He wasn't lying. He comes back. Every single day.
For a week, my life shrinks down to the size of this room and the man who fills it. The sun rises, and Stavros is there with coffee, smelling of espresso and expensive soap. The sun sets, and Stavros is there with dinner, smelling of whiskey and the city I’m not allowed to see.
He calls it "spending time together." I call it conditioning.
He controls everything. When I eat. What I wear. When I sleep.
"Eat," he commands one evening, pushing a plate of risotto toward me.
"I'm not hungry," I say, pushing it back.
"I didn't ask if you were hungry. I said eat."
He picks up the fork. He scoops up a bite. He brings it to my lips. His eyes are dark, daring me to turn away. I open my mouth. I chew. I swallow. He smiles, that small, predatory
