"I'm not keeping you," he continues. "You're a gift."
That makes me turn. "A gift?"
His smile is sharp. "I have a business associate. Very powerful man. Russian." He says the word like it tastes bad. "He's been uncooperative lately. Blocking some of my... interests. I thought a gift might remind him we could be useful to each other."
A peace offering.
I'm a gift for someone else. Someone worse? Better? Does it matter?
His hand slides higher on my thigh, fingers digging in. "Men like him—men like us—we appreciate beautiful things." He says it like he's including himself in some exclusive club. Like all powerful men share his particular appetites. "I'm sure he'll find a use for you."
I press myself against the car door, trying to get away from him. There's nowhere to go.
"I've never actually met him in person," the senator admits, almost to himself. "But I know his type. Russian. Bratva." His lip curls. "They take what they want. Use it up. Throw it away."
He leans closer, whiskey breath hot on my neck. His hand squeezes my thigh hard enough to bruise.
"Shame you're not eighteen anymore. Girls go for double at eighteen—that premium innocence, you know?" He laughs, low and ugly. "Hopefully nineteen isn't too old for him. Some men are particular about that sort of thing."
My stomach lurches. I think I might be sick.
"Don't worry," he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. "I won't touch what's his. But maybe after he's done with you..." His grip tightens painfully. "Maybe he'll share. Men like us always share eventually."
Men like us.
He's so sure. So confident that this stranger is just like him. Just as corrupt. Just as depraved.
I pray he's wrong.
Bile rises in my throat. I swallow it down.
Survive,I tell myself.Just survive.
The car slows. Stops.
"We're here," the senator says, releasing my thigh. "Smile, sweetheart. First impressions matter."
The building is glass and steel, stretching up into the night sky. A doorman opens the car door. He looks at me—barefoot, in a slip dress, clearly terrified—and his expression doesn't change.
He's seen this before.
How many girls have walked through these doors? How many have walked out?
The senator grabs my arm and steers me inside. Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. A private elevator that requires a key card.
We go up.
And up.
And up.
When the doors open, we're in a penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city. Everything is dark and expensive—leather furniture, modern art, a bar with bottles that probably cost more than any foster family ever spent on me in a year.
"Wait here," the senator says, pushing me toward a couch. "Don't move. Don't speak unless spoken to. Understand?"
I nod.
He straightens his tie and walks down a hallway, disappearing around a corner.
