Because if it could be safe, then maybe it could be possible.
If it was possible, then maybe I didn’t have to watch my dad fade out in slow motion while I stood there with empty hands.
I told myself I was doing it for him. That it was love, not desperation. That it didn’t say anything about who I really am.
I told myself a lot of things.
Now I’m standing in a suite that smells like expensive cologne, wearing a dress that’s practically a suggestion, waiting for someone, not to escort me, but to deliver me, to my chosen fate.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s not unknown.
Dad.
My heart stutters so hard I almost drop the phone. I stare at his name until the screen goes dark again.
I can’t answer. If I answer, I’ll hear his voice, as and I’ll crumble. If I answer, he’ll ask where I am, and I’ll lie, and the lie will lodge in my throat and choke me.
If I answer, he’ll say something simple like, “Hey, kiddo,” and I’ll say, “Hi, Dad,” and it will sound normal. It will sound like every other night.
And then I’ll go out there and do this anyway.
I set the phone back down and press my palms to the cold marble of the vanity. My fingers tremble.
“Just breathe,” I whisper to my reflection.
The girl in the mirror nods as if she believes me.
A soft chime sounds near the sitting room—someone at the main door, maybe, announcing themselves without knocking. The suite is secure; I remember the woman downstairs telling me that, as if it would be a comfort.
Discretion is guaranteed.
Security is present.
I repeat those lines in my head like a prayer. Like if I believe them hard enough, they will become true.
There’s a second knock on the door.
“Erica,” the woman calls, still smooth. Still calm. “It’s time.”
My pulse jumps into my throat. My mouth goes dry. My legs feel too light, like I’m floating.
I look at myself one more time.
The dress dips low in the front, exposing more skin than I’ve ever shown a stranger on purpose. The back is worse—nearly bare, a thin strap across my shoulder blades. The heels make me taller, but not enough to stop me from feeling like a small animal dressed up for display.
I smooth my hair, even though it doesn’t need smoothing. I touch my necklace, a cheap silver chain with a tiny heart charm my dad bought me from a gas station when I was sixteen because I’d had a bad day and he didn’t know what else to do.
I almost take it off.
I don’t.
I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s the only thing on me that feels real.
I walk to the door with my shoulders back, because if I don’t, I might fold.
I open it and the woman stands there, mid-thirties maybe, dark hair in a sleek ponytail, black suit that fits like she was poured into it. She looks me up and down, not like a man would. Like she’s checking if a product meets the listing.
“Good,” she says, like she’s confirming something. “Follow me.”
