How can I even try to escape if I don’t know what country, no, what continent I’m on?
It’s hard to contain the fear, the exhaustion, all the emotions that seem to break inside me as I realise my situation is hopeless. Completely, utterly hopeless.
Sweat tricklesdown my back and between my breasts, mingling with the residual dampness from my shower. The rough dress chafes against my skin, but the worst part is the hunger.
It’s a constant, gnawing presence. A dull ache that has settled into a persistent, dizzying throb behind my eyes.
My vision swims if I stand up too fast. My stomach has stopped grumbling; it’s now just a silent, gaping void of need.
Hours must pass.
I have no way of telling time. My world has shrunk to the next tile, the next swipe of the cloth, the next breath that I have to force into my lungs.
The grandeur of the house, the artwork on the walls, the plush carpets, it all feels like a dream, a bizarre and cruel contrast to the reality of my existence.
I am a grimy creature from the underworld, shuffling through a gilded palace.
Outside a heavy, dark wood door I pause. Trying to smooth down my damp, frizzing hair, to pat the sweat from my flushed face, but it’s useless.
As I push the door open, I realise with horror what room this is.
Antonio is sat behind his desk, on the phone, clearly busy. His eyes find mine, and I drop my gaze immediately as panic sets in. I should have knocked. Am I going to be punished for this?
He holds up his hand, silently beckoning me in, and I chew my lip while taking one careful step after another.
He’s speaking in low, rapid Italian, spinning the massive chair around so that he stares out the window and away from me.
I say a silent prayer of thanks that he’s clearly too busy to give a fuck about me right now and get to work as quickly as I can.
The room is warm. The scent of old books, polished wood and his faint, expensive cologne fills the air. It’s a clean, masculine smell that only makes me more acutely aware of my own state—the smell of bleach and sweat that clings to me.
Along one wall is a massive bookcase. It’s crammed with books, some of them double-stacked and wedged into tight spaces. I dust carefully, trying to find thebalance between getting this job done so I can get out of here while also not damaging what looks like very valuable pieces of literature.
And then, a sound breaks, a sound so loud and mortifying in the hushed room that I flinch.
Grrrrrrrrrrrrumble.
My stomach, voicing its furious, empty protest.
I clutch my stomach, trying to silence it, but I can feel his eyes on me.
Antonio’s conversation pauses for a fraction of a second as my cheeks burn. God, how I want the floor to swallow me whole. I concentrate on a single whorl on one of the sideboards, praying for the earth to open up.
He resumes talking, his tone unchanged.
I hold my breath, trying to will my body into silence.
Only, it’s no use. My stomach lets out another grumble. This one is longer, louder, more desperate, like a primal scream from my insides.
This time, Antonio stops speaking altogether. I hear the soft click of the phone being placed back in its cradle. The silence that follows is heavier, more terrifying than any punishment from Mistress.
I dare to look up. He has swivelled his chair around and is looking at me, his dark eyes unreadable. He leans back, steepling his fingers.
“Have you not eaten anything today, Pup?”
His voice is calm. Curious.
It’s not the angry bark I expected, and it throws me off balance even more than my dizziness.
