Chapter 2 #2
The hallway is wide and blindingly white, stripped down to a hospital-grade sterility.
We’re positioned at one end, with only two flush doors beyond mine and a backlit nature panel on the far wall masquerading as a window.
As my gaze drifts, I realize they line the entire corridor– doors without handles, artificial landscapes repeating at measured intervals. Control disguised as calm.
Natalia turns and starts down the hall, evidently expecting me to follow.
She doesn’t look back, and I suppose she doesn’t need to since there’s only one direction to go.
Each of her steps is crisp and measured, tablet clutched tight to her chest, posture rigid and businesslike.
It’s becoming obvious that this woman doesn’t even see me as a person, but rather as an asset to manage.
I shuffle along, feet dragging as I trail her down the corridor, squinting against the glare from the fake windows.
The images are almost beautiful– forests, open sky, the illusion of sunlight– but the absence of anything real makes my skin crawl.
It’s scenery without substance. A cold reminder of my captivity.
At the end of the hall, Natalia opens another door with a flick of her tablet. I follow her through. This hallway mirrors the first– wide, white, lined with more handleless doors and glowing landscapes. We walk the length of it in silence, then move through yet another door.
The next corridor is different. A glass wall runs the length of it, and beyond the glass, a wide atrium opens up, dropping two stories down.
In the center, a yoga class is in session: a dozen women dressed exactly like me, bending and stretching in perfect unison.
Beyond them, a juice bar and lounge are occupied by more women reclining on pale furniture, talking amongst themselves and smiling.
I stop. Stare. Because it looks like a fucking spa retreat.
Natalia doubles back, irritation sharp on her face as she taps her foot against the floor. “Keep up,” she snaps.
I start moving again, but my gaze lingers on the atrium, trying to make sense of the surreal scene below. It’s too curated, too calm, like a performance staged for an audience I can’t see.
The next corridor she takes me through is narrower, the lighting noticeably softer. As we pass one of the seamless doors, a sound slips through, low and feminine, unmistakably a moan. I falter mid-step, my stomach pitching.
Natalia doesn’t even slow.
I pick up my pace, pulse skittering as my mind spirals, unable to decipher whether what I heard was an expression of pain or pleasure. Or if that distinction even matters here.
We turn right, then left. Then right again. I try to keep track, but the pattern repeats, doubles back on itself, and folds inward until my sense of direction dissolves completely. The disorientation sets in, heavy and intentional.
They want me lost.
Natalia finally stops in front of a door identical to all the others. With a swipe of her tablet, it slides open.
“After you,” she says, tipping her head.
I hesitate, then step past her into…
An office.
It’s almost aggressively modern, with glass walls, a floating desk, and a view that looks down into the atrium.
A single chair waits on the opposite side of the desk, the kind of ergonomic nightmare that’s designed more for aesthetics than actual comfort.
There’s no clutter, no family photos, not even a stray paperclip.
Just a small notepad, a fountain pen, and a vase of perfectly symmetrical white tulips.
Natalia waits until the door seals behind us, then circles to her side of the desk and takes a seat. Her posture is immaculate– back straight, shoulders squared, hands folded neatly in front of her. The picture of composure and control.
I remain standing, hovering awkwardly near the door and shifting my weight from foot to foot. This room feels colder than the rest of the facility, the air sharper somehow. I cross my arms, partly to keep warm and partly because I don’t know what else to do with my hands.
“Sit,” Natalia directs.
I do, because arguing seems pointless.
The moment I’m down, she begins. “Miss Morrow, you’ve been acquired by the Dollhouse through a contract of sale executed by your guardian and conservator, Gideon Romero.”
“Wait, what?” I blurt, blinking hard. “Sale?”
“Yes,” she replies calmly. “Mr. Romero has already signed the appropriate paperwork. If you’d like, I can show you the documents.”
I nod quickly, heart kicking up hard enough to make my ears ring.
She opens a drawer in her desk and removes a cream-colored folder, sliding it across the desk and inviting me to look. I open it, and the room tilts.
Medical records fill the first section– evaluations, diagnoses, tidy paragraphs declaring me mentally unfit to make decisions on my own behalf.
Judicial orders follow, stamped and sealed, appointing Gideon as my legal guardian and conservator.
And at the back, a contract of sale to the Dollhouse.
Notary stamps. Signatures. Binding language in dense black type, Gideon’s signature on every page.
