Chapter 7
At the end, Max simply instructed the man who had brought her up to the third floor to take her home.
The drive home is in suffocating silence, broken only by the faint sounds of her own ragged breathing and occasional grunts.
Her lower abdomen throbs in pain, sharp cramps racking her body.
She clutches her side and tries to focus on her breathing.
Eyes squeezed shut, she begins to count each inhale, each exhale—anything to stay grounded.
The pain hovers on the edge of debilitating.
A few times, she catches the man glancing up to meet her resentful gaze in the rearview mirror. His body reeks of alcohol and cigarettes, and his once-sharp outfit is rumpled and worn. The sight of him deepens to the nausea curling in her gut.
Just before unlocking the door and handing over her belongings, the large, imposing figure finally speaks without so much as glancing at her.
“I suggest you don’t say a word about tonight. No one will believe you, and it’ll only make things worse. I’m telling you this for your own good. People like him have connections in high places. You don’t.”
“You’re just one person without the means to fight back… You must forget about this, Lila,” she remembers Max telling her.
Dawn comes, and she wakes in a fog, still in her uniform, her body aching everywhere he’d held her too tightly.
Bruises and angry red marks cover her skin, reminders of how rough he’d been.
She remembers only fragments of the hours before—slipping in and out of sleep after drifting into her bedroom like a zombie from sheer exhaustion.
Her limbs feel like lead, so she stays mostly cocooned under her comforter, even as she calls into work to say she’s sick and won’t be coming in.
Hours later, after fully waking up and showering, she decides to step out of the stuffy apartment for just a moment before freezing at the front door.
Nausea hits her instantly at the sight of a large arrangement of red roses. A black notecard with her name written in gold ink is tucked among the stems. The display feels like a taunt. It’s an elegant, vivid reminder of what had happened, deliberately placed there as if to torment her further.
Most would describe the blooms as beautiful. Just a day earlier, she might have been thrilled to receive them. Ironically, no one who had ever declared their love for her had given her flowers so beautiful.
Unable to look at them for a second longer, she leaves them outside, hoping someone will walk by and take them.
But an hour passes, and the arrangement is still there. The idea of them sitting just beyond the door makes her stomach churn. The thought of Claire finding them—and asking questions she can’t answer—makes it worse.
Claire is thankfully still asleep, likely drained from another night of partying, and won’t be waking up anytime soon. With that in mind, Lila finally drags the arrangement inside and dumps the whole thing into a large, opaque black trash bag without hesitation.
But curiosity gets the better of her, and she digs through the bag, pulling out the notecard.
Could this be... evidence?
But all she finds when she opens it is his name, written in the same gold ink.
-Max
She wonders how someone can be so cruel. Tying the bag tightly, she steps away from it, needing distance, and leaves the small kitchen for the quiet of her bedroom. Crawling back into bed, she curls beneath the covers, pulling them close as if they can keep the world out.
Sleep begins to pull her under when a voice calls from beyond the door.
“You awake?”
“Yeah,” Lila responds from beneath her comforter.
“How are you feeling? Need anything?” Claire asks. Lila senses her peering into the room.
“Can you help throw away the trash bag in the kitchen? I still feel so sick, and I can barely walk.”
Thankfully, Claire doesn’t protest, having already been told that Lila has fallen ill and needs to isolate.
“No problem, girly. Just stay inside your room until you’re better.
Neither of us can get sick right now. Mr. Slum Lord will be all up in my ass if we’re late on rent again.
Your doe-eyed, Miss Innocent act has saved us a couple of times, but next time, he might ask to stick his nasty little dick inside you. ”
Lila flinches, her roommate’s words making her feel like throwing up all over again.
It isn’t her fault they’re always late with the rent, so why has Claire been pushing her to talk to their creepy landlord? After all, Lila is just Claire’s subtenant.
She says nothing about the unfairness, but her fists ball tightly as Claire walks away, shutting the door behind her—the door Lila had intentionally left cracked open.
She doesn’t know how he’s done it, but not long after, she wakes to a bank notification. Ten thousand dollars has been deposited into her savings account.
The extra money makes her sick. Just looking at the balance brings bile to her throat. She wonders if the police would even take her seriously if she went to them. Would they believe her, with that unwanted payment sitting there like some twisted receipt of their encounter?
She doesn’t want to dwell on it, afraid of reliving how powerless she had been. All she can do now is gather the broken pieces and force herself to keep moving forward.
After that day, Lila tries to carry on like nothing happened, doing chores around the apartment nonstop so she doesn’t have to think about it until she feels ready to go back to work.
Claire has been bouncing from room to room in their small apartment, too ecstatic about how clean the place looks to notice anything wrong.
Lila is now riddled with anxiety, preferring to keep her bedroom door open whenever she’s home alone.
Her anger about the situation has also shifted to Tony.
Despite the skeeze insisting she use a pseudonym at work and never addressing her—or any of the other women—by anything but gross pet names, he’d had no problem disclosing her full name to a stranger she’d barely spoken to.
She rationalizes that Max seemed untouchable.
It’s evident he’s a genuine sicko with power and money, someone who has singled her out for reasons she can’t understand.
The audacity to abduct her so brazenly at her workplace makes her realize he isn’t someone who fears consequences… at least not from her.
She’s certain the threat of his powerful connections isn’t just empty talk. With no real sense of who Max truly is, and the vague warning from one of his men still hanging over her, she turns her fury toward the one person within reach.
Tony played a significant role in her undoing. He had let her walk away—possibly with full knowledge of what would happen to her.
