PART FOUR
899 Words
The hallway stretched forever.
Black marble floors. White walls. Sconces that flickered like candles but weren't. My red stilettos clicked against the stone. Every step echoed. Every echo reminded me: You're walking toward your own cage.
I counted my steps.
One. Two. Three.
I thought about my father.
Four. Five. Six.
His hand in mine. His voice telling me I was strong.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
Don't cry. Don't stop. Don't think.
Ten.
I reached the staircase.
It curved upward like something from a palace. Gold railings. Red carpet. Portraits on the walls men who looked like Alexander. Cold eyes. Hard jaws. A family of monsters.
I grabbed the railing. My hand shook.
One hour.
He'd given me one hour. I'd used most of it standing in that room, frozen, terrified.
How much time was left? Ten minutes? Five?
I didn't know.
I started climbing.
Each step felt heavier than the last. My legs were made of stone. My lungs were made of glass. My heart was made of nothing at all just empty space where courage used to live.
You can do this.
I couldn't.
You have to.
I didn't.
For Papa.
I reached the top of the stairs.
Another hallway. Shorter this time. At the end, a door. Dark wood. Gold handle. Larger than any door had a right to be.
His bedroom.
I walked toward it.
My stilettos didn't click anymore. The carpet was thicker up here. Softer. It swallowed my footsteps like it was hungry.
Stop. Turn around. Run.
I kept walking.
He'll hurt you.
Maybe.
He'll break you.
Probably.
You'll never be the same.
That was the point. The girl I used to be was already gone. She died the moment I signed that contract.
I stopped in front of the door.
My hand hovered over the handle.
Knock, I told myself. Just knock.
I couldn't.
Knock.
My hand didn't move.
He's waiting.
Let him wait.
Your father is waiting. In his hospital bed. For surgery he can't afford. For a daughter who promised to save him.
I knocked.
Three times. Soft. Pathetic. The knock of a woman who didn't want to be heard.
The door opened.
Alexander Black stood in the doorway.
He'd changed clothes. No suit jacket now. Just a white shirt. Unbuttoned at the collar. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were muscled. Veined. Tanned.
I stared at his hands.
Big hands. Strong hands. Hands that could hurt me. Hands that could hold me. Hands that owned me now.
"You came," he said.
"You knew I would."
"Yes." He stepped aside. "Come in."
I didn't move.
"Ava." My name in his mouth sounded different. Not like a name. Like a promise. Like a threat. "Come. In."
I walked past him.
The room was enormous. Bigger than my entire apartment. A bed against the far wall king-sized, black sheets, too many pillows. Windows that showed the Madrid skyline. A fireplace. A couch. A bar.
And a mirror on the ceiling.
I looked away.
"The bathroom is through there," he said, pointing to a door on the left. "There are clothes in the closet. Choose something to sleep in."
"I have clothes."
"No. You have what I provide." He walked past me. Poured himself a drink at the bar. Whiskey. Two fingers. No ice. "Choose something. Now."
I walked to the closet.
It was the size of my bedroom. Racks of dresses. Shelves of shoes. Drawers of silk and lace and things I couldn't name.
All for me.
All chosen by him.
I picked a nightgown. Black. Short. Thin straps. More revealing than anything I'd ever worn.
"This one," I said.
He looked at me over his whiskey glass. Nodded once.
"Bathroom. Change. Five minutes."
I walked to the bathroom. Closed the door. Leaned against it.
The room was white marble. Gold fixtures. A tub the size of a small pool. Flowers on the counter — red roses, fresh.
He'd planned this.
Every detail.
Every terror.
I stripped off the black lace. Stepped out of the red stilettos. Pulled the nightgown over my head.
It fell to my thighs. Too short. Too thin. I could see everything. He would see everything.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
Ava Sinclair. Twenty-two years old. Slave.
No.
Survivor.
I opened the door.
Alexander was sitting on the edge of the bed. His whiskey was gone. His eyes were on me.
"Come here," he said.
I walked toward him.
My legs were shaking. My hands were shaking. Everything was shaking.
I stopped in front of him.
He looked up at me. Gray eyes. Dark hair. A face that had never known kindness.
"Last chance," he said softly. "You can still run."
"No, I can't."
"No," he agreed. "You can't."
He stood up.
Towered over me.
His hand reached for my face. I flinched. He stopped. Waited.
"Look at me," he said.
I looked.
His hand touched my cheek. Gentle. Almost soft.
"I'm going to take everything from you," he said. "Your freedom. Your pride. Your fear." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "And by the time I'm done, you won't want it back."
"That's not love," I whispered.
"No." His mouth curved. "It's not."
His hand moved to the back of my neck. Pulled me closer.
"This is the beginning, Ava. The first night of the rest of your life."
His lips brushed my forehead.
"Welcome home."
- Writer
