Chapter 3: Watcher Within

The Morrisons did not rent the three-bedroom.

I could not blame them. It was hard to focus on square footage and closet space when the woman showing you around was completely naked, her body on display with every gesture she made toward the kitchen island or the master bath. Mrs. Morrison had stared at my breasts the entire time, her mouth slightly open, while Mr. Morrison had pointedly looked at the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but at me.

“Thank you for your time,” I had said at the end, my professional smile fixed in place despite the trembling in my hands.

They nodded, exchanged a glance, and walked out without another word.

Margaret had not commented when I returned to the office. She had simply handed me the next set of keys and said, “Two o’clock. Building B. The young couple with the dog.”

The day had stretched on like that, hour after hour, showing apartments to people who could not quite hide their reactions. Some stared. Some looked away. One woman had actually gasped and covered her child’s eyes, as if my nakedness were a danger to be protected against.

It is legal, I reminded myself over and over. You are not breaking any laws.

But the law and social acceptance were two very different things, and by the time five o’clock rolled around, I was exhausted in ways I had never experienced. Not just physically tired, though my feet ached and my back hurt from the tension I had been carrying all day. But emotionally drained, scraped hollow, like something essential had been scooped out of me and thrown away.

“Nellie.” Margaret appeared in my cubicle doorway, her expression softer than I had ever seen it. “Go home. Rest. We will figure this out tomorrow.”

“I have the gallery tonight,” I said. “My first official shift.”

“Can you call in sick?”

“The policy”

“Right. The policy.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Then at least take an hour for yourself before you go. Eat something. Sit down. Breathe.”

I nodded, gathered my purse and my keys, and walked out of the office. The parking lot was half-empty, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the asphalt. My car sat where I had left it that morning, ordinary and unchanged, as if the world had not shifted on its axis.

I drove to Tiny Treasures, collected Daniela from Ms. Patricia’s careful arms, and held her close in the backseat of the car before driving home. Her baby smelled of powder and milk, and something uniquely her filled my senses, grounding me in ways nothing else could.

“You are my reason,” I whispered into her soft hair. “You and Daddy. That is why I am doing this. Never forget that.”

She babbled something in response, her small hand patting my bare shoulder, and I laughed despite everything.

Pete was already home when we arrived, a rare occurrence that told me he had skipped his evening class to be with us. He took Daniela from me, kissed my forehead, and guided me to the couch with a gentleness that made my eyes sting.

“I made dinner,” he said. “Nothing fancy, just pasta and jarred sauce, but it is hot, and it is ready.”

“I am not hungry.”

“You need to eat.”

He was right, of course. I had not eaten since the sad desk salad at lunch, and before that, the granola bar I had grabbed on my way out the door that morning. My body was running on fumes and fear, and if I did not fuel it properly, I would collapse.

I ate. The pasta was bland, the sauce was watery, and I could barely taste any of it. But I chewed and swallowed and chewed and swallowed, because Pete was watching me with worried eyes, and I could not add to his burden by starving myself.

“Tell me about your day,” he said when I had finished half the plate.

I told him. About the Morrisons and the woman who covered her child’s eyes, and Margaret’s unexpected kindness. About the stares and the whispers and the way my skin had crawled every time someone looked at me. About the exhaustion that went beyond the physical, that touched something deeper and more fundamental.

“It is like I am not a person anymore,” I said finally, staring down at my empty plate. “Like I am just ... a body. Something to be looked at and judged. And I cannot escape it, Pete. I cannot put on armor and hide. I am just ... here. Exposed. All the time.”

He reached across the table and took my hand. “You are still a person, Nellie. You are still you. No contract can change that.”

“It feels like it is changing me. Like every day I spend like this, something inside me gets a little smaller. A little quieter.”

“Then we will fight it. Together. Every day.”

I looked up at him, my husband, my partner, the father of my child, and saw the fear in his eyes behind the determination. He was scared, too. Scared for me, scared for us, scared of what this was doing to our family.

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you too. Now go. You have a shift in two hours, and you need to rest before you go back to that place.”

He was right. I lay down on the couch, Daniela nestled against my chest, and closed my eyes. Sleep did not come. My mind was too full of glass enclosures and banging rhythms and Zara’s calm, implacable voice, but the rest helped. Gave me just enough strength to face what came next.

The drive to the gallery felt different this time. Not short, the distance was the same, the traffic was the same, but something in me had shifted. I was not a curious newcomer anymore, eager to prove myself. I was a prisoner returning to her cell.