If this is how Lorenzo wants to make mefeel at home,then fine.
I’ll turn his money into armor.
And when I catch my reflection in the mirror—a flash of red lipstick, my hair shining under the soft light—I whisper the words like a promise.
“What would Sienna do?”
She’d spend every cent on that card, maxing it out, smile while she did it, and make him wonder if he ever had control at all.
Around seven in the evening I get an idea. I use my brand new laptop and open the website to an airline. I mean, Lorenzo did say he wanted me to feel at home. And my home isn’t here. It’s in Kansas City. I’m about to select my date of travel when I realize that tonight is Christmas Eve. The thought has me stilling. That means it’s been three weeks since this allbegan. Since Sienna and I decided to throw a party that changed everything.
I stare at the screen. Lorenzo said my apartment won’t be ready, which means I won’t have anywhere to go when I do get to Kansas City. And since it’s Christmas week there’s a good chance my friends will be out of town. My eyes are full of tears as I hit ‘purchase’. I’ll figure it out when I get there.
But my purchase doesn’t go through. So I try again. When that doesn’t work, I try another airline.
I’m starting to get angry when my phone buzzes.
My stomach drops as soon as I see his name light up the screen.
L. Conti
Of course.
I stare at the message until the words blur.
You can try to buy as many plane tickets as you want, but you’ll find none of them will go through.
My pulse pounds in my ears. I grip the phone tighter.
You canceled the card?!
I restricted it. For your safety.
And, it’s my card.
For mysafety.The word makes me laugh, but it’s sharp and ugly, the kind that sounds a little too close to breaking.
You mean for your control.
This time, he doesn’t respond right away. I can almostfeelhim reading it, imagining his jaw tightening, the slow, measured inhale before he answers.
We’ll discuss this when I get home.
Home. He meanshishome.
I toss the phone onto the bed and press my palms to my eyes until the tears spill over anyway. I hate that he still has this kind of hold over me. I hate that some small part of me feels safer knowing he’s watching even when he’s the reason I’m trapped.
Outside, snow starts to fall against the glass, soft and soundless. It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m alone in a penthouse that doesn’t feel like mine, surrounded by things I don’t want, bought with money that feels like chains.
I grab the black card off the nightstand and throw it across the room. It hits the far wall and lands in the corner, face up, catching the faint light from the city below.
“Feel at home,” I whisper bitterly. “Right.”
My phone buzzes again. My heart leaps even though I wish it wouldn’t.
Do not leave the penthouse.
I type and delete three different replies before settling on two words.
