Chapter 14: Unmasking Deeper Issues

Monday arrived with its usual routine, but my thoughts were entirely on Becca. I went through the motions of getting up, showering, and dressing, each action a blur as my mind was preoccupied. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I tried to carefully unlock her handcuffs without waking her. As I fumbled with the key and maneuvered it into the first cuff, I felt her stir awake.

“What are you doing?” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.

“Taking off your bracelets before I go to work,” I whispered faintly in her ear.

As soon as she heard this, Becca pulled her hands close to her chest, signaling that she didn’t want them removed. “They need to come off, sweetie,” I said again gently. “I know you wanted to start looking for new opportunities today, and it’ll be easier if you’re not in them.”

Becca propped herself up in bed, her eyes now wide and earnest. “I’ll be okay. It’s getting easier—please don’t take them off,” she pleaded.

I sighed softly. “We talked about this yesterday,” I reminded her. “I’m not comfortable with you wearing these when we’re not together. We did it last week when I had to go to work to brief the FBI report, but—”

Becca nodded, her eyes reflecting understanding. “Okay. You’re right,” she said, already knowing where this was headed. “But when you get home—”

I nodded in return, knowing what she was going to say. “Yeah, when I get home.”

We had agreed yesterday that the restraints were only for when we were together, a way to explore them as a couple. The truth was, I was also worried about leaving Becca alone in them. It didn’t feel safe, especially since she seemed to thrive in them the most when she was helpless.

I gently unlocked and removed the handcuffs, placing them in the nightstand drawer along with the key. I kissed her softly, and she lay back down, her eyes fluttering shut as she drifted back into a deep sleep.

As the hours dragged on at work, the familiarity of my routine did little to comfort me. My thoughts kept drifting back to Becca, and I couldn’t shake the worry that lingered. I counted the minutes until I could return home to her.

I ran into Lisa just as I was about to leave. She asked about Becca and told me she’d sent the report to the FBI late Friday. They’d acknowledged receiving it today, but that was the extent of our conversation. We went our separate ways, each of us heading in different directions.

When I walked into our apartment, Becca was sitting on the couch. Her eyes lifted to meet mine, and I could see the tearful smile she tried to muster. I joined her on the sofa, the air between us heavy with unspoken words.

“Are you okay?” I asked, hoping to break the silence.

“Yeah,” she replied, but her voice betrayed her. She was anything but okay.

Her gaze dropped to her hands, mirroring how they’d looked last week when they were forced together. Then, she looked back at me. “Life has a way of turning blessings into curses,” she said softly. “Last week’s events had finally put us in a position where we could start looking at homes. But now, I’ve lost my job, and everything we worked so hard for is in jeopardy.”

I tried to offer some comfort. “You’ll find something,” I said, though I knew the challenge ahead was daunting.

Becca had six months of severance pay, but finding a curator role in a museum was notoriously difficult. Positions like that were rare and highly competitive. The job search alone was going to be stressful, but there was something more profound weighing on her right now.

“What happened?” I asked gently, concern evident in my voice.

“As I was leaving a voicemail,” Becca said, “Cathy from the museum called.”

Cathy was one of the other curators, and over the years, Becca had come to know her well. In her early forties, Cathy was known for her sharp wit and warm smile, qualities that had endeared her to everyone at the museum. Her extensive knowledge of art and unpretentious demeanor made her an invaluable colleague. Cathy had a rare ability to exude professional insight with genuine empathy, making her a steadfast pillar of support for Becca.

“What did she want?” I asked.

“She needed information about the exhibit I was supposed to oversee this past weekend,” Becca replied.

She went on to explain that Cathy had filled her in on the disastrous turn of events. In their rush to appease Margaret—and Becca not there to oversee things—the museum had botched the exhibit’s arrival, creating a mess that reverberated throughout the entire weekend and into today.

“This isn’t your fault,” I told her, trying to offer some comfort.

She nodded. “I know.”

“Did she say anything else?” I asked.

“We talked about the changes that Margaret wanted in return for her charitable contributions to the museum,” Becca said, her voice muffled as she rested her head on my chest.

I held her close, feeling the weight of her troubles. As she lay there, frustrated and hurt, she explained how Margaret always had strong opinions about how the museum should be run. She’d been pushing for several changes—like a complete overhaul of the museum’s curatorial approach, moving away from the niche, highbrow exhibitions it had been known for.

Becca added, “But implementing these changes would have meant moving away from the museum’s core identity. Margaret knew I was deeply opposed to it.”

In a tearful whisper, Becca explained, “That’s what the director meant last week about changes that no longer required my services.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice filled with empathy and helplessness.

Becca’s shoulders shook slightly as she clung to me, her tears soaking into my shirt. “It’s just so unfair,” she breathed between sobs. “I put everything into that job, and now it feels like it’s all been for nothing.”

I held her in silence, offering what comfort I could through my presence. Words seemed inadequate in the face of her pain. All I could do was be there, holding her close and hoping that my support would help ease the weight of her despair.

“Was there anything else?” I finally dared to ask.

“Cathy didn’t know about the jewelry, if that’s what you’re asking,” Becca said, her voice lined with sadness and frustration.

