Confronting my brother

I found him in the parking garage just after Rajesh dropped me off. The fluorescents buzzed. He was already crying when I stepped out of the elevator—shoulders hitching, one hand braced on the roof of his car, the other pressed hard over his mouth. The second he saw the red soles his face collapsed further.

“Please,” he said. The word came out wet and broken. “Please just delete them. I’ll buy you whatever you want. Heels, dresses, anything. Just stop sending them. Stop going in there.”

I stopped three feet away. My cheek still stung from the slap he’d given me earlier. His lip was split where I’d hit him back; dried blood clung to the corner of his mouth. He looked smaller under the harsh lights.

“You called me fat,” I said. “You said no one would ever buy me nice things because I didn’t deserve them. You said I should stop asking.”

He shook his head hard. Tears ran into the blood on his chin. “I was angry. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. Just don’t let him keep doing this at work. Everyone already stared when you came out of his office. Priya asked me questions I couldn’t answer. Please.”

I pulled my phone out. The cabin video was still cued. I hit play and held the screen where he could see it. The sound carried in the concrete quiet: my wet gagging, Rajesh’s low “deeper,” the steady creak of the chair under us. My brother’s knees buckled. He slid down the side of the car until he was sitting on the oil-stained floor, both hands over his face, sobbing so hard his whole body shook.

“Turn it off,” he begged. “Please turn it off. I watched the hotel ones all night. I couldn’t sleep. I can’t watch more. I’ll do anything.”

I let another few seconds run—Rajesh’s hand tight in my hair, spit shining on my chin—then paused it. “This is what you get. You don’t get to be sorry now that someone else bought me what you refused.”

He looked up through his fingers. His eyes were red and swollen. “I’ll transfer money tonight. I’ll never say anything about how you look again. Just delete the videos. Tell him you changed your mind. Don’t go back in that cabin.”

I crouched so we were closer. The heels made it awkward; the red soles flashed under the garage lights. “Rajesh already knows you saw everything. He liked it. He told me to come back tomorrow and wear these again. He said he’d keep the floor empty after six so we wouldn’t have to rush.”

A fresh sob tore out of him. He pressed his forehead to his knees. “No. Please. I’ll quit. I’ll find another job tomorrow. Just stop. Don’t make me stay and listen. I can’t sit at that desk and hear it.”

“You will,” I said. “Because if you leave early or try to warn anyone, he cuts your rating before the quarter closes. Your variable pay disappears. The bonus you already spent in your head is gone. He can move you to the desk by the bathrooms and keep you there until you break, or he can leave you where you are and just make you sign off on every pair of heels and every hotel room I want. Your signature. Your budget. Your salary.”

He reached for my wrist. I pulled back. He didn’t try again. His hand dropped to the concrete, fingers trembling.

“I’m begging you,” he whispered. “I’ll buy you ten pairs. I’ll approve anything. Just don’t text him. Don’t make me stay late. I can’t hear you in there again.”

I stood. My knees ached. I looked down at him—crying on the garage floor, blood on his mouth, shirt wrinkled, the same man who used to tell me I was too much now folded small under the lights.

“I’m texting him now.”

I opened the chat with Rajesh. My brother watched the screen like it could still be stopped.

He’s crying in the garage. Make him stay late tomorrow. Mandatory overtime on the Q3 report. I want the cabin after everyone leaves. Longer this time. If he tries to leave early, drop his rating and move his desk.

I hit send. Delivered. Read. Three dots appeared at once.

Rajesh: Done. I’ll keep him until 9. Wear the heels. No panties. Lock the door when you come in.

I turned the phone so my brother could read every word. Another sob ripped out of him, raw and ugly. He curled tighter, one fist pressed to his mouth to muffle the sound against the concrete.

“Tomorrow you stay at your desk until he says you can go,” I told him. “You will hear the chair. You will hear me. When we’re finished I’ll send you the new video before I even fix my dress. You will open it. You will watch every second. And you will reply ‘thank you’ or he starts the rating drop the same night.”

He didn’t answer. He just cried harder, shoulders jerking, the sound wet and broken in the empty garage. A car door slammed two levels up. Neither of us moved.

I walked to the elevator. The doors opened. In the mirrored wall I watched him still folded on the floor, shaking, the red soles of the heels reflected once before the doors slid shut.

He was still there when I reached the street. I didn’t look back.