Chapter 15: The Realtor

“Curt!” I called.

“Curt.”

I glanced at the alarm clock again. I have a showing, I thought to myself. I’m going to be late.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, appearing in the doorway a moment later. “Why aren’t you up?”

Under the covers, I shifted, bending my knees with care, trying to make him see before I had to say it. My legs wouldn’t separate.

“My ankles,” I said. “They’re ... together.”

I pulled the sheet aside and sat up. The weight of the cuffs drew my feet inward as they tipped over the edge of the bed, metal touching metal, obediently aligned.

He frowned. “Why would you do that?”

“I didn’t.” I closed my eyes. “I just forgot. I moved wrong. They got too close and—” I stopped, because there was no useful way to finish that sentence anymore.

For a second he looked almost amused, a reflex he caught and smoothed over. “Okay,” he said gently. “Lie back.”

I did, easing myself down, my arms resting to each side, careful not to make things worse.

He reached for my ankles and pulled.

Nothing happened.

I watched his hands tighten, his shoulders shift as he tried again, harder this time. The cuffs didn’t budge. The bed frame creaked faintly beneath us.

He sat down, braced himself, and took one cuff in each hand. His jaw set. Slowly, with controlled force, he worked them apart until there was a sharp, protesting snap and my feet sprang free.

“There,” he said, a smile flickering onto his face like an apology.

“Thank you,” I said, barely above a whisper.

He nodded, already standing again, calm, composed—like this was a minor inconvenience, like he hadn’t just had to put his weight into it. But I’d felt it. The effort. The resistance.

And it wasn’t just this morning.

I sat up, making sure my arms and legs stayed apart, and stood. I knew I wasn’t hiding my reaction very well as I did it. I also knew he saw it.

“They’ll be off this afternoon,” he said, too quickly—like he thought I needed to hear it out loud. But honestly, I think he did, too.

Nodding, I kissed him and disappeared into the bathroom. And that’s when the ritual began.

I’d learned the hard way that the sliding shower doors contained enough metal to trap me if I wasn’t paying attention. I opened and closed them with my palms flat against the glass, guiding them back and forth without touching the metal bar on either side, or the recessed handle built into the frame.

Even after the shower, I could feel the pull—subtle but insistent—drawing my wrists toward the towel rack. I couldn’t just crack the door and reach out anymore, couldn’t grope blindly for fabric the way I used to. I instead waited until the door was fully open, then stepped clear before reaching for the towel, keeping my hands deliberately wide.

And drying my hair was worse.

I had to hold my arms out and away from my neck, careful not to let my hands drift too close to the collar. Drying behind it was also impossible on my own. I resorted to the blow dryer, holding it at arm’s length on the highest setting, a couple of feet from my throat, letting hot air do what my hands couldn’t.

And all of that was nothing compared to putting on makeup.

After I got out, Curt had to wrap a heavy towel around my neck. It was the only way. Even then, I could feel the pull through the fabric, a low, constant insistence that took effort to ignore. Still, it was enough. I leaned close to the mirror and worked quickly.

My nose was the cutoff point. Anything below it and I felt my wrists start to drift, drawn downward whether I meant them to or not.

Getting dressed was no easier. Curt dressed me, really—there was no other honest way to describe it. I couldn’t put on a bra, not properly. I couldn’t clasp it with both hands. Panties had to be stepped into and pulled up one-handed. He buttoned my blouses, zipped and fastened my suit pants.

Skirts were out of the question. Not without the ankle cuffs showing. Which meant jackets, always—matching ones, long enough to make the outfit look intentional, and cover up the cuffs. And then, only certain suits worked, the ones with sleeves and pant legs cut just a little too long, the ones I’d once considered impractical.

Now they were the only ones I could wear.

“Thanks,” I said as Curt finished buttoning and zipping my pants. He helped me into the jacket, settling it on my shoulders like a final adjustment.

I crossed to the closet and pulled out a pair of high heels. I had to wear at least five-inch stilettos now, just to compensate for the extra length of the pant legs.