“That’s not—” I started to say, but Becca cut me off.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking. “I don’t want to take this out on you—I’m just really hurt. I guess I should be grateful Margaret at least had the decency to leave out the details. Margaret only told them that I was dressed inappropriately, more so than my typical attire. And that I embarrassed her publicly.”

“But she’s the one that approached us. We didn’t seek her in any way,” I said, my annoyance now clearly visible.

Becca looked up at me, her eyes red and puffy. “Yeah, that’s Margaret,” she sniffled. “She always has to make things more complicated, more dramatic than they need to be. It’s like she thrives on creating chaos. And once it exists, she wields it to her advantage.”

I nodded, understanding her frustration. “It’s just so unfair that she gets to dictate everything from behind her big donation. And now you’re caught in the crossfire.”

Becca gave a small, weary smile. “It’s not just about the money, though. It’s about control. Margaret’s been trying to mold the museum to her vision for a long time, and this was her chance.”

I shook my head, still grappling with the unfairness of it all. “But—this just doesn’t make any sense,” I said.

Becca sighed deeply. “I know.” She sobbed, “It’s just hard to see everything I’ve worked for unraveling.”

I tightened my grip on her, offering as much comfort as I could. “We’ll get through this.”

Becca tried to lighten the mood with a hint of humor. “I guess going to work in the same clothes didn’t help matters,” she said.

“Probably not,” I replied with a weak smile. “I’m glad I took your bracelets off before you went in.”

Becca laughed a little, the sound a slight relief amidst the heaviness of the moment. “I now wish you hadn’t ... Speaking of bracelets,” she said.

“I’ll go get them,” I replied, rising from the couch. I returned with the chain handcuffs, connecting chain, and regular-length leg cuffs. Gently, I double-locked them on her, ensuring she was comfortable but secure.

“I like the short-chain ones better,” she remarked, her voice soft.

“I know,” I replied, “but I don’t want you hobbling tonight.”

Becca gave a small, appreciative smile. “Thanks for putting them on,” she said quietly, her eyes meeting mine, filled with gratitude and vulnerability.

Throughout the evening, we talked at length, and I did my best to offer comfort to Becca. We explored the opportunities she had discovered and discussed a realistic outlook for the future. That night, as had been the routine, Becca slept while restrained.

Wearing them at home and sleeping in them became a regular part of her day. Becca found a sense of security in their presence, which brought her comfort. The structure they provided helped her focus on the present moment, offering a form of reflection amidst the chaos of daily life. Rather than feeling confined, the restraints gave her a reassuring sense of stability.

This ritual also served as a connection. The handcuffs, leg cuffs, and other metal transformed into symbols of our trust and intimacy.

But the arrangement had its difficulties. Although my refusal to leave Becca restrained while I was at work was meant to protect her, it left her frustrated. The gaps between our time together, marked by her separation from the shackles, created a noticeable void and deepened her longing for the security they provided. The stark contrast between the comfort she experienced with them when I was home and the limitations she faced during the day weighed heavily on her. It became clear that they had become a crucial part of her sense of security and connection, making their absence during my work hours particularly challenging for her. Despite my reassurances, Becca struggled with the separation.

The week dragged on with a heaviness that seemed to settle in our bones. By Thursday, I could see that Becca’s anxiety was high. The job search was not going well, and she felt the burden of her unemployment pressing down on her with every passing hour. I came home and found her staring at her phone, which lay silent with hopeful calls.

“How was your day?” I asked gently, setting down my keys and walking over to her.

Becca barely looked up. “Like yesterday and the day before that,” she muttered, her voice hollow. “No callbacks, no interviews. It’s like everyone’s ignoring me.”

I sat beside her, placing a comforting hand on her knee. “It’s just a matter of time. The right opportunity will come along.”

I could see the anguish in her eyes, a stark contrast to the calm she seemed to derive from the restraints. It was as if the physical bindings were the only thing keeping her tethered to some semblance of peace while her emotional state was unraveling.

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling helpless. “I wish there was more I could do.”

I watched Becca’s shoulders slump, her exhaustion and worry evident in her posture. “I’m sorry, too,” she said quietly. “I just feel lost during the day.” She rested her head on my shoulder, her voice a tender murmur as she asked, “Can you—?”

Without a word, I nodded and went to the bedroom, returning with the handcuffs. There was no hesitation between us; Becca extended her wrists, and I double-locked them in place.

“Just the bracelets?” she whispered, her tone almost pleading.

“For right now,” I said, “I wanted to talk.”

Becca looked at me, a soft sadness in her eyes. “I didn’t even ask you how your day was,” she said.

“It was okay,” I replied.

“Have you heard anything back about that FBI report?”

“No,” I said, shrugging. “But it’s the government. It could be weeks, maybe longer.”

“Lisa asked about you,” I told her. “She offered us her plus-one invite to some high-society event she’s not interested in attending.”

“When is it?” Becca asked, though her enthusiasm seemed muted.

“Tomorrow night. It’s at that historical hotel you’ve always wanted to see,” I said. “Might be fun. We get to dress up.”

Becca nodded slowly. “Yeah. We can go.”

“Great!” I said. “I’ll get the invite and details from Lisa tomorrow.”

“What else did you want to talk about?” Becca asked, her voice faint but curious.