was clearly spoiled, the bread moldy and the filling discolored.
"Eat up," she urged, recording with her phone. "I want to show Christian how grateful you are for even the simplest meals."
As I stared at the inedible food, something shifted inside me—a resolve hardening like steel being forged in fire. Soon, very soon, the tables would turn. And when they did, Baylee Stewart would learn exactly what happened when you pushed Katherine Reed too far.
