I threw the red lipstick at the door as hard as I could when he left. He has nothing in here I can use as a weapon or a means of escape. It’s incredibly frustrating. Trust me, I’ve tried. The door, the window. I tried shouting and not one person came.
Worse than being trapped, there’s zero to do in here. No books, no magazines. I’ve read the ingredients on the make-up, the backs of the shampoo and conditioner, anything I could get my hands on.
I’m going out of my mind.
He didn’t come up yesterday at all, even when I left my food untouched. Am I supposed to just settle in as prisoner and act like this is a vacation or something? He’s a murderer. He’s kidnapped me for reasons I don’t understand at all. I’m hungry, yes, but—
The scrape of the key in the lock makes my head snap up, and I turn, wilting when I see it’s only the maid with brunch. It feels too late for breakfast, but nothing’s been served. And… I get hold of myself, and with strength that comes from somewhere deep within, I pull the thoughts down. Right now, I’m eyeing the girl, I’m eyeing the door, I’m thinking my anger and the element of surprise can knock her down, at least long enough to run.
But where? That’s the question.
There are big, burly men here, mountains of muscle and blank faces. Maybe they’re not at the front door often. Maybe they’re only for show. Maybe there’s no one on the back door. Maybe maybe maybe.
I’d have to find that door. I’d have to hope the alarm system was off, that whoever patrols this place is gone, that the large wall I can glimpse from my window is easy to get over and not boobytrapped with alarms. I’d have to do it dressed like this, bare footed and not knowing where the hell I am.
If I managed all that, what are the chances whoever I flag down doesn’t take me to the police but back here? If I did get to the cops, what if they work for Nikolai? None of those men downstairs the other night were beacons of goodness.
I feel my internal balloon of hope deflate. I’m not getting out of here by making a dash for it. Escape needs to be a plan, a goal to carefully work towards. I’m going to need to be smart, sneaky, patient. I’m going to need to think outside my box.
In an effort to do just that, I smile at the maid as I accept my food. “Thanks.”
She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t answer. I didn’t bother speaking to her the last couple of days, but if I have the same person, that’s good, right? I can try building up a rapport. She’s only a few years older than me, I think. She’s a maid, so she’s not going to be overly loyal, I don’t think. I hope.
“Hi,” I try again. “I’m Rosalind. What’s your name?”
She still doesn’t look at me or speak. Maybe she’s scared? It’s a good bet. Nikolai is scary. Whoever he is, he’s not a good guy.
“Look,” I say, lowering my voice. “I’m just looking for someone to talk to. I know you could get into trouble, but—”
The girl sets the tray on the bed and turns to the door. I jump up and run to her, catching her arm before she can leave. “I’m not asking for help or for you to betray your boss…”
She still doesn’t look at me and I know I have to play this cleverly, calmly, when I feel anything but that. If I can win her as a friend, or just get her to speak to me, then maybe she’ll be an ally in the future.
I take a breath. “Just to talk. I’m scared…”
She pulls her arm free and walks out, locking the door behind her.
“Bitch,” I whisper. Unfair, I know, because as much as I’d like to think I’d be different, I probably wouldn’t be. It doesn’t change how I feel, though.
Frustration rises in me like a tide, and I stomp over to the tray, too aware of the wispy, lacy slip I’m dressed in. It’s too pretty and sexy and see-through and delicate to be anything other than a slip. I hate it, just like every other thing about this place.
My gaze falls to the tray. Only a plastic fork and spoon sit next to the plate. I’m not given actual cutlery, just bendy plastic shit. Then again, I’d probably try and stab him if I had the real stuff.
There’s some kind of sandwich with a side salad, with a yoghurt in a clay pot. Normally, I’d wolf the sandwich down along with the fresh greens and the yoghurt, but right now, the thought of it turns my stomach.
I can’t get out of this room. The window is locked somehow, because I spent the early hours trying to pry it open, and hairpins don’t work in the lock.
Could I stab him with the plastic? Hit him with the thin clay pot? The tray?
He’s not here, though, is he? His little maid who won’t even look at me is the only one who has ventured in.
I’m losing my mind.
The scent of toasted bread laden with cheese, ham, and egg waft up. There’s a glass of juice, orange and freshly squeezed by the look of it. My stomach rumbles and I glare at the tray, grabbing the juice and sandwich. The idea of starving myself is appealing, dramatic and tragic, but it isn’t pragmatic.
Another beautiful rose lays on the tray, insulting me in its perfection. Something in me snaps, and I rip it to shreds and let the pieces tumble over the food. Maybe starvationisthe better option. It’s better than having to endure his touch that I know is coming.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spy a corner of thick, white paper. With trembling fingers, I pick it up and sit on my bed, smoothing it open.