“Not exactly. I’d still be arriving by myself, but those guys getting in was a gamble tonight that paid off.”
Ross has played a big part in curating all this. No one applies for the staffing around here; everyone is recommended by Omnia’s clients.
Unless you’re me and manage to infiltrate through years of work to penetrate their veil of secrecy.
I keep Indie close to my side as we head to the lounge, glancing at her subtly every so often. She’s still got that look on her face, completely unbothered by her surroundings.
Good.
I haven’t missed the men that ogle her when she passes by, and my teeth are at risk of being ground down to fucking nubs every time I clock it.
She leans in close to me to whisper, “The gold bands?”
I notice she’s focused on a woman leaning against the bar, swaying slightly on the stool.
A rough sigh comes from me. “From what we’ve gathered from Ross, those are for…let’s say they’ve become property.”
Her eyes snap to mine.
“Are those the people who’ve gone missing?” she asks, keeping her voice low.
I nod, leading us to a quieter side of the room, tucked into the corner and out of any listening ears. “Most likely. Black bands on women means they’re either equal to their husbands, or not willing to share. You’ll be able to tell the difference whether it’s a spouse or a…purchase. The latter’s usually dressed to grab attention.”
Her face screws up as she assesses each of the women here.
The one at the bar, for instance: her dress barely covers her, and the way her movements are slowed, eyes unfocused.
She’s already been drugged, and the night hasn’t even begun.
It’s just another thing we uncovered. Women are rarely respected within Omnia, or so we’ve gathered. With how their initiations go, all the evidence points to that assumption.
We still don’t know who their hierarchy are apart from the Montgomerys, and I’m hoping tonight will be the night we finally crack it after all these years.
Indie discreetly pours some of the champagne from her glass in front of the armchair, the liquid being soaked up by the carpet.
“When you say share?” She glances up at me, waiting for the blanks to be filled in.
“They often trade them for a period of time here, letting others try before they buy. Enough interest, they get entered into an auction to make more money.”
The words taste like venom in my mouth, despite flowing casually. I’ve spent years learning everything I can about them, to the point where it no longer phases me.
It would torment the most innocent of souls witnessing the footage we have, even just hearing the stories passed along to us.
Indie leans back in the chair, arms folded, and a murderous scowl on her face.
“That’s fucking inhumane,” she growls, and the look has become something I’ve become sickeningly addicted to seeing, but now’s not the time.
Some of the nightmares that taunted me have often wrapped around if it could have been her.
My mum.
Dragged into their sickened system, never to be seen again.
“It’ll come to an end soon,” I add, taking a cigarette out when I notice others smoking round the bar. Thank fuck; I’m too coiled up and need to release it, and fucking Indie here is out of the question.
She turns to look at me, the first hint of a smile she’s offered since she stepped out of a car. “I’m proud of what you’ve been doing.”
I don’t know why, but I shift uncomfortably, not one to accept praise.
