I can’tbelievemy father is the one who put me here.
He knew. God, he had to have known. There’s no other explanation for the way he reacted to Yuri. He is a lot of things, but he isn’t clueless. One doesn’t take money from shady characters who stab people like it’s nothing, cater to their whims, and invite them back… if they can say no.
But would Iosif Yuri have noticed me if Dad hadn’t put me up as a prize for the taking? No. He never has before. If my new keeper is to be believed—and I’m not sure if he is—there was worse in the eager crowd last night. That crowd, my father had gathered. Had egged on. Had taken money from. Money, the only thing he gives a damn about anymore.
Oksana clears her throat, and I automatically pick up a piece of toast.
It is sawdust in my mouth.
But all I can do is slather some jam onto it and keep chewing.
The truth is that it doesn’t matter how much the blood in my veins simmers. My hurt and hatred don’t matter. I don’t get to fling plates full of food I’ve no appetite for at these pristine walls, guarded by soulless sentries. I want to scream at these stone-faced men, at the unflinching Oksana, at the cameras recording from every angle… and those wants are inconsequential. I am trapped.
My fury did me no good last night. I’d shouted at the man all of these people are afraid of. I’d shoved at him and called himinsane. I had raged and demanded my freedom. In return, he’d looked at me like I was a petulant child. He hadn’t even had to raise his voice to cut me off at the knees. His clear grey eyes had been calm. His mouth had quirked in amusement. My agony, my outrage, my confusion… it had been nothing more than a tantrum to Iosif Yuri.
He had been unmoved.
I’m terrified.
I raise my cup to my lips and force the tremor out of my anxious hands. I fight to remind myself I’ve handled worse. There’s nothing Iosif can do to me that could wound me worse than what my own father did last night. I’ve dealt with my father for years. I have swallowed any dregs left of my pride and been obedient. Silent. As close to invisible as I can get.
I know how to stay under the radar—to stay safe, and to survive.
Even if I’m not sure what I’m surviving for anymore.
***
As a minor mercy, it turns out I don’t have to spend the day in pajamas after all.
I’ve only just escaped back to my assigned room when Oksana reappears at my door. This time, with her arms—and those of another, younger helper—laden with garment bags. It’s shopping bags and shoeboxes galore.
“Sir arranged delivery this morning,” is all she offers by way of explanation.
I just stand frozen by the door, watching the pile on my bed grow taller and taller. They cart the items to the closet, where they show me an array of blouses, trousers, and dresses.There are sweaters in kitten-soft cashmere. There is not a single pair of jeans. I don’t even know how to process the lacy sets of underwear that will almost definitely lend no support to my substantial curves. But I can’t help but appreciate the coat—a real winter coat, that is a different species than anything I’ve ever worn.
None of it is really my style, since I haven’t morphed into a WASP the last time I checked. Given the circumstances, however, beggars can’t be choosers. I gratefully change into a pair of thick, woolen tights and a black dress the moment the ladies are gone. I skip past many pairs of red-soled heels and thrust my feet into thick-soled boots.
I refuse to think too deeply about how every piece of the ensemble fits perfectly.
At least I’m dressed, right? No longer in borrowed pajamas, I am less vulnerable. I am warm. Oksana’s helper also handed me a toothbrush and a hairbrush. I look like a person again. The woman in the mirror looks different than the one from earlier this morning. She has a little more light in her eyes.
The dress looks good on me; the simple cut and cinched waist work with my curves. The boots are very practical. I’m not at odds with the extravagance of this apartment, but I wouldn’t attract attention walking down a street either. That’s something.
Despite the implications of the men all over the apartment and a closet-full of clothes, the thought sparks a dangerous flicker of hope in my chest.
It gives me the courage to walk out of the room with my head unbowed.
The penthouse is a little less daunting, sprawled before me. I keep my gait as quiet as I can, walking through it. No one explicitly said I have to stay locked up. Until and unless that is nolonger the case, what’s keeping me from exploring? This may be my cage for now, but I can learn its corners.
Maybe I could even find a loose bar and turn it into my escape hatch.
That hope is mildly squashed when I find two of the guards still in the main living area. They don’t even pretend not to be staring right at me. No matter how much I try, I can’t help the color that floods my cheeks.
I try to appear as casual as possible while I count the cameras. I spot at least a dozen before one of the guards clears his throat, and I trip over my own feet.
Quickly, I am beginning to suspect I would make an awful spy.
While I wander, the elevator remains my focus. Oksana had said Iosif would be back in the evening. From what I can tell, the elevator is the only way in or out of this place. I can see no service entrance or fire escape—though, granted, this doesn’t seem like a fire escape sort of building in the first place.