And not all the heels I owned that high were single-sole. These had an inch and a half or so of platform and a six-inch heel—oddly easy to walk in, comfortable. But far from professional. They were more the kind I wore to evening events with Curt.

Still, I didn’t have a choice. The single-sole ones with a high enough heel wouldn’t go with this suit. And the ones that did were too short. So that left these.

I bent carefully and lowered them to the floor, slipping into them one foot at a time.

“You look great,” he said.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. Of course he’d say that. He liked me in absurdly high heels—even though I knew he hated the pantsuits. He would have much preferred a skirt.

“Make sure the scarf is snug,” I told him, pointing to the charcoal-colored one draped over the chair.

He wrapped it gently around my neck, adjusting it until the fabric fully covered the collar. Only then did he step back.

I went to the full-length mirror and checked myself from every angle. Sleeves down. Pant legs straight. Wrists and ankles hidden. I turned my head slightly, making sure my hair fell where it was supposed to, obscuring the line of the scarf.

I stared.

The scarf worked. It looked intentional—almost like an ascot. It worked. For now.

But not every day. People would notice eventually. Especially after two weeks of nothing but tailored pantsuits.

Still, it was the dead of winter. Scarves weren’t unusual. And neither were pantsuits.

I at least had that going for me.

“It’s all covered,” he said, stepping in behind me and kissing my neck, just above the collar.

I closed my eyes despite myself. “Baby,” I said softly. “Not now.” But my breath hitched anyway. He knew exactly how to do that.

“We can’t,” I insisted, turning to face him. “I have a showing.” I met his eyes, forcing steadiness. “Later tonight. Okay?”

He nodded. He knew I couldn’t resist him.

I lifted my hands to his face, palms warm against his jaw, leaned in to kiss him—and felt it immediately. The pull. My wrists drifting toward each other, the collar answering, tugging me inward.

I jerked my head back. Curt reacted instantly, catching my wrists and guiding them down, one to either side of me, holding them there until the tension eased.

I let out a slow breath. “This afternoon,” I said, repeating his words back to him.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “They’ll be off this afternoon.”

We went downstairs after that. I grabbed my bag—a portfolio stuffed with paperwork—while Curt collected his own things, and then we headed out.

We had two cars. But I couldn’t drive.

The truth was that a car was basically one giant magnet. The doors were the worst. The handles might have been plastic, but the body wasn’t. One wrong movement and I’d end up with my wrist pinned to the driver’s side panel.

The inside wasn’t much better. The pedal arms. The gas. The brake. That was where the absurdly high stilettos helped—keeping my feet far enough away. Even so, it wasn’t safe. Not really.

So, Curt drove me. To work. To showings. Which meant my clients had to drive me between locations. I hated that. I didn’t know these people. But it wasn’t a choice. Not right now.

I sat carefully in the passenger seat, one wrist resting on my thigh, away from the seatbelt buckle, the other held out beside me. My ankles stayed wide apart.

“I can’t believe that asshole was going to put his girlfriend in these fucking things,” I said again. I’d said it before. Many times. I guess I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Curt glanced over but didn’t answer.

I knew he felt bad. There were moments—like this morning, when my ankles had snapped together—where he’d almost smiled. But he mostly stayed quiet.

Even if it wasn’t really his fault. He hadn’t known.

I’d talked so much about the Bounds woman—about what I’d seen. About the other couple who eventually bought the house across the street. The heavy restraints.

Honestly, that was fine. From what I’d heard, they were required. Same with Bounds, at least at first—until whatever had happened there was resolved.

And I think Curt understood that. It was a safety thing. It made sense. Sure, we both thought it was excessive, but that just meant—honestly—that they were dangerous. There was no other explanation. Especially the one who’s still kept in them.

But she was a strange case. Especially after I told him about the dog hood—about her locked into it.

That was when it stopped being just a safety measure for Curt. I think that was when it turned into something else in his head. Something charged. Something he thought I might want, given how much I talked about it.

Maybe he thought I was curious. Maybe he thought it was a fantasy. I don’t know.

But I think that’s why he accepted the cuffs and the collar when that client offered them to him. I think he thought it would be fun. Something for us. Something I’d want.

