Chapter 14 #2
"It's barely food." I cross my arms. "I want real food. Delivery. Like before."
"Boss say no outside contact."
"Tell Boss I want Thai food. Or Chinese. Or literally anything that isn't this tragedy."
Pyotr studies me for a long moment, then pulls out his phone and types something. The response comes quickly.
"Boss say okay. One minute."
He disappears, returning with a burner phone. "For food only. No calling police. No calling anyone but food. Boss will know if you try."
I take it, and the weight of it feels significant. Dangerous. "How will he know?"
Pyotr just looks at me.
Right. Of course, he'll know. Ivan knows everything.
"Thanks." I close the door before he can see my hands shaking.
A phone. Communication with the outside world. Even restricted, it's still a lifeline.
I sit on the bed, surrounded by pornographic drawings, holding a burner phone, and trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do with this.
Order food. That's the instruction. That's all I'm allowed to do.
But a delivery person would come here. Could see me. Could be someone from outside Ivan's world, and more importantly, outside his control.
Someone I could slip a note to.
My heart starts racing.
This is smart. This is the logical choice. Get a message out. Let someone know where I am. Get help.
Except.
Do I want help?
I open the delivery app, hands shaking. Thai food—my old favorite. Pad Thai, spring rolls, and mango sticky rice. The same spread I always got back when my life was normal. I place the order before I can overthink it.
Delivery is estimated to take forty-five minutes.
I have forty-five minutes to decide what I'm going to do.
I return to the sketches, but I can't concentrate. The drawings blur together—all the fantasies that felt exciting an hour ago now feel like proof of how far I've fallen. I'm drawing porn for my captor while considering calling for help.
God, I'm a mess.
I need a note.
I find a pen, tear a blank page from the back of the sketchbook, and stare at the blank paper.
What do I even write?
I scrawl, "Help. I'm being held captive in this penthouse by a Russian mobster. Please call the police immediately. My name is Lila Hayes, I work at Dave's Diner, and—"
Too long. Way too long. The driver won't have time to read a novel. Besides, too many details might make him think it's a prank.
I cross it out and start again.
"Help. I'm being held captive. Please call police."
I stare at it. God, that's pathetic.
I cross it out again, hand shaking.
"Help. Being held captive. Call police."
Short. Simple. Urgent. The driver can read it in two seconds and make a decision.
I fold it small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. Small enough to pass quickly without drawing attention.
My hands sweat as I wait.
Twenty minutes until delivery.
Do I really want to do this? Last night I felt safe. This morning I woke up satisfied. I've spent the day drawing fantasies I want to happen.
But this is still captivity. This is still wrong. And any sane person would use this opportunity to escape.
Right?
Ten minutes.
The buzzer sounds, and my heart nearly stops.
Pyotr's voice sounds through the intercom. "Yes?"
"Delivery."
"Come up."
I position myself by the guest room door, cracked open just enough to see. The note remains clutched in my sweaty palm. My pulse hammers in my ears.
The elevator dings. Footsteps. A man appears—an Asian guy, maybe early-twenties, tattoos on his neck, looking tired and annoyed. Nothing like his photo on the app. Weird.
He hands Pyotr the bag. They exchange a few words I can't hear. Pyotr pays, tips, and starts to close the door.
It's now or never.
I bolt into the hallway. "Wait—"
Both men turn.
"I—uh—I wanted to make sure you got the spring rolls?" My voice comes out higher than normal. "They forget them sometimes."
The delivery guy looks confused. "Yeah, it's all here."
I move closer, like I'm checking the bag. My hand brushes his. The note transfers from my palm to his pocket in one smooth motion.
"Thanks," I manage. "Sorry. I'm just really hungry."
He shrugs, already turning to leave. "No problem, darling."
Darling? Really?
The elevator doors close.
Whatever. It's done.
I stand in the hallway, Pyotr staring at me, the food bag in my hands, and slowly realize what I've done.
I called for help.
Soon, there will be cops everywhere. Sirens. Questions. Ivan will be arrested. Or he'll run. Or he'll—
Fuck.
The realization crashes over me. Ivan will be arrested. Taken away. This whole thing—whatever this is—will be over. Finished. The erotic chapter of my life ending not with a satisfying conclusion but with police and lawyers and me giving statements about being held captive.
Which is what I wanted. Right? That's why I wrote the note. Because I wanted out. Because this is wrong.
Except my chest feels tight, and all I can think about is Ivan being led away in handcuffs while I stand wrapped in his sheet, surrounded by drawings of all the ways I want him.
Why do I regret this?
Why does the thought of his arrest make me want to throw up?
"You okay?" Pyotr's question cuts through my spiral.
"Fine." I clutch the food bag. "I'm fine."
But I'm not fine.
I ended this. Whatever this was—captivity or choice, prison or sanctuary, Stockholm syndrome or something real—it's over.
And I have no idea why it makes me want to cry.
I return to the guest room, close the door, and slide down to sit on the floor. The Thai food sits forgotten beside me. The drawings are spread across the bed—all those fantasies I'll never get to live out.
Because any minute now—fifteen, maybe thirty—the police will come. They'll find me here. They'll rescue me. Take me home.
And I'll have to explain why the thought of being rescued feels like the worst thing that could possibly happen.
Why being saved feels like losing everything.
I realize too late that maybe what I wanted wasn't rescue at all.
Maybe what I wanted was right here the whole time.
And I just threw it away.