I step past him, my shoulder brushing against his arm as I slip through the velvet curtain, and I feel his eyes on my back like a physical touch. Watching. Waiting. The weight of his attention follows me into the shadows like a predator tracking prey, and I don't know if I should be terrified or comforted by that knowledge.
The corridor beyond the curtain is a study in darkness and decadence. Matte black walls stretch before me, scattered with gold leaf that catches the dim lighting from overhead chandeliers like fallen stars trapped in midnight. My worn shoes move silently over black marble as I move deeper into the belly of Scarlet Thorn.
The corridor is empty, and I send up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever god watches over desperate women doing desperate things.
At the end of the corridor stands a single red door with gold handles that gleam like they've been polished by devoted hands. The sight of it makes my breath catch. Hope flutters in my chest like a trapped bird fighting for freedom. This is it. This is thedoor that leads to the wish room, the place where impossible dreams are granted to those brave enough to ask.
I wrap my fingers around the cool metal handle and push inside.
The room that greets me steals what's left of my breath.
Candles line the perimeter, dozens of them, their flames dancing against walls painted a deep black. Instead of feeling oppressive, the warmth and darkness is comforting. Here the gold leaf is replaced with swirls of scarlet red that twist and curl across the darkened walls like someone came in and just let their creativity take the brush wherever it wanted to go. Fascinating. The effect is captivating and terrifying in equal measure, a space designed to strip away pretense and leave only raw, desperate truth behind.
The air smells of roses, their thick sweetness saturating my senses until I can taste the petals on my tongue. Vases of them are scattered throughout the room, blood-red blooms nestled among cream and blush, their fragrance almost overwhelming in the enclosed space. It's like stepping into a dream, or perhaps a nightmare dressed in beautiful clothes.
At the center of the room, on a pedestal draped in black velvet, sits a box made of dark wood and gold filigree. The wish box. It gleams in the candlelight like something sacred, something that has witnessed countless desperate prayers and impossible hopes.
I approach the pedestal like I'm approaching an altar. A small table beside the box holds a stack of red envelopes and a fountain pen, the materials provided for those who have come to beg for miracles, I assume.
I pick up the pen with trembling fingers.
What do I write? How do I condense five years of suffering into a single wish? How do I explain the debt that's destroying us, the snake that won’t take his teeth from my neck or my sister I would die to protect?
The pen hovers over the paper, and for a moment I'm frozen, paralyzed by the weight of everything I need to say.
Then Victor's voice echoes through my memory, his threat slithering through my mind like venom.Your sister. Gemma. Men pay premium prices for untouched merchandise.
The words pour out of me in a rush, messy and desperate and real.
Save my family from the debt that's destroying us. Please. I'll pay any price. - Katriana Bellrose
The ink bleeds into the white paper like tears into silk, my handwriting shaky but legible. I read the words back to myself, tasting their desperation on my tongue. I fold the paper in half with fingers that won't stop trembling and slip the note into the provided red envelope.
The slot in the top of the wish box accepts my wish with a whisper of paper against wood, and I watch it disappear into the darkness inside. Gone. Irrevocable. A piece of my soul traded for the hope of salvation.
One debt for another. If they choose me.
I press my palm flat against the cool surface of the box, feeling the smooth wood beneath my skin. The gold filigree ridges bite into my flesh. My eyes fall closed, and I let myself pray for the first time in years.
“Universe, whoever reads these wishes, please let them feel something for me and grant my wish for the sake of my sister. I don't care about the price. I just need someone to help. Please," I whisper into the candlelit silence. The word is barely more than a breath.
The candles flicker as if in response, their flames dancing shadows across the walls, and for one wild moment I could swear I hear the echo of my own desperation bouncing back to me from the darkness.
I pull my hand away from the wish box and step back, suddenly aware of how alone I am in this sacred space.
The walk back through the corridor feels longer than before, my feet heavy, my heart heavier still. I slip through the velvet curtain and weave through the beautiful people in the lounge who don't spare me a second glance. I make my way toward the elevator that will take me back to my real life.
Back to my empty apartment and my broken coffee maker and the ticking clock counting down the days until Victor comes to collect what he's owed.
But as I step into the elevator and watch the doors slide closed, I can't shake the feeling of those storm-gray eyes on my skin. Can't forget the warmth of his hands on my arms or the deadly softness in his voice when he asked who hurt me.
I press my fingers to my cheek where his thumb brushed my bruise. I don't know what pound of flesh these powerful men will demand in exchange for salvation. I don’t care. But as the elevator carries me back down to earth, I find myself thinking not of wishes and debts and the monster waiting for me at the end of the week.
I find myself thinking of cedar and smoke and storm-gray eyes.
And something that feels dangerously like hope takes root in my chest, fragile and foolish and impossible to ignore.
Three
