Twenty minutes.
I turn, scanning the room like I’m looking for exits even though I already know there aren’t any.
The windows are bolted shut. I noticed earlier, but I didn’t let myself linger on it. Now I see the metal brackets, the thick locks. The heavy drapes that can be pulled closed to hide the fact that the city is right there, and I’m trapped in here anyway.
The door has security posted outside of it now. I know because I can see the shape of a man through the peephole when I lean in close. Another guard stands in the corridor by the elevator. Two more down the hall.
It’s subtle, meant to look like protection instead of enforcement.
But I know what it is.
To make sure I go through with it.
To ensure my safety.
That’s what they said. That’s what they promised. That’s the line they deliver with that calm, practiced voice.
I try to remind myself of it. I repeat it in my head like a spell.
Whatever happens tonight, I’m safe.
Whatever happens tonight, I’m safe.
The words feel thin.
I push off the door and pace back toward the vanity, then toward the sitting room, then back again. My heels click on the hardwood, too loud. My dress whispers against my skin, the fabric catching on my thighs as if it’s trying to slide up again.
Twenty minutes.
The number of minutes doesn’t feel like time. It feels like a countdown to something I can’t stop.
My gaze lands on the couch.
That’s where the “presentation” is laid out.
White fabric laid out on the velvet material. Not lace the way I imagined, not satin. Something soft and thin and deliberately innocent. A baby doll.
White for virgin.
The phrase comes back with sick clarity. The woman said it like she was telling me what color napkins they picked for a dinner party.
A pair of heels sits beside it—white too, glossy and delicate. They must have placed them while I was out there on the stage, being introduced, being measured, being priced.
Innocent and not-so-innocent.
That was the image they were going for, the stylist told me earlier, smiling as she picked out this damn dress for me, as she put soft curls into my hair and highlighted my eyes.
Sweet girl.
Dirty night.
I swallow hard.
I can’t do this.
The thought hits with the force of a slammed door. It knocks the air out of me.
I can’t.
