The thought makes heat pool low in my belly.
What's wrong with me?
I close the box with shaking hands and bolt back into the bedroom, yanking open the nightstand drawer and throwing it inside. I don’t want to touch it any longer; my hands feel dirty for having held it at all. But even as I slam the drawer shut, my fingers still trembling, I can imagine how that choker would look on me, how beautifully those diamonds would wrap around my throat.
Like the pressure of his hand there, always, even when he’s not with me.
I can't stop wondering what it would feel like to surrender that completely.
I hate myself for wanting it, for being aroused by the very symbol of my captivity. What kind of woman finds herself drawn to her own subjugation?
I'm losing myself. That's what's happening. The isolation, the luxury, the constant presence of Ilya—it's all breaking down my defenses, making me want things I should never want.
I need to get out of here before I forget who I am entirely.
That thought crystallizes as I go down to the empty kitchen and shred a croissant slowly while drinking a cup of black coffee. I need to escape. I’ve been studying the penthouse for the last several day, paying attention to Ilya’s routines, the patterns in the guards’ rotations. There’s security outside all of the time, but there’s small gaps sometimes. And the service elevator, the one maintenance would use or staff if there was any, seems to be less guarded than the other ways out of here.
If I had to bet, I would guess that service elevator either goes to the parking garage or to a maintenance room. If I could get to it, I’d have a way out. And maybe Ilya would come after me, but all I need is enough time to get into my apartment and get some money and my identification. I could fly somewhere else then, Alaska if I have to, just… somewhere that will get me away from him.
Away from both his obsession and the desire that feels like it’s eating my sense of self and of right and wrong alive.
It's a long shot. But it's the only shot I have.
For the rest of the day, I watch the patterns more carefully, timing the guards' rotations, noting when the service elevator is most likely to be empty. The next morning, I follow my usual routine, trying not to think about the diamond choker still lyingin my nightstand drawer. I put on leggings and a warm sweater and thick socks, thinking about what will be easiest to run in. I don't let myself think too hard about what I'm planning. If I think about it, I'll talk myself out of it. I'll remember that Ilya has resources and connections that reach into places I can't imagine, power that makes my escape attempt seem laughably futile.
But I have to try. I have to do something. Even if it fails, even if he catches me, at least I'll know I tried.
I can hear that Ilya is on a call, right as I know there will be a gap in the security near the service elevator. I can hear him speaking in quick, rapid Russian, and my chest tightens.
This is it. This is my chance.
My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure it must be audible, each beat echoing in my ears like a drum. I just need to get out, get to the street, get to my apartment and get my things. Once I'm out, once I'm free, I can figure out the rest—where to go, where I could possibly get free of Ilya.
Carefully, I pad through the apartment, moving to the hallway that will lead out to the service elevator. Every sound seems amplified in the silence: my breathing, the soft rustle of my clothes, the faint creak of a floorboard. I freeze at each noise, my heart in my throat, waiting for a door to open, for Ilya to appear, for this escape attempt to end before it begins.
But nothing happens.
I make it to the kitchen, then to the service hallway that leads to the back of the penthouse. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely grip the door handle, but I force myself to stay calm, to move slowly and quietly.
There's a door here that staff would use; I think Ilya employs a housekeeper, though I haven’t seen them. There’s no way he keeps the penthouse this pristine all on his own. I'm praying—actually praying—that someone has been careless, that the door will be unlocked.
Please. Please let it be unlocked.
I try the handle, and it turns.
The relief that floods through me is so intense it's almost painful. I slip through the door, closing it carefully behind me, and step into a utilitarian hallway that's nothing like the luxury of the penthouse. My feet pad along cold concrete floors lit up by fluorescent lights, the air thick with the smell of cleaning supplies and industrial air freshener.
The elevator is at the end of the hall, and I run for it before I can let myself second-guess what I’m doing. My heart is racing as I bolt down the hall, my breath coming in short gasps. I can't believe this is working. I can't believe I'm actually going to make it.
The hallway seems to stretch on forever, each step taking an eternity, but finally I reach the elevator. I slam my hand against the call button, pressing it over and over, silently begging it to hurry.
Come on, come on, come on.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.
Empty. Thank God, it's empty.
I step inside, my hand reaching for the button for the parking garage, and for one perfect moment, I think I've done it. I can already imagine it—the elevator descending, the doors opening to the garage or to a door leading out to the street, me running for the exit, flagging down a cab, getting away.
