Chapter 46
The silence breaks with the sound of the lock. It doesn’t click loudly. It doesn’t need to. The small shift of metal is enough to pull every nerve in my body tight, enough to make my breathing catch before I can stop it. My eyes snap to the door as it opens, and for a second I don’t move at all.
A man steps inside. Not the same one as before. That’s the first thing I notice. He doesn’t carry the same energy as the others. There’s no lazy cruelty in the way he looks at me. No casual interest. No amusement. He’s efficient.
That’s worse.
His eyes take in the room in one sweep before settling on me, not lingering, not dragging over me the way the others did. It’s quick. Assessing. Like he’s checking off a list. Alive. Responsive. Ready. He closes the door behind him without turning his back to me. That matters.
Everything matters now.
He walks toward the bed. No hesitation. No wasted motion.
I force myself to stay still, even though my body wants to pull away, wants to shrink, wants to fight in ways I know won’t help me.
My wrists are still bound above me. My ankles still secured.
My body aches from being held like this for too long, muscles pulled tight in ways they aren’t meant to be.
The moment he reaches for my arm, my breath stutters.
“Don’t,” he says. Not harsh. Not loud. Flat. A statement, not a warning.
I freeze anyway.
He doesn’t look at my face when he says it. His attention stays on the restraints, on the work he’s about to do. That’s what this is to him. Work. He reaches for the binding at my wrist and begins to undo it. Slow. Deliberate. The pressure eases. Then, nothing but pain.
It explodes through my arm the second the restraint loosens enough for blood to rush back where it hasn’t been moving properly.
My fingers twitch, then curl hard, nails digging into my palm as sensation comes back in jagged waves.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek. Hard. No sound. No reaction he can use.
He frees the other wrist. Same thing. Fire.
Pins and needles. Muscle screaming. Then my ankles.
By the time the last restraint comes loose, my entire body feels like it’s been run through something sharp and dragged back out again.
I don’t try to move right away. That would be a mistake.
He steps back once everything is undone.
Then he reaches into a bag I hadn’t realized he was carrying.
My body goes still again.
He pulls out a collar. Metal. Thick. Cold even from here.
My stomach drops.
He doesn’t explain. He steps forward and places it around my neck before I can react.
The metal presses against my skin, tight enough that I feel it immediately, the weight of it settling into something that doesn’t belong there.
There’s a faint, almost imperceptible pressure along the inside, like small points pressing into me without breaking skin.
Spikes. Not deep. Not yet. But close enough that I understand exactly what they’re capable of.
My breathing shifts. I try to keep it steady.
He fastens it in place. The click of the lock is quiet.
Final. Then he lifts his hand slightly, and I see it.
A small device, a button. He holds it up just enough for me to register it.
“If you move wrong,” he says, voice as flat as before, “if you don’t listen, if you make this harder than it needs to be…
” He tilts the device. “…your head is gone.” No threat. No dramatics. Just information.
My pulse hammers once, hard, then settles into something colder. This is control. Not chaos. That means there are rules. Rules can be used. I meet his eyes. Not challenging. Not defiant. Present.
He watches me for a second. “Will you behave?”
I don’t speak. My throat feels too tight anyway. I nod. Once. Small. Controlled.
His gaze holds mine for another beat, like he’s measuring something. Then he lowers the device. “Good.” He turns away from me. Just like that. Like I’m already handled. Like the collar solved everything.
My body doesn’t feel solved. It feels like it’s coming apart. The moment he steps back, I try to shift.
Bad idea.
My arms tremble the second I put weight into them, muscles weak from disuse and shock. I push myself up slowly, elbows shaking, core tight as I try to sit. Everything hurts.
Everything.
My shoulders scream. My hips ache. My legs don’t want to cooperate when I try to bring them in under me. I swallow hard and keep going anyway. Small movements. Slow. Controlled.
He doesn’t help me. Doesn’t even watch closely. He walks to the side of the room, picks something up, and sets it on the bed beside me. “Put that on,” he says.
