When The Puppet Falls For The Puppeteer

No way out

Myra

I moved toward the parking lot, only to stop dead. My car wasn't there. What the fuck? I fumbled through my bag, shoving notebooks aside, checking the small zipper compartment, then the main one again. No keys.

"What the—" I started, but the deafening roar of a matte black Ferrari cut me off.

I turned.

And there he was. The engine growled like something alive, vibrating through the asphalt. He wasn't looking at me, not directly—but he didn't have to. The silent warning was loud enough.

My fist clenched tighter around my bag. So that's how my car went missing. That's how my keys went missing.

He accelerated slightly, then let the engine settle into a low, simmering purr.

No words.

Just the quiet click of the passenger door unlocking.

He was waiting.

I stood frozen for a second, every nerve in my body screaming not to give in. But fear has a way of curling itself around your spine. And just like that—like the coward I swore I wasn't—I got in.

The door clicked shut behind me. Too soft. Too final.

My heart kicked inside my chest. I reached for the handle. Useless. I was locked in—with him.

He didn't say a single word. No music. No taunts. Not even a glance in my direction. He just drove. Focused. Controlled. Knuckles tight on the wheel.

Not toward my house. Not toward his. But away. The roads grew quieter. Trees replaced buildings. The sky was a muted grey, and the air between us thickened until it became hard to breathe.

"Where are we going?" I asked, finally, trying to keep my voice steady.

He didn't answer.

Just drove farther out, until there were no streetlights, no houses. Only woods and shadows and cold air thick with silence.

Finally, he turned down a narrow dirt path and parked near the old water tower on the edge of town—the one no one visited anymore. Weeds clawed at the rusted frame, and everything smelled like metal and secrets. The tires crunched over gravel as we sat in thick silence again. The heater was on, but I was frozen.

I could feel his eyes flicker toward me, studying me, weighing the distance between us.

He hadn't said anything but the silence was worse. It was strategic. Marcus didn't need volume to be dangerous. He just needed a moment alone with you and your fear.

And he had both.

He killed the engine. My fingers curled into fists.

"I don't want to do this here," I said quietly. Marcus turned to me slowly, his body still, but his eyes burning. "No. You don't want to do this at all," he said. "But here we are."

I turned to face him, holding my ground. "Say what you want to say, Marcus. Then let me go."

His jaw ticked. "You humiliated me."

"I stood up for myself."

"In front of people," he said through gritted teeth. "You disrespected me like I was nothing."

"You grabbed me, you manhandled me. In the hallway. Like you owned me."

"I do own you."

The words landed like a slap. Not loud. Not cruel. Just... matter-of-fact. As if it were truth.

As if it were obvious.