When The Puppet Falls For The Puppeteer

Strings and Satin

Myra

"Hey."

I froze.

That voice—smooth, sharp, unmistakable—cut through the quiet hum of the library like a blade. My heart stuttered as I glanced over my shoulder. Marcus. He stood behind us, hands tucked casually into his jacket pockets, his gaze unreadable but heavy.

I was sitting across from Ash, mid-conversation, her eyes still animated from whatever joke we were sharing just seconds ago. Lately, things had been... calm. Maybe it was the team's grueling practice schedule, maybe I had gotten better at disappearing. Whatever it was, the past few days felt almost normal. I had managed to catch up on schoolwork and even started fumbling through college applications.

Ash and Dan were on a mission to get into the same colleges. Of course. Dan would follow Ash to the ends of the earth, and if Ash ever admitted how deep her feelings ran, maybe she'd stay, too. But she won't—not yet. She still doesn't trust herself to trust him. I understand that kind of fear all too well.

Me? I haven't applied yet. I am not able to build the courage to apply to one university that I actually wanted. NYU. I wanted to enroll for literature there. But every time I dream about leaving Riverbridge, my mind circles back to Marcus. To what he'd allow.

Yes, allow.

Last night, Ash had gone on a full rant—passionate, furious, almost shaking. "Who the hell is Marcus to have a say?" she snapped. "He's not your boyfriend, Myra. He's not your dad. He's not even your friend. Why do you think about what he wants before breathing? You are writing that application to NYU right now"

I didn't have an answer. Because she was right. I don't want to live like this. But Marcus has built himself into the cracks of my life so deeply, sometimes I forget where he ends and I begin. His control—his voice—is the white noise in my head. A constant hum.

When I heard him, I panicked. Reflex. I minimized all my laptop tabs about NYU in one sweep. Ash didn't miss it. She gave me a sharp look and then rolled her eyes so hard, it was a miracle they stayed in her skull.

"Hey," I said, turning, trying to steady my voice. I forced a small, practiced smile. Polite. Soft. Obedient.

His eyes scanned me, then flicked to Ash, who had suddenly gone very still.

"I need you to come to my house after school," he said.

Not a question. A statement. A command.

I swallowed. "Okay. Can I... know why?"

"Because I said so. Isn't that enough?"

My breath caught. I nodded quickly, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. I knew that tone—calm on the surface, coiled with threat underneath. Across from me, Ash gripped her pen so tightly her knuckles whitened. She twisted it slowly, deliberately, like she was willing it to snap. I saw the effort in her face—holding back the words that wanted to burst out. She had promised me she wouldn't fight him. Not for my sake. Not again.

"Um—I—I'll come," I managed.

"I won't be able to drop you. I have practice."

"That's okay," I said too quickly. "I brought my car."

He nodded. "Good. Then go straight there."

He started to walk away, but then paused, noticing Ash's murderous expression. She looked like she wanted to hurl the pen at his skull.

"And before Ashley dies here—" he said dryly, plucking the pen from her fingers, "—I have senators and their spouses over for dinner tonight. I need you to oversee it. There's no one else I can trust for this."