After he’d rinsed the toothbrush and set it aside, he reached for the hairbrush. His fingers worked slowly through the knots, as if he didn’t want to hurt me, but the pressure of his silent control was worse than any tug.
He rubbed an expensive moisturizer into my face, then smoothed a delicate, powder-scented lotion across my hands and legs. I stayed still, breathing through my nose, eyes fixed on the counter. My skin crawled under his hands, but I didn’t move.
Once he’d helped me into the frilly yellow dress and applied a touch of blush to my cheeks, he nodded in satisfaction. Taking both my hands in his, he helped me to my feet and spun me around to face a long mirror.
I looked... artificial. Childish. Like a porcelain doll.
“Such a beautiful girl. Come, petal. Let me read to you.”
He guided me into the living room, settled in the armchair and pulled me into his lap, one arm banded around my back, then reached for a children’s book on the side table. The whole time he was reading, his fingers moved, dragging lightly over my thighs, my wrists, the side of my neck...
I kept my eyes on the pages but couldn’t see a word.
My next vivid memory is from close to the end of my first week. Or maybe the start of week two in that hellhole.
He brought me breakfast, like every morning, the silver tray brimming with healthy choices. It was always a bowl of fresh fruit, a smoothie, and either protein pancakes without syrup, egg white omelets with spinach, avocado on rye, the crust cut off, or lukewarm oatmeal with flaxseed.
That morning it was an omelet, an unsweetened strawberry smoothie, and two oranges.
He sat me in his lap, humming a soft melody under his breath while peeling the oranges.
“Open,”he murmured, lifting a slice to my lips once my plate was clean.“Come on, sweetie. I know you don’t like citrus, but they’re good for you. Full of vitamins. Open.”
I pinched my lips, hands shaking against my lap, nails biting into my palms.
I hate oranges. They make my stomach cramp.
“Leilani.”His voice didn’t rise, but there was an edge there.“I said open.”
I swatted his hand away and the slice landed in a splatter of juice, staining the white carpet. It was the first time I refused to play along, and Anton’s blue eyes hardened.
“Oh, sweet girl,”he sighed.“That’s disappointing.”He rose to his feet, taking me with him, fingers gripping my wrist tighter.“You need structure,”he murmured, more to himself than me.“Consequences.”
He dragged me out like a disobedient child and stopped in front of the hall closet.
“You’ll come out when you’re ready to eat.”He pushed me in and locked the door before I realized what was happening.
I turned the knob, and when it didn’t budge, I slapped the door with my open palm, then hammered at it with both fists. Panic started creeping in, along with claustrophobia. I called his name once, twice, then choked before I could call out again. My throat was tight, my heart bruised my ribs, the all-consuming darkness driving me crazy. I slid to the floor, crying and shaking for so long I got a headache and passed out from sheer exhaustion.
Anton didn’t let me out until late in the evening, and when he did, no words were spoken. He sat me in his lap again, peeled another orange, and when he pressed a slice to my lips, I opened without hesitation.
Little by little, he stripped away my entire personality.
He told me when to eat, what to wear, when to sleep. I was only unsupervised on brief, timed visits to the toilet. He waited right outside with an egg timer. I spent every day locked in his loft. He never took me out, never opened a single window.
Whenever he was home, he kept me close, within reach. Whenever he left, doing whatever dreadful thing his brother had ordered, he watched me on a nanny cam, sometimes telling me what to do.
“I’m running late, petal. It’s time to eat. There’s a platter ready for you in the fridge. Go grab that, okay?”
“Octavius is keeping me busy tonight, little sweetie. I won’t be back for a few more hours. You’ll have to take care of yourself for me. Take the nanny cam to the bathroom and I’ll tell you what to do.”
“I made a mistake this morning. I don’t think purple suits you, pretty little doll. There’s a lovely white dress in the wardrobe. Wear that instead, okay? I’ll be back soon, I promise.”
On and on it went. Days blurred into weeks, maybe months. I couldn’t tell, trapped in that same small space, fed and dressed while my name vanished into an endless sea of endearments. After a while, I barely recognized it on the rare occasions Anton used it.
13
Koby