As the week trudges on, there’s at least one piece of good news from Claire, who reports what happened at work while Lila is still indisposed.
Tony has eased up on his micromanaging after waking up to find his flashy sports car keyed and all four tires slashed.
The incident has inadvertently given everyone a much-needed break, with Tony spending most of his time holed up in his office, too busy shouting into his phone for hours to bother harassing the staff.
No one dares point out that he deserves worse than a vandalized car and a missing coke dealer.
The relief doesn’t last.
Friday night comes again—too soon.
Lila sits in the back of a taxi, half-asleep after her first day back at work, the city rushing by in streaks of light. Claire had insisted that Lila come with her to a party to celebrate Lila’s recovery from what Claire believed was a cold.
“Wake up, bitch! It’s the witching hour!” Claire’s excited voice jolts Lila awake as their ride pulls up in front of a matte-black cast-iron building, its frosted-glass windows catching the glow of the street.
The cool late-autumn breeze wraps around them as soon as they climb out of the cab, raising goosebumps on Lila's skin.
“Chelsea’s going to freaking kill me. I told her we’d come straight after work, but we left late because of Tony,” Claire grumbles.
“This is way too short,” Lila mutters, fingers fumbling with the hem of the white mini dress she had borrowed from Claire in a futile attempt to lengthen it.
“Girl, stop! You’ll ruin it! We need to get you a new wardrobe ASAP when the next paycheck hits,” Claire chides, swatting Lila’s hands off the hem of the tight mini dress.
“Shit, we should’ve worn a jacket or something!
” Lila’s teeth chatter as she instinctively hugs herself for warmth.
Even though her off-shoulder, ruched dress has long sleeves, it’s made of cheap, stretchy material that offers little protection against the cold.
She can feel her nipples, hard as pebbles, straining against the thin fabric.
Clutching her arms tightly around her chest—both to shield herself from onlookers and to fend off the chill—she hopes they’ll settle down once she’s inside.
“Hoes don’t get cold,” Claire singsongs, smirking as she strides up to the entrance. Her outfit is even more revealing: a pink halter mini dress with a neckline so plunging it borders on indecent, the thin scrap of fabric teasingly covering her nipples as it flaunts her curves.
The doorman opens the lobby door and gives them a thin, disapproving once-over. Claire, unfazed, declares confidently, “We’re here for the party in the top loft.”
He gives a single nod and, with a smooth motion, steps aside, letting the girls rush past into the warmth of the lobby. They huddle together as they enter, grateful to escape the biting cold outside.
A moment later, they’re in the elevator with the escorting doorman, the mirrored walls reflecting Lila’s tense expression as her nerves climb to an all-time high.
When the doors slide open, a massive loft reveals itself, ceilings soaring overhead.
The pulsating thud of bass-heavy music assaults her ears.
Lila winces, but Claire doesn’t hesitate.
She grabs Lila’s hand and drags her into the chaos, where the walls are lined with large, moody contemporary pieces.
An LED installation glows in the corner: Heaven Can Wait.
“Claire!”
A young woman with long, golden-blonde hair, dressed in a tight, sleek black sequin dress, hurries over to greet them. Her eyes sparkle with mischief as they flick between the two. “And who do we have here? Is this the roommate?”
“Yep, Lila, this is Chelsea. Chelsea’s a model who used to work as a hostess at the club.
And Miss Sports Illustrated, this is Lila,” Claire says, pulling her roommate close with a quick hug.
“I finally managed to drag her out of her little hidey-hole where she’s been shutting herself in all week.
I’m, like, totally obsessed with her. It’s like she doesn’t know anything!
She’s so lucky to have me around… Oh my God! There’s Danny! Wait here!”
Claire’s insensitive comment stings, making Lila feel instantly worse, but she forces a friendly smile at Chelsea as Claire slips away.
“Just so you know, I fucking love your creepy art!” Chelsea shouts in Lila’s ear, the sharp scent of booze clinging to her breath. “Claire showed me some of your pieces. You gotta…” She burps. “Oops! Ex-squeeze me! You gotta show them all to me soon.”
Claire returns, drink in hand, dragging a tall man behind her. Lila feels a sick twist in her stomach as the realization hits: another weekend lost to a crowd of party-crazed strangers, ears assaulted by unfamiliar music.
And the worst part? She’s not even getting paid to be here.
As Claire and Chelsea yell over the thumping music, the stranger drifts away from them and moves closer to Lila.
“You look like you’d be fun. Are you Claire’s friend?” he asks, eyeing her up and down, his gaze gleaming with something unsettling.
Thankfully, someone approaches and thrusts a bowl of red, heart-shaped lollipops toward them. Following his lead, Lila takes one, unwraps it, and quickly pops it into her mouth, hoping that keeping it full will help her fade out of the conversation.
The candy tastes strange. It starts with the familiar fruity burst—cherry or strawberry, as expected—but beneath the overpowering sweetness lies a faint, chalky undertone.
She lets herself drift away from the small group, searching for a dark corner to disappear into until she can find an excuse to leave in an hour.
Lost in the haze of pulsing music and dizzying atmosphere, she drifts toward a corner by the tall, floor-to-ceiling windows.
Outside, the nocturnal lights sprawl in a mesmerizing tapestry of twinkling urban life.
Pressing her forehead to the cool glass, she savors the relief against her flushed skin.
A swirl of emotions churns inside her: loneliness, sadness, and an odd flicker of giddiness. She can’t shake the sense that she’s caught in a whirlwind of strangeness. It feels like she’s drunk—only she hasn’t had a single drink.