Friday- Chapter 1
1050 Words
11:58 PM.
The Ashford Building was dark except for the top floor.
My car. Same driver. Same door that “knew” me.
Lucien’s office. Same desk. Different mess.
Papers everywhere. Red pen. Coffee gone cold. And him.
Shirt untucked. Tie gone. Hair a mess like he’d been dragging his hands through it for hours.
He didn’t look up when I came in.
“Put it there,” he said. Nodded to the desk.
I set down my draft. 22 pages. Control: Power Dynamics in Donor-Student Relationships.
About him. About us. About the car and the phone and the kiss.
He picked it up. Started reading.
Silence. Just the sound of pages turning and the city 12 floors below.
11:59.
12:00.
12:01.
“You’re late,” he said finally.
“You said midnight.”
“I said don’t be late,” he said. Looked up. Eyes red. “There’s a difference.”
He tossed the draft down. Red everywhere. More red than black.
“This is s**t, Maya.”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“This is you hiding,” he said. Stood. Came around the desk. “You wrote about donor-student relationships. You wrote about power. You wrote about me without writing about me.”
He picked up page 7. “‘The subject exhibits controlling behavior.’ Subject? That’s me. Say my name.”
He picked up page 14. “‘The female participant experiences isolation.’ That’s you. Say you.”
He dropped it. Stepped in close.
“You’re afraid,” he said. “Afraid if you write the truth I’ll use it. Afraid if you don’t, I’ll leave.”
“Are you going to leave?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He reached past me. Grabbed the red pen. Flipped to page 1. Crossed out my title. Wrote a new one in sharp, angry letters:
CONTROL: A CASE STUDY ON LUCIEN ASHFORD AND MAYA
“Rewrite it,” he said. “Tonight. Here. With me.”
“I can’t—”
“You can,” he said. “Because I’m not letting you leave until you tell the truth on paper.”
He pulled out the chair behind the desk. The big one. His chair.
“Sit.”
I did.
He stood behind me. Hand on the back of the chair. Close enough I could feel him.
“Start with Friday,” he said. “The dinner. Start with the kiss.”
My pen shook.
“Write,” he said. “Or I’ll write it for you.”
I wrote.
He kissed me at 9:47 PM. I didn’t stop him.
Lucien made a sound. Low. Approving.
“Good girl,” he said.
I froze.
He noticed. “Did that bother you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you said it at dinner. Before.”
He leaned down. Mouth by my ear. “And do you like it?”
I didn’t answer.
His hand came down on the desk next to mine. Not touching me. Trapping me.
“Answer me, Maya.”
“I don’t know.”
“Liar,” he whispered. “You do. You just don’t want to admit it to me. Or to yourself.”
He straightened. Walked to the mini fridge. Pulled out water. Set it by my hand.
“You haven’t eaten,” he said. “Again.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re lying again,” he said. “You’re always lying to me. About food. About sleep. About him.”
“Ben?”
“Ben,” he said. The name like acid. “He texted you today. 3:14 PM. ‘You okay? Haven’t seen you.’”
My blood went cold. “How do you—”
“I told you,” he said. “The phone. I see everything.”
He crouched again. This time he took my hand. Turned it over. Looked at the ink on my fingers.
“Write it,” he said. “Write that you’re scared of me. Write that you think about the kiss. Write that you checked your phone 6 times today hoping it was me.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did,” he said. “At 10:02. 11:30. 1:14. 3:45. 6:20. 8:55.”
I stared at him.
He smiled. Tired. Honest. “I’m not proud of it. But I’m not sorry either.”
He stood. Went back to his side of the desk. Sat.
“Finish chapter 1,” he said. “Then I’ll drive you home. Then you’ll sleep. Then you’ll come back tomorrow and do chapter 2.”
“What if I don’t come back?”
He looked at me. Really looked.
“Then I’ll come find you,” he said simply. “And we’ll do chapter 2 in your bedroom. With Aisha listening.”
The threat wasn’t loud. It was fact.
I wrote.
For three hours I wrote. About the car. About the phone. About his hands and my lies and the way he said “good girl” like a brand.
When I was done, it was 3:12 AM. 40 pages. All truth.
I slid it across the desk.
Lucien read it. Every page. No expression.
When he finished, he set the pen down.
“A-,” he said.
“What?”
“A-,” he repeated. “Because you still left out the part where you wanted it.”
He stood. Came to me. Held out his hand.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you home.”
In the car, he didn’t sit across from me. He sat next to me.
No touching. Just close.
At my porch, he didn’t get out.
“Sleep,” he said. “Don’t wear blue tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you in gray,” he said. “It matches the office.”
The door closed.
My phone buzzed.
L: You did good tonight. I’m proud of you.
Me: You’re terrifying.
L: I know. Sleep anyway.
I went inside.
Aisha was asleep on the couch.
I locked the door. Checked it twice.
Then I sat on my bed and reread chapter 1.
The truth. All of it.
And the worst part was, I didn’t hate writing it.
Tonight,he took the truth out of me.
- Writer
