The Potrait
945 Words
Birds were chirping somewhere outside. Emily heard them before she opened her eyes. Loud, insistent. The kind of sound that dragged you out of sleep whether you wanted it or not.
She blinked. Sunlight streamed through a gap in the curtains, cutting across the room in a sharp line. She turned her head on the pillow, squinting against the light.
This wasn’t her hotel room.
Emily sat up slowly. Her head felt heavy, like she’d been hit with something. Her mouth was dry. She looked around, trying to make sense of where she was.
The bed was huge. King-sized, maybe bigger. The sheets were expensive, soft in a way that hotel sheets never were. The room was painted gray. All of it. Walls, ceiling. The furniture was either stark white or black. Minimalist. Cold. This was undoubtedly a man’s house.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet hit the floor. Barefoot. Where were her shoes?
She stood up, her legs shaky beneath her. She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to think. The club. She’d gone to the club. She’d been drinking. Then she’d left. Walked through the streets. And then…
The man that greeted her good evening, ohh and the needle.
Her hand flew to her neck. There was a faint soreness there, just below her jaw. Someone had injected her with something. Drugged her. Took her.
Panic flared in her chest, but she pushed it down. Not yet. She needed to think.
Emily moved to the door. Grabbed the handle. Twisted.
Locked.
She tried again, harder this time. It didn’t budge.
“Shit.”
She banged on the door twice with her fist. The sound echoed through the room. She waited. Nothing. No response. No footsteps.
Emily stepped back from the door, her pulse picking up. She turned, scanning the room again. No windows she could reach. No other doors. Just the one. Locked.
She pressed her palms to her temples, trying to piece it together. How had she gotten here? Who had taken her? And why?
Then she heard it.
Footsteps.
She froze. They were coming closer. Slow, deliberate. Someone was right outside the door.
Emily held her breath, listening. The footsteps stopped. She heard the lock click. The door handle turned slightly, then stopped. Whoever it was didn’t open the door. They just unlocked it.
Then the footsteps receded. Moving away. Down a hall, maybe. Fading.
Emily didn’t move for a full minute. She stared at the door, waiting to see if they’d come back. They didn’t.
Slowly, carefully, she reached for the handle again. Turned it.
This time, the door opened.
She stepped out into a hallway. It was wide, pristine. The floors were marble, polished so clean she could see her reflection. The walls were the same gray as the bedroom. Everything about this place felt cold. Controlled.
She moved quietly, her bare feet silent against the cold floor. The hallway stretched in both directions. She stopped, left or right? She picked left and started walking.
It didn’t take long before she found the stairs. A grand staircase, the kind you’d see in movies about rich people with too much money and not enough sense. She hesitated at the top, looking down into the space below.
No one was there.
Emily descended slowly, one hand on the railing. The stairs curved as they went down, opening into what looked like a sitting room. Or a living room. She wasn’t sure what to call it. It was massive. High ceilings. More gray walls. Black leather couches arranged around a glass coffee table. A fireplace that looked like it had never been used.
She stepped off the last stair and into the room, her eyes darting around, looking for an exit. A door. A window. Anything.
That’s when she saw it.
Emily stopped dead.
On the far wall, above the fireplace, was a painting. Not just any painting. A portrait.
Of her.
It was massive. At least six feet tall, maybe more. The kind of thing you’d commission from an artist. Not a photograph blown up or printed. An actual painting, done by hand. Every detail was there. Her face. Her hair. The way her eyes looked when she was thinking about something. It was her, but not from any picture she’d ever taken.
Someone had described her to an artist. Told them exactly how she looked. And they’d painted this.
Emily’s stomach turned. Her skin went cold.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “f**k me.”
This wasn’t random. This wasn’t some k********g for ransom or trafficking. This was something else. Someone had been watching her. Studying her. Someone was obsessed with her.
She took a step back, her breath coming faster now. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of it. Who would do this? Why?
“Are you lost again, mama?”
The voice came from behind her.
Emily stood frozen. She recognized that voice.
He was standing there. Right behind her. Close enough to touch. The man from the beach house. The one she’d run into in the hallway. Dark suit. Dark eyes.
She hadn’t heard him come in. Hadn’t heard anything.
She turned.
He looked at her, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Not surprised. Just watching. Waiting.
Emily opened her mouth, but the words caught in her throat. Her legs felt weak, but she forced herself to stay standing. To not back down.
You…? she finally managed, her voice sharper than she felt.
He tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to notice.
“Are you lost again, mama?”
Then she fainted
- Writer