Anyway, I knew he felt bad about all of it. Which probably made it worse that I just kept talking through the entire drive, circling the same thoughts again and again.

He pulled into the driveway and got out, walking around to open my door for me. Then he took my keys from my bag, opened the lockbox, and let me inside, slipping the keys back into my bag.

That had been another problem I’d learned about quickly—loose keys. Those tiny metal teeth loved the cuffs. Curt needed pliers to pry the last one free.

I watched him drive away, then turned to get things ready. I was running late, so I had only a few minutes before the clients arrived.

Just enough time to breathe before the doorbell rang.

“Hi,” I said, slipping into my realtor voice.

“Hi,” the couple replied in unison.

“I’m John. We spoke on the phone,” the man said. “This is my wife, Katherine.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, stepping forward and shaking John’s hand.

That was another issue. Luckily, his bulky, metal watch was worn on his left wrist, along with his wedding band. Plenty of distance.

I then simply nodded politely to Katherine.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “Handshakes can be ... complicated.”

“It’s fine,” I replied easily. “John explained the situation when we spoke.”

“He told me,” she said, glancing at him with a small, grateful smile. Then back to me. “Thank you for being open about this. Not everyone has been.”

“I understand,” I said. “You’re not the only ones dealing with something like this.”

John nodded. “That’s why we’re looking here. As I mentioned on the phone, we need someplace where Kat will be okay. And Doe as well.”

“That’s your daughter,” I said, making sure I remembered.

“My stepdaughter,” Katherine clarified. “Yes. Bambi.”

“And she has similar requirements?” I asked, already knowing the answer from my conversation with John—but wanting to make sure I had it straight in my head.

Katherine sighed. “Yes.” She offered no further details.

That’s when John picked it back up. “What we’re looking for is a place where they can comply with those requirements—including being out in public—without constant scrutiny. Or issues with law enforcement.”

“Right,” I said. “So, there are currently two women in town who are required to wear restraints similar to those. Both are tied to criminal cases. Although separate matters, as far as I understand.”

“And they wear them publicly?” John asked, clarifying.

“Yes,” I said, nodding once. “When they’re around others, they’re required to be in them. That includes being out in town.”

Katherine hesitated. “These are the women at the museum?” she asked, as if she already knew about them.

I froze slightly. The thing was, I had never mentioned either of them to John on the phone—or anything about the museum. Only that there were women who were required to be in restraints.

“No,” I replied, then added a clarification. “Not the ones I just mentioned. But there are two women associated with the museum here, in the downtown area. That’s probably who you’re referring to.” I paused for a moment. “They wear restraints during certain exhibitions and events. Occasionally, you’ll see them in them during the day while they’re at the museum.”

“And that’s ... allowed?” she asked. “I mean, outside of the private events?”

I hadn’t mentioned that the evening events were invitation-only.

“Yes,” I said. “But ... arrangements have been worked out for them with the museum and with local law enforcement.”

“The museum hosts a lot of avant-garde exhibitions,” I continued carefully. “Art-focused.” I left it there, letting them fill in the rest. They seemed to know more than they were letting on, anyway.

“And people are okay with that?” John asked. I wasn’t sure if he meant the museum events or the restraints, so I kept my answer careful.

“For the most part,” I said, slowing my speech deliberately. “This is an open-minded town. The museum draws national attention, so it brings in tourists, which helps the downtown area—the shops, the restaurants. It’s good for the local economy.”

I paused, then added, “But that doesn’t mean anything goes,” letting my words cover the restraints in case that’s what he had meant.

“We like to think of ourselves as liberal. Progressive,” I said, offering a small, careful smile. “But we have our limits.”

I let that settle for a moment before continuing.

“So yes,” I said finally, “people here are generally accustomed to seeing women in restraints,” answering his concern about scrutiny. “But,” I added, “if you move here, you’ll likely need to speak with the sheriff’s department.” I emphasized the last part, reinforcing what I had told them earlier.

“You had mentioned that the situation is both clinical and criminal?” I asked, referring to what John had told me on the phone.

“For Kat, no,” he replied. “And it was for Doe.”