There’s no clock in this bedroom that is my cell, my prison. So my best estimation of time comes in the meals the woman brings me, and the light that’s come and gone. If I’m right, I’ve been here two days now.
A knock tears me from my thoughts, and, like the other times, I sit down on the bed, pressing my lips together.
“Hi there,” the woman says as she pushes the door open with her shoulder.
Just like I make it a point to say as little as possible, I also made it one to forget her name. It’s silly, childish even. But being held captive isn’t exactly grounds to bring out my best behavior.
“I made you mushroom soup,” she continues.
As soon as she puts the tray down on the small bedside table, my stomach lets out a loud rumble. The steam from the bowl carries the scent of earth and heavy cream.
I’m so hungry my mouth actually aches with the need to swallow. Hell, I’m even tempted to reach for the bread that looks like it was in the oven for five minutes too long.
Even as I move from the tray to the far side of the room, the scent follows me like a ghost of a meal that feels like… I don’t even know how to explain it.
So far, I haven’t eaten anything. And it’s not from lack of an appetite. But I can’t accept anything that risks making me even more indebted to the Debt Collector of all people.
Reaching for the water resting against my knee, I uncap it and drink most of it. There, that’ll have to do for now.
I let out a relieved sigh when the woman heads back out, happy I’ll once again be alone in my misery. The saying that misery loves company is wrong. Dead wrong. I want to be completely alone in mine.
“Mr. Russo said you didn’t have anything to wear,” the woman says, re-entering the room.
This time she’s carrying four paper bags; three of them are black with three gold leaves forming a triangle. I once heard Sabrina tell Mom about the company.
“You don’t get it, Mom. You can’t just buy things from Trefoil House. There’s a waitlist and you have to be invited before they’ll let you buy anything.”
“I got some things for you.” The woman places the bags on the bed. “Have a look through them and let me know if you need different sizes.”
“Thank you,” I say, my manners winning out.
Pointing at the one bag that isn’t black, she adds, “This is just some toiletries and bathroom stuff.”
Without waiting for me to say anything else, she walks back out of my room.
After thirty minutes, my skin is crawling with need. I pace the room, nails digging half-moons into my palms. The mushroom soup’s aroma has become a form of torture; each inhale is a knife twisting in my empty gut. Those bags on the bed mock me—Trefoil House, for God’s sake—and I can almost hear the rustle of expensive fabric calling my name.
My resolve is fracturing by the second, like an addict locked in a room with a loaded syringe and nowhere to run.
I need… to get away from the temptation.
My stomach’s cramping so violently I almost double over as I practically run to the bathroom. I crank the shower to scalding and quickly strip out of my dirty clothes before stepping under the spray. The water scorching my skin pink feels like a relief.
I stand there until my fingers prune and my mind goes numb, desperate to drown out the gnawing emptiness inside me. When I finally emerge, trembling and raw, my gaze falls on the pile of filthy clothes crumpled on the floor like a shed skin.
The jeans and shirt I arrived in are stiff with sweat and fear, but they’re still wearable. My panties, though—God, they’re a biohazard at this point. Just the thought of sliding them back up my thighs makes my stomach heave. I’d rather go commando and risk chafing than trap myself in that damp, sour cotton for another minute.
“Guess you win,” I whisper dejectedly.
There are only two options, and both feel like surrender. Wear filthy clothes that reek of fear, or accept his charity like a good little captive. My hands shake with pent-up emotions as I tighten the towel around my chest.
I stalk to the bed, grab the first bag, and violently upend it—watching the contents cascade onto the pristine duvet like evidence at a crime scene.
Bras, panties, and socks all spill out of the first bag when I turn it upside down on the bed. My cheeks flame when I look closer. Lord, some of these sets are… raunchy. Pretty, but so not my usual style of whatever-shapeless-cotton-set-is-on-sale.
The next contains yoga pants, jeans, and some formal-looking black dress pants. In the third and last black bag, there are sweaters and shirts. Each one is soft like butter. Every single item here both looks and feels expensive.
Now that I’ve been through the black bags, I turn to the white one. Just as the woman said, it’s all bathroom stuff. I take it to the bathroom and place it in the cabinet under the sink. I can inspect it all later.
