The apartment was too quiet.
By 11:47 p.m., the city lights beyond the fourteenth-floor windows blurred into a glittering haze. I sat at the new desk in the study, thesis draft spread across the surface like evidence at a crime scene. My hair was still damp from the shower. One of Shawn’s soft charcoal shirts hung loose on my shoulders—I’d stolen it from the closet without asking. It smelled like him, and that was dangerous.
I highlighted another line in my draft.
“Coercive Leverage in Modern Contract Structures: Consent Under Economic Pressure.”
The words stared back at me, mocking.
I had written this months ago, back when the concepts felt theoretical. Now every paragraph felt like a mirror held up to my own life.
Section 3.2: When one party controls essential resources (housing, f
