Page 15

I'm in a gilded cage—comfortable, well-appointed, and completely secure.

I walk back to the window and look out at the compound in the early morning light. The sun is just burning off the mist that clings to the gardens. Men move across the grounds in pairs, making rounds. One of them glances up at my window and I step back instinctively, even though I know they know I'm here.

This is my reality now. For forty-eight hours. Maybe less if my father moves quickly. But no more. If he doesn’t follow through…

I can panic about it. I can spiral into worst-case scenarios and let fear consume me until I'm useless. Or I can try to breathe, and stay calm. Stay positive.

My father won’t let me die.

A knock comes at the door, and I flinch. It’s not Andrei—he didn’t bother knocking either of the times he came in before. “Come in?” I call weakly, feeling strange for allowing admission into a room I’m being kept prisoner in, and the door opens.

A young woman walks in carrying a breakfast tray. The smell hits me instantly, and my stomach growls and clenches so intensely I feel dizzy. She’s wearing an outfit that looks very much like a uniform—black pants and a white button-down shirt with low black heels, her hair pulled back into a tight bun—and two men who are clearly guards walk in behind her. They’re wearing all-black tactical clothing, and there are guns at their hips, a rifle slung over their shoulders.

The dizziness from hunger turns into dizziness from fear. I stand there, frozen, as the young woman sets the tray down on the desk and turns to me. “Do you need anything?” Her voice is accented with Russian, like everyone else here that I’ve heard speak, and it takes me a second to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth.

There’s one glass of water on the tray. I know I’ll down it in seconds after a day without it. “More water,” I finally croak. “And… fresh clothes?”

I’m curious how far Andrei will actually go to accommodate me. The woman just nods and turns, leaving as quickly as she came with the armed men in tow.

The door locks again, and I look at the breakfast tray.

It’s as good as any hotel room service. There’s a glass of orange juice and one of water, a carafe of coffee and a miniature pitcher of creamer that smells like vanilla, and a plate with fluffy scrambled eggs sprinkled with herbs and green onion, link sausages, and a bowl of fresh-cut fruit. There’s also what looks like a slice of coffee cake on a plate with yellow, melty butter dripping from it.

My stomach growls again, loudly, and I sit down, reaching for the fork and the glass of water at the same time.

I typically count macros and follow a strict diet during the weekdays so that I can enjoy happy hours and weekends out with friends. But I’m under duress, and I’ve been fit for so long, going to regular yoga and Pilates classes, lifting weights and running, that I’m sure two days of indulgence won’t hurt me.

Also, the coffee cake smells incredible.

After a day without eating, I devour it all, food, liquids, everything, before realizing that it might have been a bad idea to eat so fast. I feel far too full, and I sit there with my cup of coffee and nothing to do but force myself to ignore how uncomfortable I am.

At least they fed me. They’re keeping me comfortable, probably because I’m the most valuable asset in this house right now. The thought makes me feel better, and I repeat it in my head. Andrei wouldn’t destroy valuable art or antiques, would he? So he won’t hurt me.

Unless my father doesn’t pay.

Stop thinking like that,I tell myself. I finish my coffee, pour a second cup before it gets cold, and then nearly jump out of my skin when that knock comes at the door again. Coffee splashes over my hand and onto my thigh, soaking through my leggings, and I feel the sudden burn of tears at the backs of my eyes.

If this isn’t clothing, I might actually break down. It’s bad enough I’m still in yesterday’s workout clothes, but now I’m covered in coffee, and…

“Come in,” I manage, and the same thing happens—the same woman enters, flanked by armed men. She sets down six water bottles on the desk, and then looks at me.

“Clothing will be brought up within a half hour,” she says, and then she leaves again, the men following and the door locking behind her.

I stare at the closed door, then grab a water bottle and down it.

A shower is next. Since I’m supposedly being brought clothing, I don’t wait any longer. I shed my workout clothes in a pile, kicking them into a corner of the marble-tiled bathroom, realizing as I do that the floor is warm under the soles of my feet. Heated tiles. I bite my lip with pleasure, enjoying the small comfort, and curl my toes against it before going to turn on the hot water in the rainfall shower.

The long shower that follows is better than any sex I’ve ever had. The shampoo smells like coconut and tropical flowers and vanilla, and so does the soap that I liberally lather all over myself twice, scrubbing until I’m pink. I find a safety razor in the shower, and I briefly consider if it could be used in some way, but the blades don’t come out. Besides, I don’t know what the point is. I could try to harm myself in some way to force them to take me to a hospital, but a man like Andrei probably has a physician on call that he could bring to patch me up until my father does or doesn’t pay. If he doesn’t pay, hurting myself ispointless. They’ll do it for me. And a razor blade isn’t going to help me against the extensive weapons his men have.

What it does do is enable me to shave every inch of myself until I’m soft and smooth, which makes me feel better. I wash my hair a second time, scrub my face with the expensive exfoliant and face wash, and then get out and towel dry. I slick myself from head to toe in the bergamot and vanilla lotion on the counter, and then wrap myself and my hair up in more fluffy towels, and walk back out into the bedroom.

As promised, there are clothes on the bed. I walk over and check the tags—they’re all new, and in my correct size, right down to the jeans and bra. I imagine Andrei looking at my chest, sizing me up, and a warm prickle washes over my skin. I bite my lip, pushing the thought away as I reach for a soft pair of expensive jeans and a dark red tank top. I slip the clothes on, sighing at the feel of being clean again.

With nothing else to do, I blow-dry my hair, put my new clothes away in the dresser, and sit down on the edge of the bed.

It’s going to be a long forty-eight hours.

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