Each day turned into another, and another.
And now, four years later, I'm twenty-two, and still, I have no way of getting out. When I work in the club, he doesn’t allow me to talk to anyone. I tried it once, and when he noticed, I was taken into a room and beaten until I passed out. Now, all I do is smile and allow them to do whatever they want. I don’t ask for help. Hope is a fleeting emotion, one I no longer allow myself to feel.
Broken. Tormented. Angry.
My captor told me I had an anger problem. There were times I’d fly into a rage. I’d hurt myself. When he saw the cuts on my arms, he whipped me until I couldn’t sit down. That’s when he put the camera in the cell I’m caged in. I know there’s someone watching. I can feel their hungry eyes on me.
My body shivers once more when I roll over. The red blinking light is bright in the darkness as I stare up at it from the bed. I don’t know when they’ll come for me again, or when I’ll be allowed to go upstairs and be taken to the club, but I have a feeling it will be soon.
Every time I’m transported there, they knock me out. I know it’s because they don’t want me to see where I am or where we’re going. All I remember is the smell. A cloth drenched in foul-smelling liquid covering my mouth and nose, and I sleep.
When I get back here, I scream to be let out again, just to be a normal person. I shout and screech until all that’s left is the raw, burning sensation that makes it feel as if I’ve been swallowing razor blades, and I half expect there to be blood coming from my mouth.
I’ve been in hell for four years, forced to do things I’d never wish on my worst enemy. I only know how long my time here has been because as the sun sets and rises, I count. The stony walls of concrete are my paper, the nail I pulled from the metal frame of the bed is my pen. I make my markings where they can’t see them. Because if they did, I’d be in trouble. Perhaps they’ll finally kill me, but something tells me I’m alive for a reason. I just wish I knew what that was.
I haven’t been allowed outside, but he has let me go to his dinner parties. But no one there would help me. When I tried begging a guest to save me, they laughed in my face and told him his doll was being annoying. That night was the worst of all. He’s always violent, but after that one night, I didn’t leave my cell for four days because I almost bled out on my thin mattress.
The people are dressed in their finest clothes. I’m draped in silk as if I’m one of them. I’m not. I’m merely a plaything for the man beside me. He uses me as his nark. I go in, meet with the men he points out, and I get the information he wants from them.
I don’t want to do it, but I have no choice. If I refuse, he tells me exactly what he’ll do to Harper. And that in itself is reason enough for me to do what he wants.
“The man at the table with the silver tie,” William whispers to me. His mouth only inches from my ear. “He’ll be tonight’s target. You’ll find out about his plans to unite the two merging companies he owns.”
“Yes, William,” I offer.
Moments later, I’m in the meeting room, as William calls it, with the man with the silver tie.
“You’re quite the sweet thing,” the stranger utters.
“Thank you.” Being coy doesn’t come easy to me. Neither does this game I’m meant to play with them. “Would you . . .?” I allow my words to trail off, wondering if this man would be the one who helps me. I allow my bright red fingernail to toy with his tie. Lifting my gaze, I meet his eyes and smile. “Would you help me leave here?”
He chuckles. The sound is dark and foreboding, and as soon as it leaves his mouth, I realize my mistake. He shoves me backward. Stalking to the door, he tugs it open to find William on the other side.
“Your little whore is trying to weasel her way into my house?”
William’s dark gaze lands on me as he shoves the man from the room and shuts the door with a loud thud. My heart hammers wildly in my chest. Breathing is difficult as I try to suck in breaths.
“You’re a conniving little slut,” he barks, shoving me onto the table face first. The impact causes my body to turn rigid. There’s a soft whooshing sound, and I don’t need to turn around to know what it is.