I move through the room anyway, opening drawers, checking corners, convincing myself there isn’t some secret passage waiting to save me. My shirts are folded in neat stacks. My leggings, my bras. Someone bought all my usual toiletries and lined them up in military formation on the dresser. There’s a fresh robe, the same one Dominik provided before the photoshoot, but I can’t bring myself to touch it.
Breakfast sits on a tray near the credenza. Fruit. Toast. Pastries. Coffee made exactly the way I like it. A small act of comfort that somehow feels more insulting than kindness.
I brought the tray into my room as Dominik demanded. He didn’t say I had to eat it.
A soft chime comes from somewhere in the apartment. Not the elevator. It’s deeper, more distant. Something I can’t identify. It dies away a moment later, swallowed by the penthouse’s hush.
I can’t stay in here another second. Waiting feels like it will kill me faster than anyone else will.
Cracking open the guestroom door I step out and listen. The hallway glows with warm light, like a hotel meant to relax guests rather than contain them.
On my right is a plain door that won’t budge when I turn the knob.
On my left, a heavy steel door with a push bar and a dark camera above it always watching. I try it as well, even knowing it remains locked.
After that, I head toward the living room, pretending I only want to admire the view. As I pass the study’s open archway I refuse to look inside. His deep voice carries, gruff and only a few words, like a decision is being made. I thought he would come check-in on me, or give me an update, but Dominik hasn’t spoken a single word to me today.
Movement draws my eye. A guard stands by the kitchen, thick-necked and stone-faced. Another man positions himself against the wall, angled perfectly to watch the hallway.
Of course, there are guards always watching.
I retreat to my room and sink down at the foot of the bed, then I fall back on the thing that keeps me from falling apart. I make mental lists.
What I know for certain:
Archer has about forty-eight hours left on his deadline.
The exits are constantly monitored.
My door now locks from the inside with a key he gave me.
Food arrives three times a day, and he insists I bring it into my room.
What I don’t know:
How many guards are stationed outside the penthouse.
Whether there are any neighbors that would open their door to a barefoot stranger if I managed to escape.
How exactly my proclaimed suffering will motivate Archer.
Whether Dominik will turn me over to Gavriil in a week or fight him if Archer fails me.
With each second that passes, my faith in my brother waivers.
There seems to be a solution for it all, one that I’ve tried to avoid thinking about. One that I’m getting closer to offering.
Would Gavriil let my brother live if I agree to a month in his cage?
It seemed like an outrageous proposition yesterday. Today, it’s becoming slightly more tolerable. If a month in his cage bought Archer the rest of his life, would I sign my name on that deal and walk into hell on my own two feet?
Dominik told me to decide what I’m willing to sacrifice for Archer and ask myself if he’s worth it.
The answer is yes, and I’ll do whatever it takes.
God, it would be so much easier if I could just talk to Archer so I could figure out what in the world he was thinking.
Going to the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face, and stare at myself in the mirror. Dark circles under my eyes aren’t so different to the ones on Dominik’s face thanks to his busted nose. Tension brackets my mouth. And beneath it all is my resolve.
