“Is there a problem, Blythe?” Atlas’s voice is low, unreadable, but there’s something beneath it. It could be frustration, or maybe anger. It’s impossible to tell. Either one will land a smack across my face if I miscalculate the moment.

I’ve seen it before—how quickly annoyance turns into something worse. How a clipped breath, a slight twitch of a jaw, the way a man’s hands tighten at his sides can be the only warning before the world tilts sideways.

I push away from the desk, keeping my movements controlled. Small, measured. If I move too fast, if I let him see the panic rising up my throat, I’ll lose the one thing I have left—control over my own escape.

“I don’t need the job this bad,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. I turn away, heading for my purse, the only thing I own that hasn’t been taken from me. “You can keep it.”

Silence stretches between us, thick enough to choke on. I don’t look back. If I make it to the door, I’ll walk away, forget this place, forget him. I can figure something else out. I always do.

Then he speaks, and every muscle in my body locks up.

“See, that’s the thing.” His tone is different now, measured. Calculated. “If you don’t fill this out now, I’m calling the sheriff.”

I freeze mid-step.

His words slam into me with the force of a strike. My breath falters, my fingers gripping the strap of my bag so hard it digs into my palm.

He wouldn’t.

Would he?

I turn back slowly, keeping my face neutral, but my pulse is a wild drumbeat against my ribs. “You mean your brother,” I say, hoping the words come out steady, but there’s a tremor beneath them.

Atlas doesn’t blink.

I met his brother yesterday, along with his sister-in-law. They both seemed nice, he was kind, but maybe they were too kind. Now I wonder if it was a trick, a setup. Get me comfortable, make me think I’m safe, then push me out the second I let my guard down. Maybe I was never meant to last here. Maybe they wanted me gone from the start.

I should leave.

I should get out of here before I make this worse.

But then it happens.

The scent of bacon hits me again, thick and greasy, and nausea rolls through me so violently it’s like my body is rejecting the entire moment, the entire town. My stomach twists, and I know before it happens that I won’t make it to the bathroom.

The second I lurch forward, my knees go weak, my vision tunnels, and I brace for the impact of hitting the floor. But it never comes.

Atlas is there.