I look down. Clothes. No. Not clothes. Lingerie. Thin fabric. Minimal. Meant to show more than it covers. My stomach turns again.
He doesn’t wait for a response. Doesn’t check if I understand. Doesn’t care. He walks to the door and opens it. “Someone will be in to make you presentable.”
Presentable.
The word lands like something sour in my mouth. Then he’s gone.
The door closes. The lock clicks again. Silence. Different now. Heavier.
I sit there for a second, breathing through the pain, through the weight of the collar pressing against my throat, through the way my body feels like it doesn’t belong to me anymore.
Then I reach for the fabric. My hands shake.
Not from fear. From weakness. From the aftermath of everything.
I force my fingers to work anyway. I get it on.
Piece by piece. Every movement reminds me of where I am.
Why I’m here. What they’re turning me into.
I don’t rush. Rushing leads to mistakes.
Mistakes lead to that button being pressed.
I finish. Sit back. Wait. It doesn’t take long.
The door opens again.
A woman steps inside. Hope hits before I can stop it.
It’s automatic. Instinct. Someone else. Someone who might understand.
Someone who might help. I look at her. And then I see the collar around her neck.
Same as mine. The hope dies. Quietly. Quickly.
She doesn’t look at me when she walks in.
Not really. Her eyes pass over me, register me, and move on.
There’s no softness there. No cruelty either.
Just absence. Like she turned that part of herself off a long time ago.
She carries a small case. Sets it down on the table. Opens it. Makeup. Tools. Brushes.
My stomach twists again.
She steps closer. I don’t pull away. I don’t speak yet. She reaches out, tilts my chin slightly. Her touch is light. Practiced. Detached.
“Please,” I say before I can stop myself. The word comes out quiet. Careful. It feels too big in this room.
She doesn’t react. Not even a flicker. Her hands keep moving, brushing something across my skin, adjusting my face, turning me slightly to catch the light better.
“I need—” I start again. Nothing. Not a word. Not a look. Not anything.
She avoids my eyes completely. That’s when it hits. She’s not ignoring me because she doesn’t care. She’s ignoring me because she has to. Because speaking would be dangerous. Because whatever system put that collar on me put one on her too, and she learned the rules long before I did.
My mouth closes. I stop trying.
She works in silence. Foundation. Color.
Something on my eyes. My lips. My hair. Pulled back.
Adjusted. Every step stripping something else away.
Not violently. Not roughly. Just replacing me.
When she’s done, she steps back. Looks at me.
For a second, something almost breaks through.
Regret. Maybe. Then it’s gone. She closes the case. Turns. Leaves.
The door shuts. The lock clicks.
I’m alone again. I sit there for a second, breathing.
Then I stand. Slow. Careful. Testing my balance.
My legs hold. Barely. I move toward the wall.
There’s a mirror. I didn’t notice it before.
Or maybe I didn’t want to. Now I can’t avoid it.
I stop in front of it. And I look. The girl staring back at me, isn’t me.
Not fully. My face is still mine. My eyes are still mine. But everything else…is wrong.
The makeup. The hair. The way the fabric sits on my body. The collar at my throat. It all says the same thing. Not Olivia.
Product.
My throat tightens. Tears burn behind my eyes.
I don’t let them fall. Not here. Not for them.
I hold my own gaze. Forcing myself to stay present.
To not disappear. To not let them take more than they already have.
Fear is there. It sits in my chest, steady and real, not the sharp panic from before but something deeper.
Awareness.
This is happening. This is real. And I’m still here.
My hand lifts slowly, hovering near the collar, not touching it. Not risking it.
I swallow.
Stay alive.
The thought comes back, stronger now. Clearer.
Stay alive.
My eyes don’t leave my reflection.
He’s coming.
I don’t know how. I don’t know when. But I know him.
And that’s enough.
Stay alive.
He’s coming.