I slid back into the driver's seat, turned the key. Nothing.
"One more time."
Still nothing.
I was about to get back out when I felt it—a hand over my mouth, something sweet and chemical pressed against my face. I thrashed, kicked, tried to bite, but he was stronger and I was already breathing it in, the world going soft around the edges.
"Shh." A different voice now, calm and controlled and terrifyingly familiar. "No more running, Miss West."
Dr. Gabriel Mire. Of course. Of fucking course he'd come himself.
I tried to fight, but my limbs were already going heavy, thoughts scattering like rain on windshield glass. The last thing I saw before the darkness took me was my own reflection in the rearview mirror—eyes wide, mascara running, looking exactly like the kind of girl who'd sign her life away for money she couldn't keep.
Consciousness returned in pieces. First, the ache in my shoulders. Then the dryness in my mouth. The soft surface under me. The weight around my throat.
I opened my eyes to pastel pink.
Pink walls. Pink carpet. White furniture with pink accents. It looked like a nursery had fucked a Victoria's Secret and this was their bastard offspring. Soft lighting from fixtures shaped like clouds. A canopy bed with white lace curtains. Plush toys arranged on shelves like witnesses.
And around my neck, leather and metal that pressed just enough to remind me it was there.
I jerked upright, hands flying to my throat. A collar. An actual fucking collar, like I was a dog or a—
"Good morning, little one."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, soft and feminine and terrifyingly cheerful through hidden speakers.
"Daddy's so happy you're awake. Let's begin."
"What the fuck?" My voice came out rough, throat dry. I stumbled out of the bed—and when had I been changed into a soft cotton nightgown?—looking for a door, a window, anything. "Where am I? What is this?"
"Language, little one. Good girls use nice words."
"Fuck your nice words!" I spun around, addressing the ceiling since I couldn't find cameras. "Let me out! This is kidnapping! This is—"
"This is exactly what you agreed to, Miss West."
The voice changed, shifted from that cloying sweetness to something recorded. My voice. My cocky, confident voicefrom that coffee shop:"Where do I sign? Just show me the line and I'll sign whatever you want."
Then Mr. Winters, careful and clear:"All rights of refusal revoked upon activation. Do you understand?"
Me again, impatient and dismissive:"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Rights revoked, whatever. Where's my money?"
The playback ended, leaving me standing in the middle of this pink nightmare with my own words echoing in my ears.
"Now then,"the sweet voice returned,"let's go over the rules. Rule number one: Good girls use their inside voice."
A screen descended from the ceiling—because of course it did—showing text in cheerful pink letters:
RULE #1: USE YOUR INSIDE VOICE
"This is insane." I moved to the wall, running my hands along it, looking for seams, doors, anything. "You can't just keep me here. People will look for me. My friend knows—"
"Your friend Mika received a text from your phone explaining that you've taken an amazing opportunity abroad. Your jobs have been notified of your sabbatical. Your apartment will be maintained in your absence."The voice never lost its gentle tone."No one is looking for you, little one. You're exactly where you're supposed to be."
My legs gave out. I slid down the wall, pink carpet soft under my bare legs. They'd thought of everything. Planned everything. And I'd handed them the blueprint with my signature.
"Rule number two: Ask nicely for what you need."
