The weekend creeps by, slow and awkward. Jordan is everywhere and nowhere. Polite at breakfast. Silent at dinner. He avoids being alone with me. I do the same.
By Sunday morning, I'm exhausted. I stand in front of my closet for half an hour. Summer clothes are impossible. Tank tops show too much of the waistband. Shorts ride up and expose the edges. Even jeans feel risky—the metal presses against seams, creates lines I can't explain away. I try on five different outfits, twisting in front of the mirror, checking every angle.
Eventually, I choose a loose summer dress. Pale blue. Soft enough to move in. Long enough to conceal. When I emerge, Mom smiles.
"You look lovely, sweetheart."
Dad beams from the hallway. Proud of the daughter he thinks he's shaped.
The irony makes me want to scream.
I wait by the front door. Movement behind me makes me tense.
Jordan. Freshly showered. Sleeves rolled. Mug in his hand.
Our eyes meet for the first time in two days.
His expression is unreadable. But there's something sharp beneath the calm.
"Going somewhere?"
"Church-arranged date." My voice comes out curt.
The words land heavier than I intended. He nods once. Quietly. Like he's swallowing something bitter.
"Have fun."
Dad's voice cuts through the moment. "Ready, Maya? Don't want to be late."
I glance back. Jordan has already turned away.
The museum is cool and quiet. Grant waits outside, leaning against the railing. Blonde hair windblown. Smile uncertain. Gone is the smug arrogance from dinner. In its place, something closer to a genuine effort.
He helps me out of the car with exaggerated formality. Almost makes me laugh.
"Hi."
"Hi." He rubs the back of his neck. "Thanks for giving me another chance."
"We'll see if you deserve it."
"Fair." He opens the museum door. "After you."
Inside, we fall into an easier rhythm than I expected. He apologizes first thing.
"I was an ass at dinner. Completely out of line."
"Yeah. You were."
"I was trying to sabotage it. The whole arranged marriage thing." He glances at me. "Guess you were too."
"Maybe."
"So we're both prisoners." He smiles faintly. "Just with different methods of escape."
The observation surprises me. "I guess we are."
We wander through galleries. He talks about art. About growing up in a house that valued appearances over authenticity. About rebellion being the only way to breathe sometimes.
"My parents wanted me to study business. Take over the company. I told them I'd rather die."
"What did you study instead?"
"I told you philosophy earlier, right?" He grimaces. "I lied. Force of habit. I actually studied art history. With a minor in studio art." He grins. "Drove them absolutely insane. Best decision I ever made."
"Wait. You lied?"
"Yeah. I tend to do that on first dates. Makes me sound more pretentious and intellectual." He shrugs.
I can't help but laugh. "So you actually know about art?"
"I really do. Why do you think I know so much about this stuff?" He gestures at the paintings around us. "I'm not just a pretty face, you know."
"I didn't think you were." My face burns hotter. "I just assumed—"
"That I was some business bro playing art snob?" He laughs. "Fair. That's what I was going for at dinner. Maximum asshole energy."
"You succeeded."
"Thank you. I'm very committed to my roles." He stops in front of a portrait of some stern-looking aristocrat, tilts his head. "But yeah. I actually love this stuff. Always have."
"This guy looks like my father after I told him I was dropping pre-law."
I laugh. "The resemblance is uncanny."
"Right? Same judgmental eyebrows and everything." He leans closer to me, voice dropping. "Ten bucks says he also gave lectures about responsibility and legacy."
"Only ten? I'd bet twenty."
"Look at you. Corrupting influence already." His smile is warm. Teasing.
Heat creeps up my neck. We move to the next painting, and our shoulders brush. Neither of us steps away.
"Your parents don't approve?" he asks. "Of art?"
"They think it's a hobby. Not a career."
"Sounds familiar." He stops in front of an abstract piece, studies it. "You know what I think? Parents control what they're afraid of. And art scares them because it's honest."
The words hit close. I look at him instead of the painting.
"That's actually pretty insightful."
"Don't sound so surprised." He catches my eye. "I have layers."
"Like an onion?"
"Like a very sophisticated, artistically-inclined onion." He grins. "With excellent taste in museums."
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling. Really smiling. When did that start?
We reach the medieval wing. He gestures dramatically at a suit of armor.
I can't help but laugh. Bitter and sharp.
"So what's with the choice of place? How should I take it? What kind of hint is this?"
He looks confused. "No hints. I'm just into history."
"So it wasn't some sort of mocking?"
"What? Why would it be?"
"I mean, you have the key, right?"
"The key?" He raises his brows. "What key?"
Heat floods my face. I glance around. No one nearby.
I lift my skirt just enough.
His eyes go wide. First amused. Then shocked.
"Is that—"
"A chastity belt. Yes."
"Holy shit." He stares. "Your parents did that?"
"The night of my birthday."
His face shifts through several emotions. Disbelief. Anger. Then something else. Something darker that he tries to hide.
"And they told you I have the key?"
"Yes."
"Maya." His voice is careful. "I don't have it."
The words hit like a slap. My legs feel weak.
"They never gave it to me." He runs a hand through his hair. "Jesus."
"Who has it then?"
"I don't know. Maybe they still do. Maybe my parents? Maybe it was never about me having it."
I lean against the wall. My throat tightens.
"Hey." He steps closer. Not touching. Just near. "This is really fucked up."
"I know."
"No, I mean—" He stops. Swallows. "I can't imagine what that's like. Being locked in that. Having no control over your own body."
There's no pity in his voice. Just understanding. Anger on my behalf.
But there's something else too. Something in the way he's standing. The tension in his jaw. The way his blue eyes keep darting away, then back.
He's trying to hide it. But I see it anyway.
The idea of me in the belt does something to him. Arouses him. The thought of me trapped. Unable to touch myself. Unable to find release.
Heat floods my face for an entirely different reason. My head spins with too many feelings at once. Jordan's hands in the workshop. The belt pressing against me. Grant standing here looking at me like that. This wasn't supposed to happen.
"We should figure out who has it." His voice is rougher now. "I'll help you. However, I can."
"Why would you help me?"
"Because this is wrong. Because you don't deserve it." He meets my eyes. "Because maybe we're both tired of being controlled."
Something shifts between us. An understanding. An alliance.
But there's a charge beneath it. Something neither of us wants to name.
"Okay," I whisper.
"Okay." He nods. "We'll get you out of this."
His hand almost reaches for mine. Stops. Falls back to his side.
We're standing too close. The air between us feels electric. Dangerous.
Half aroused. Half strategic. Half something I can't name.
For the first time in days, I feel something like hope.