Chapter 11: Bound by Chains

Lexie stared at the email confirmation on her laptop screen: Withdrawal Request Approved.

It was the final tether to her once-bright future, severed. Lexie had been a cheerleader, a scholar, and a symbol of perfection at Utah State. Now, she was little more than a name on a list of students who dropped out mid-semester, her reputation smeared and her ambitions crushed under the weight of her secret life.

Her stomach churned—not from morning sickness but from dread. She had avoided looking too far ahead for weeks. The blackmailer had made it clear that any plans for her future, or that of her baby, were no longer hers to make.

“Let me be clear, Lexie,” the blackmailer had said during their last call, their voice cold and methodical. “You’re not naming the child. That’s my decision. Consider it a small price for everything I’ve done to keep you afloat.”

The implication was clear: Lexie was nothing more than a vessel, her autonomy stripped away entirely.

Her once-coveted dorm room felt more like a cage with every passing day. Though she still kept up with the nightly appointments, the strain was beginning to show. Her health was deteriorating rapidly—she hadn’t been eating enough, her sleep was interrupted by stress and nausea, and her body was rebelling against the abuse it endured.

Some evenings, Lexie caught her reflection in the mirror, her face pale and drawn, her growing belly a stark reminder of how drastically her life had shifted. She was no longer the vibrant cheerleader with a smile that lit up the field. She was tired, broken, and fading.

Even the appointments, once humiliating but manageable, were becoming unbearable. Her size was starting to show, and the clients—often directed to her by the blackmailer—seemed to revel in her vulnerability. Despite her shame and discomfort, she obeyed. The blackmailer always knew when she hesitated, and the punishment for disobedience was worse than the alternative.

At the blackmailer’s instruction, Lexie began seeing a new OBGYN. She hadn’t asked questions when the blackmailer sent the name and address—she couldn’t afford to. The doctor’s office was in a run-down part of town, its waiting room dimly lit and eerily quiet.

The doctor, a thin man in his mid-forties with wire-rimmed glasses and an unsettling smile, barely made eye contact during her visits. He asked clinical questions and jotted notes, but something about his demeanor felt off.

“I’ll need you to come in weekly from now on,” the doctor said during one appointment, his tone brisk and impersonal. “We need to monitor your progress closely.”

Lexie nodded numbly, too exhausted to question the frequency of the visits or the doctor’s unorthodox requests. What she didn’t know—what she couldn’t know—was that every detail of her pregnancy was being relayed directly to the blackmailer. The doctor’s updates went far beyond medical charts. Lexie’s health, her baby’s development, even her emotional state—all of it was meticulously documented and shared.

“She’s healthy enough for the appointments,” the doctor reassured the blackmailer over the phone after one visit. “But she’s showing signs of stress. You might want to adjust her schedule slightly.”

Lexie felt the walls closing in. She had no say in what happened to her body or her baby. Even her visits to the doctor felt more like obligations than care. The blackmailer’s control was absolute, extending into every corner of her life.

The pregnancy wasn’t the joyous occasion it should have been. Instead, it was another chain binding her to a life she no longer recognized.

Lexie clutched her phone tightly as she stared at the blackmailer’s latest message:

“Rest up. You’ve got two clients tonight. And remember, you owe me everything.”

Her hand trembled as she typed out a reply:

“Understood.”

She set the phone down and lay back on her bed, tears streaming silently down her face. She didn’t bother to wipe them away.

In that moment, Lexie realized something chilling: she had stopped hoping for freedom.