Candy knew she was being too hard on Marcus. She knew he hated this just as much as she did. She knew he wasn’t enjoying this power over her, and that he was trying, however uselessly, to soften the edges of the cage they were both trapped in. And yet, she couldn’t stop shing out at him.

  Every time he tried to be gentle, she snapped. Every time he gave her a small kindness, she turned it into a fight. Every time she saw the guilt in his eyes, it just made her angrier. Because what good was guilt when he still went through with it? What good was knowing he was her friend, when he still pulled her over his p st night and did what was expected of him?

  The weight of it all cwed at her insides, burning through her like an anger she couldn’t escape. And yet, beneath it, quiet, festering, was something even worse. Guilt. Because Marcus wasn’t the one who had done this to her. He wasn’t the one who had misfired the spell. He wasn’t the one who wrote the ws. And if it had been anyone else she’d been pced with, it could have been so much worse. But knowing that didn’t make it easier. It just made it hurt in a different way.

  Candy had avoided housework all week. Not because she was actively rebelling, though that part had some appeal and not because she was above it, though she’d certainly never had to do it before. It was because the moment she started doing “women’s work,” the moment she actually tried to py the role they forced on her, it would feel like giving in. Like accepting it. But she had to do something. She couldn’t just sit around gring at Marcus, simmering in her own rage, waiting for the next humiliation. So, she made the mistake of trying to cook.

  It started simply enough. Marcus was outside tending to the horses, and Candy figured she could at least make some breakfast. How hard could it be?

  Very hard, apparently.

  By the time Marcus walked in, the entire kitchen was filled with smoke. The eggs where inexplicably both burnt and runny. Flour coated half the counter and the remaining potatoes were at least 90% eyes. The bacon had caught fire at one point, but she’d beaten it into submission with a dish towel.

  Marcus stared. Candy stood there, cheeks flushed, covered in flour, looking like the aftermath of a battlefield. There was a long, terrible silence. Then Marcus slowly, carefully, covered his mouth and turned away. His shoulders shook.

  Candy narrowed her eyes. “Are you-”

  A muffled snort escaped him. He was ughing.

  Candy scowled. “Don’t you dare!”

  Marcus burst out ughing. “I… I thought you were just bad at cooking, but this- this, what did you do, throw the eggs into the fire?”

  Candy’s face burned. “You try cooking with a damn corset on,” she snapped. “Half the time I can’t even breathe!”

  Marcus leaned against the counter, still ughing. Candy gred. Then, without thinking, she grabbed a handful of flour and threw it at him. It hit him square in the chest. Marcus froze. Candy froze. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Candy giggled. The sound surprised even her.

  Marcus arched a brow. “Oh, that’s how we’re pying this?” Before she could react, he grabbed a handful of flour and tossed it right back. Candy squeaked, stepping back, but not before it hit her shoulder.

  “You absolute-”

  Marcus grabbed another handful. Candy lunged for the bag of flour. And suddenly, she wasn’t thinking about st night. She wasn’t thinking about Mrs. Prim. She wasn’t thinking about spankings or skirts or the cage she was in. She was just fighting Marcus in the world’s messiest battle. For a moment, she was herself again. Until she wasn’t. Until she stepped wrong and her skirt tangled around her feet. Until she tripped, and Marcus caught her by reflex. And in the stupid, messy chaos of it all, she nded against him. Her hands on his chest. His arms around her waist. A sudden, sharp stillness.

  The ughter died. Reality came crashing back. They both realized, at the same time, how close they were. Marcus’s expression shifted; not into discomfort, but into something else. Something Candy didn’t know how to name. And she couldn’t breathe. Because for a second, a horrible, fleeting second, she had felt safe. And she couldn’t afford to feel that. So she shoved him away.

  “This never happened,” she muttered, storming out of the kitchen. Marcus didn’t stop her. And neither of them spoke of it again.

  Candy knew she was being unfair. She knew she was trapped, but so was Marcus. She knew this wasn’t his fault. But the anger wouldn’t leave her. It festered inside her, poisonous and relentless, twisting its way through every interaction, making her snap at him even when he didn’t deserve it. Even when he was the only thing standing between her and something much worse. Even when he was the only person left who still saw the old her beneath all this. She knew she should be grateful. But all she felt was rage. And she didn’t know how to stop it. Or if she even wanted to.