This safe house is a little louder and rougher than the last one. Here, every board and nail has a complaint or secret. The bed is narrower, the sheets cheap and scratchy, the entire roomfaded at the seams. Where the last place boasted quiet wealth, this one conveys undisguised indigence.
But every time I turn the knob, the lock works. That’s what counts.
The full bed occupies most of the small room, surrounded by beige walls, old brown carpet, and peeling paint on the crown molding.
An abrupt knock slams against my new lockable door. Three strikes that vibrate through the wood.
I cross the small bedroom floor, measuring each step and taking my sweet time.
By the time I open the door, Kirill looks like he’s one heartbeat away from smashing through the wood. The thought causes my chest to ache with a strange blend of dread and a fear I won’t name.
What if he’s hurt Ashley? I haven’t even thought about her since I got free, ran, and he caught me again.
I’m a horrible friend.
He doesn’t talk, just thrusts out two long, white, expensive boxes.
For a beat, I just hold them, my arms dipping beneath their unexpected heft.
He leaves before I can speak, the door sealing with a crisp, verdict-like click.
Then it inches open again. The aged jamb bows, demonstrating that the door won’t stay closed if the lock’s not engaged.
But the lock works.
I clutch the boxes against my chest and stagger to the bed. With a muffled thud, their weight settles on the green comforter.
My fingers hesitate over the first box. I know what’s inside. Clothes, like he promised. Dresses he’s selected and insists I wear to the conference.
Wearing these means surrender.
But how bad can that be compared to everything else?
With a shake of my head, I pull off the first lid to find sleek gloves and a black silk dress.
Not just black, but a midnight so dense, the fabric bleeds shadows onto my hands. When I tug the dress free, it spills over my wrists in a whisper of soft cloud, pooling into a sheath sharp enough to cut.
Expensive. Deliberate.
The kind of dress I haven’t worn since I was a teenager at my mother and stepfather’s parties.
I peel the tissue on the second, and it’s like touching an electric fence. Red. Not the shade of lipstick or roses or anything safe. This is the color of an open wound. Raw and impossible to ignore.
Ugly and beautiful.
A warning and a weapon.
I hold up the high-necked black dress, sliding my fingers down the precise seams, the edge of every line. The fabric is neither rough nor soft.
These aren’t gifts. They’re uniforms. A way to erase the loose layers and beads and earth-tone wraps that belong to Jordan Thorne, the wellness influencer and spiritual guide.
In these, I’m branded. An asset, not person. A doll to show off.
His, whether I want to be or not.
A chill crab-walks up my spine. I lay the dresses on the bed, side by side. Black. Red. Colors that say exactly what they mean.
My hands tremble, and not just from fear, but from a dangerous curiosity about what happens if I just put one on.