I slam the folder shut and shove it back across the desk. “This isn’t real,” I choke, shaking my head adamantly. “I never agreed to this.”
“I assure you it’s very real,” Natalia says evenly, “and you didn’t need to agree. Legally, Mr. Romero is authorized to make decisions on your behalf.”
“But– how?” I stammer, my mind refusing to catch up to what I’m hearing.
“Mr. Romero is extremely well-connected,” she states in a clipped tone.
“The physician who authored those evaluations is a personal friend, the judge who approved the conservatorship owes him favors that go back decades. The point is, the paperwork is sound, Miss Morrow, whether you agree with what’s in those pages or not.
” She folds her hands on the desk. “There’s no getting out of this, so the sooner you accept your circumstances, the easier this transition will be. ”
My head swims. It feels like a bad dream stretched too long– one where I keep wanting to wake up and don’t.
“So what,” I whisper, swallowing hard. “You expect me to just… live here now?”
“Temporarily,” she replies, returning the folder to her drawer with maddening composure.
“Dollhouse assets have different purposes, depending on the specifics of acquisition. Some enter under contract, assigning their debts to the Dollhouse in exchange for a term of service. Others are here for remediation and repurposing.” She pauses.
“Others, like you, are acquired for auction.”
“Auction?” I gasp.
“Yes. Given your age, pleasing appearance, and familial connections, a marriage auction was deemed the most profitable option for return on investment.”
My pulse stutters, breath catching painfully in my throat. “Marriage?”
She nods once. “The bidding has already begun. We anticipated strong interest due to your association with the Romero family, and once it was confirmed that your virginity is intact–”
“Wait, what?!” I squeak.
She folds her hands again, unbothered. “When you arrived, a sedative was administered to ensure a smooth transition. While you were under, you received a full medical workup and comprehensive physical examination. We also initiated laser hair removal, began a nutritional supplement protocol, and discovered your tattoo, which will require several removal sessions.” Her mouth tightens slightly.
“That was… unexpected. It will extend your stay beyond our original estimate. Though it does allow us to prolong the bidding window, so it may ultimately work in our favor. Virgin brides are few and far between these days, especially with familial connections to the upper ranks of the Invictus society.”
I stare at her, mouth hanging open, the words barely registering. A sick, hollow feeling opens in my chest as the realization sinks in– hands on my body, assessments made, decisions finalized while I was unconscious.
Violated doesn’t even begin to cover it.
“While you’re here,” she continues smoothly, “you’ll undergo our standard training. Etiquette, social conditioning, instruction on how to sexually satisfy your future husband…”
“No!” I lurch to my feet, the chair scraping loudly as rage and terror collide in my chest. “I won’t do it! I won’t be your perfect little Stepford wife or whatever the hell this is. You can’t do this, it’s... it’s human trafficking!”
She only watches me, tapping her manicured nails against the glass desktop irritably. “As I said, this is all above board. The sooner you accept it–”
“I won’t accept it!” I snap. “I’ll fight you every second.”
“That’s your prerogative,” she replies mildly. “But you’ll only make it worse for yourself.”
I shake my head and spin around, rushing for the door. I slam my palm against the wall panel, searching desperately for a seam, a crack, a weakness. There’s nothing. It’s smooth, solid. Unyielding.
Natalia just watches patiently as I try throwing my body weight against it, panic clawing higher with every failed attempt. When I finally turn back around, breathless and sweating, she taps something on her tablet.
My ankle explodes with fire.
The shock drops me instantly. It’s deep and merciless, ripping through muscle and nerve like my body’s being torn apart from the inside. I hit the floor screaming and thrashing, clawing at my own skin.
When it finally stops, I’m left twitching on the ground, gasping and humiliated, every nerve screaming in the aftermath. My pulse pounds in my teeth, vision blurring at the edges.
Natalia approaches, heels clicking softly as she steps up beside me. “Is it sinking in now?” she asks, cocking her head. “You’re not in control here, Ava.”
I glare up at her, vision swimming, but all I can do is sob, the quiet, broken sounds muffled against my arm.
She crouches, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear with unsettling gentleness. For a fleeting second, I think she might offer mercy.
“Get used to it,” Natalia snaps coldly.
Then she straightens and walks away, leaving me alone on the floor. Broken, bound, and utterly helpless.