One day soon, Jeffrey had said.
I close my eyes. Hold my cat tighter. And somewhere beneath the ache of all those nevers, a small, stubborn warmth is glowing in my chest. The arranged marriage. A door that might finally open. And beneath even that, quieterstill, the memory of a hand on my arm, a low voice in a stairwell, and a word I keep turning over like a stone I slipped into my pocket without knowing why.
Pity.
One day soon, I tell myself. And this time, it doesn't feel like a lie.
2
ELLE
Turning twenty-six should feel like something. A milestone. A beginning. At the very least, a dinner that doesn't get canceled two hours before it's supposed to happen.
But not in my world. In my world, it's just another year in captivity, but with cake.
Mom's urgent "business meeting" conveniently lands right around when my birthday dinner was supposed to be. How predictable. I should've known better than to believe she'd let me eat pasta anywhere other than this penthouse.
If disappointment paid rent, I'd own Manhattan by now.
So here I am, stuck in my bedroom alone on my birthday, debating between crying into my linguine or committing light treason.
Guess which one I go with.
"Jeffrey," I call as I step into the hallway with a towel aroundmy neck and a duffel slung over my shoulder. "I'm going for a swim!"
The pool in the building is the one place Mother lets me go without supervision. I think by now, she knows just how much I love swimming, and thank the stars, I've always gone and come when I said I would.
So in this, she trusts me.
His voice crackles through the intercom near the elevator. "Enjoy, Ellie-girl. Don't drown. I hate paperwork, and your mother will kill me."
"Noted," I mutter, rolling my eyes as I adjust the strap of my duffel.
Inside, nestled between my towel and swim goggles, is my real weapon of choice: a little black dress smuggled past Mommy Dearest in an Amazon box I told her was books.
The elevator hums as it lowers to the pool floor. Immediately, I'm hit by the smell of chlorine and the sound of silence. The pool itself glows an impossible turquoise under recessed lights, all shimmer and hush, like a mermaid could crawl out of it and tell me to run.
That's how empty this place is.
I push through the locker room doors, my pulse already drumming. Being naughty doesn't come easy for little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes me.
The moment I'm alone, I drop the towel and unzip the bag.
There it is. The dress.
Tiny. Black. Sinful.
It looks like it was stitched together by the devil himself for a girl who would love a little trouble.
I slip it on, wriggling into the satin. It clings like it's been waiting its whole life to meet my body. The neckline dips just enough to break necks, the hem teases mid-thigh. I swipe on mascara, blush, and a bold red lip because if I'm going to crash and burn, I'm doing it while I dazzle.
My heart pounds so hard I'm surprised it doesn't echo off the tiles.
"Okay, Elle," I whisper to myself. "This is either your emancipation... or your obituary."
I undo my braid, twist the loose waves into a sleek French twist, spritz on perfume, and walk toward the employee exit with my head held high and my knees wobbling on heels meant to impale.
The guard stationed by the service door never looks up from his phone—he’s feverishly swiping on a dating app. Bless his inattentive soul.
