I made myself dizzy trying to take in the textures of the whitewashed shiplap, crisp white linen under woven throws, and accent pillows in shades of muted tide-pool green. Rattan nightstands topped with coastal-like pottery lamps flanked the queen bed without a speck of dust to be found on them.
Drawn deeper into the room, I got swept up in the bathroom and couldn’t help myself when I saw the tub. Now, the water’s lukewarm, and the stack of fluffy white towels next to the tray of sea-salt soaking crystals is looking more welcoming by the second.
I side-eye the bottle of GHB I tucked between the polished chrome tub spout and handles. It’s mine. To use when I want. To get out of whatever …theywant.
Edmond told me Mr. DuPont—Slade—doesn’t buy girls to use them. He brings them home, feeds them, lets them prune in his guest room bathtub—allows them peace from the insanityfor twelve hours. He equips them with an inconspicuous bottle of GHB to slip the next few men in hopes they pass out with nothing but an assumed memory of a good time. He explained that since the twelve hours start after the final bid, most men are still asleep when their security or EV guards escort the girls back. I wasn’t brave enough to ask what happens if they lose their bottle, it breaks, or worse … the guards find it.
It makes me curious, though—he goes through all this trouble to offer a beacon of hope to these girls. Why doesn’t he use his position to expose these people, this secret society, as Edmond called them? He’s a congressman; he’s supposed to work for the people. Is this his version of saving us? Maybe he believes this twisted mercy is enough. Or the worst part? Maybe saving us isn’t the goal at all.
Dragging a hand through the water, I lean forward and tap the bottle of clear liquid with a pruned finger. A lifeline in a bottle.
I’ve soaked long enough. I don’t want to move. Not yet. Especially because I’ve counted two cameras in here already, and I know getting out will expose my naked body to them.
The bed, however, all plush and puffy down, calls to me, and the logical side of my brain realizes I only have nine hours left here. What is the congressman doing? The paperwork Edmond mentioned?
It’s silly. Picturing the man who ignored me sitting in an office handling his business while I linger in his bath. The man must have a life, work to do outside of his dedication to this secret club. Is this why he ran for office? Did he know he wanted to be a part of this?
For a second, I want to storm out of the bath, burst into his room—find him on the second floor and demand he expose them. But instead, I shrink back, water sloshing against the sides, and swallow the thickness rising in my throat.
There’s movement above me, and I freeze. My face flushes hot as the slow creak of footsteps echoes from the floor above. It groans beneath the dull shuffle, as if they’re pacing back and forth.
Him. Itmustbe him.
Suddenly annoyed with myself for even thinking I could relax, I jolt up, drain the tub, and hop out. Snatching a towel, I wrap it around me and then shuffle to the hanging midnight-blue silk robe provided.
Based on how the other girls have come back to the club, I’m guessing I’ll have to put that skimpy outfit on again, so I’m keeping this robe on until the last possible second.
It drapes over me like liquid and glides against my skin as I force it over my shoulders. I melt and move to the mirror. The dark blue catches the light, making the cool, smooth fabric shift like waves. I bring my thumb and forefinger up to rub the soft neckline as the sleeves fall past my tattoo, brushing my wrist. I let out a shaky sigh while staring at my reflection and cinch the sash around my waist with trembling fingers. It’s warm, indulgent, and I don’t even recognize myself.
It’s the kind of thing you’d see draped over a woman lounging by the sea in a sensual magazine, perhaps off the shoulder. Not someone like me. Not someone who’s spent most of my life held together by my mother’s love and safety pins.
I’m not sure why my mind can’t move past the robe. I never had fancy things growing up. We didn’t buy brand-name clothes, no vacations or new bikes, and Christmas was minimal with whatever my mother’s side hustle for the year could bring in. She made what we had stretch. Probably too much, considering Phil never felt the pressure to pull any extra weight.
She hemmed my secondhand jeans and could turn a can of soup and bread into dinner for three and still smiled while doingit. My mother could sew, mend, clean, fix, give me quality time, and still make our house a home.
She’d go without new shoes so my father could have a new work uniform he had lost. Or she’d stay up late ironing his suits when he gave car sales a shot one year. She never complained, not once. Just kept going, carrying the weight of everything on her own.
I want to be like her. Not in the way people say when they’re trying to be kind. But deep in my bones, despite the fatigue I saw in her eyes every night. She found joy while scrubbing dishes, and that’s what I want. To be the kind of woman who can make warmth out of the cold, thin air of a broken home. Who turns a place into a home.
There are fancy oils and creams on the counter beside me—I don’t need them. I don’t need fancy. This robe. The silk.
I blink, realizing tears are spilling down my cheeks.
Phil took advantage of the sweet soul my mother was, and now he’s taken my life from me. Not that I had plans …
It doesn’t matter. He sold me. Sold me! All so he could pay for his endless tab at the bar and drown in alcohol. If the congressman hadn’t been the one to bid on me tonight, someone else would’ve thrown me under and taken what they wanted, draining every ounce of me for their pleasure. That’s my fate, isn’t it? Next week? The week after. And the next. The small bottle of GHB isn’t going to last forever.
After wiping my face, I lean against the counter. My hair’s doing what it always does, the wild copper curls springing outward from the bathroom’s humidity that none of these foreign glass jars can fix.
I linger, reaching for the expensive candle that smells like white linen and soothing sand. I set it down, pick it up again, then set it down harder the next time.What are you doing?Basking in this luxury while other girls are being used and in tears on the floor.
Dark circles stand proud under my tired eyes. I’m worn down. Scared, and I hate the helplessness I feel. The same as when Phil would come home drunk and kick my door in until my mother offered herself up instead. All to redirect him away from me.
My lip curls.Coward.
The bitter word hisses through my head.
We both are. Him for not getting the help he needed and treating his family with love and respect, and me for?—
