VICTORIA
Sound.
Everything is sound.
My phone rings somewhere in the office below. Shrill. Insistent. The ringtone I chose because it's impossible to ignore, now mocking me from where I dropped my purse. Each ring drills into my skull, too loud in the aftermath of adrenaline and terror.
Ramiz pounds against the door. Each impact vibrates through the floor, through the tile, through my bones. Fist or shoulder, I can't tell. Just the relentless rhythm of someone determined to break through.
My pulse hammers in my ears. Too fast. Too loud. Drowning out rational thought, reducing everything to the animal instinct of prey.
I'm crouched beneath the vanity, knees pulled to chest, arms wrapped tight around my shins. The marble presses against my spine, cold through the thin silk of my dress. My bare feet are numb on the tile floor, dirty from running through the restaurant.
I focus on my breathing.
In. Count to four.
Out. Count to four.
The technique doesn't work. My chest won't expand properly. Lungs refuse to cooperate, locked tight around the panic. Each breath comes shallow, sharp, tasting of lemon cleaner and the faint metallic tang of copper underneath.
Blood.
Jelena's blood.
Now is not the time to panic.
I need to think. Need to calculate a way out of this the way I've calculated escapes for dozens of other women.
The pounding stops.
Silence rushes in, somehow worse than the noise. My ears ring in the absence. I strain to hear movement, footsteps, anything that tells me where he is. What he's planning. Whether he's gone or simply waiting.
My phone rings again. Four rings. Five. Then silence.
Someone is trying to reach me.
The thought splinters through the panic like light through cracks. Someone knows I'm missing. Someone is looking.
But my phone is far away, and I'm locked behind a door that won't hold forever.
I push to my feet, legs trembling. Three steps to the wall-mounted phone. The receiver is cream-colored plastic, old-fashioned, connected by a coiled cord to a box near the mirror.
This bathroom was built to save women.
I never imagined I'd be the one trapped inside.
My hand shakes reaching for the phone. I grip the vanity edge with my other hand, steadying myself. Fingernails digging into marble.
The receiver is smooth against my palm. Cool. Real.
I lift it.
Dial tone. Steady and mechanical. The most beautiful sound I've ever heard.
My gaze catches on the poster beside the phone. Emergency instructions printed in English and other languages. At the bottom, a phone number in red.
Jelena's office number.
