I’m coming.
The words aren’t spoken. They’re not even really words. Just a feeling, a certainty that settles into my bones. I press my hand to my chest, tears pricking my eyes.
It could be wishful thinking, a delusion born of desperation, but I cling to it anyway.
When I can’t justify staying any longer, I wrap myself in a thin towel and return to the bedroom. The red silk dress whispers against my skin as I slip it on, the fabric clinging like it were made for me.
No underwear, of course.
My nipples pebble in the chilly air, and I wrap my arms around myself, fighting the urge to cry.
I sit at the mirror and begin applying makeup with trembling hands. Foundation to hide my pale, drawn pallor. Concealerunder my eyes to mask the dark shadows. Blush to give the illusion of health. With nowhere to hide the tiny black camera, I slide it into the bottom of the make-up bag, reluctant to leave it behind even though I have no idea if it’s even working.
In the mirror, I look like I’m getting ready for a date. Only my eyes give away the truth. The disconnect between my appearance and the horror clawing at my insides is surreal.
A sharp knock on the door makes me jump, sending mascara streaking across my cheek.
“Two more minutes.” Mrs. Ashworth’s voice is patient but firm. “Don’t keep my husband waiting.”
I wipe away the smudge with shaking fingers and finish my makeup.
Through the walls, the sounds continue. Something heavy is being dragged across the floor. Mr. Ashworth’s cultured voice gives instructions I can’t quite make out, followed by his wife’s clipped response.
Another knock, more insistent this time.
“Now, Emma.”
I stand on unsteady legs, smoothing down the silk dress one final time. Taking a breath that does nothing to calm my racing heart, I open the bedroom door.
The hallway stretches before me like a path to hell. Warm light spills from the living room, and I hear the murmur of voices as I approach.
When I step into the doorway, the sight that greets me stops me cold.
All the furniture is gone. The couch, the chairs, the coffee table, everything’s been cleared away. In the centre of the room, someone has placed a mattress on the hardwood floor. The thin white sheet and lack of quilt makes it look clinical.
Beside it are several lengths of rope in different thicknesses.
And yet somehow, worse than that, in the corner, a red light blinks steadily like a malevolent eye from a professional-grade video camera mounted on a tripod.
Already recording.
“No.” The word tears from my throat, and all composure leaves me. “No, no, no.”
I stumble backward, my heels catching on the threshold, but iron-strong hands clamp down on my arms before I can flee. The guards appear on either side of me like shadows, their grips unforgiving, as they drag me forward despite my struggles.
“Don’t do this.” I’m gasping as my feet drag across the hardwood while they haul me toward the mattress. “This is crazy. You know this is insane, right? All of this. Why are you helping him?” I demand of the guards, but they refuse to even look at me.
“Magnificent.” As Mr. Ashworth steps forward, his eyes travel over me with naked hunger. “Absolutely magnificent. You’ve outdone yourself, Kozlov.”
Kozlov stands by the door, arms folded, his expression bored. “Unfortunately, we’ve had to cancel the auction due to the incident at my property.”
“A shame.” Mr. Ashworth circles me slowly, like a collector examining a new acquisition. “I was looking forward to the competition. Though I confess, I’m not disappointed with this alternative arrangement.”
He stares around the bleak cabin with wonder. “The remote cabin. The rawness of it. This will make for an interesting aesthetic.”
He thinks he’s directing a masterpiece, not the snuff movie it really is.
“I was thinking...” Mr. Ashworth reaches out and touches my hair, letting the curls slide through his fingers.
