Chapter 4
AVA
I’ve lost all sense of time.
There are no clocks in here, no windows, nothing to anchor me to the world outside of this room.
My circadian rhythm now relies on a manufactured cycling of the lights– the backlit landscape across from the bed fading to dark just before the overhead fluorescents switch off, then an artificial sunrise as the image gradually illuminates before they come back on.
By that count, I’ve been here for two nights and three days.
Or maybe that’s just what they want me to believe.
There’s no way to know whether the cycle is honest or just another layer of manipulation, but I catch myself counting anyway, because the alternative is worse.
If I lose track, it means I’ve given up.
It means I’ve accepted being stripped of my most basic freedoms and resigned myself to whatever fate this place has planned.
I haven’t left this room since some burly guard carried me back here from Natalia’s office. Have barely left this bed, if I’m being honest. All I do is sit here and think– about the Dollhouse, about the Kings, about the documents of sale with Gideon’s signature on the dotted line.
The more I think, the angrier I get.
And the angrier I get, the more I want to burn this place to the ground with everyone in it.
I’m locked up tight in this designer prison cell, the door opening only for meal deliveries. The same man brings the tray every time– tall, middle-aged, and built like a linebacker. He says nothing, but gives me a nod each time, like he knows I’m watching for patterns.
The tray is always covered, the food always bland. No forks, no knives. Nothing that could be wielded as a weapon. I refused to eat anything the first two times. Then hunger won.
I can’t stop wondering if the food is drugged somehow– if they’re dosing me with tranquilizers or mood stabilizers or whatever the fuck you’d need to make a girl forget she’s being auctioned off to the highest bidder. If they are, it isn’t working. I feel more awake than I’ve ever been.
This solitary confinement is clearly engineered to fracture my psyche, but I’ve never minded being alone.
There’s safety in solitude. Not to mention that after months with the Kings, I’ve become fluent in the language of suffering.
It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than four white walls and a locked door to break me.
I’m curled on the bed when the door chirps and slides open.
It’s the same uniformed man as always, but the meal tray he usually carries is conspicuously absent. He steps inside, filling the doorway with the breadth of his shoulders, and meets my eyes.
“Get up.”
His voice is so deep it feels like it vibrates my bones, but it’s not enough to make me move. I just blink at him, caught somewhere between willful defiance and just not giving a fuck.
He exhales slowly and folds his arms across his chest, staring me down.
He looks to be in his mid-fifties, with hair shaved close to his scalp, gray bleeding in at the temples.
The most intimidating thing about him isn’t his size or that unflinching stare, though– it’s the scars.
Thin, pale lines crisscrossing his face like souvenirs from a lifetime of violence. I try not to stare, but I fail.
Something in the set of his jaw tells me he’s in no mood to repeat himself and will take me by force if necessary.
So, I sit up slowly, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.
The metal cuff shifts around my ankle as my feet touch the floor– a quiet reminder that if I step out of line, they’ll fry me again.
My hands tremble, but I clench them into fists and stand.
Without another word, he turns and steps back into the hallway, clearly expecting me to follow. I hate that I do. But if there’s any chance for escape, it’s not within these four walls. It’s out there.
The hallway is exactly as I remember– bright white, windowless, and lined with doors spaced evenly between backlit nature panels. The guard moves down the corridor, and I trail after him, tense and alert.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, my voice hoarse from lack of use.
He grunts, glancing back at me over his shoulder. “Your first tattoo removal session.”
“Oh,” I breathe, swallowing thickly. My hand unconsciously drifts to my left butt cheek, fingers brushing the cotton of my pants where the Kings’ brand sits hidden beneath.
I should be relieved they’re burning that mark off my skin, but gratitude curdles in my throat when I remember they’re only erasing it so I can be rebranded. Repackaged and sold off to someone else.
Even though it takes two of my steps to match one of his, I quicken my pace until I’m walking beside him.
“I’m Ava,” I say.
“I know who you are,” he murmurs, eyes forward.
“It’s polite to introduce yourself in return, you know.”
He abruptly stops, pivoting and fixing me with a look sharp enough to peel paint. “Caleb.”
“Hi, Caleb,” I reply, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “So what, are you my babysitter?”
“I’m your handler,” he answers flatly.
My chin dips in a slow nod. “And what does that mean, exactly?”
His jaw tightens. “No more questions,” he barks, turning on his heel and continuing down the hall.
At the end, he hooks a left and raises his smartwatch to the panel beside a secured set of doors. They click open with a sterile beep. I hurry to keep up, matching his stride down the next corridor, refusing to fall behind even when I have to work twice as hard to do it.
“I’m just trying to understand how all this works,” I say, injecting a note of reason into my voice, trying to appeal to his sense of human decency. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I’m here against my will. My stepfather–”
“Stop talking,” he mutters, not slowing or sparing me a glance.
There’s no way I’m backing off that easily.
“Please,” I press, looking up at him imploringly. “This has to be some kind of misunderstanding. I’m not supposed to be here. If I could just speak with someone, explain what’s happened–”
“Dammit, Daphne!” he snaps, whirling on me.
I stop cold.
My heart trips over its valves, color draining from my face as I stare up at him. “What did you just call me?” I rasp.
His mouth clamps shut, the words clearly a mistake. “Nothing,” he grunts, turning sharply and resuming his march down the hall.
I have to jog to catch up, my heart pounding and breath coming quicker. “You know my mother?” I ask, grabbing at his sleeve. “How? When?”
“A long time ago,” he mutters, jerking his arm away. He doesn’t slow, but he does flick me a sideways glance. “You look like her.”
The words hit harder than they should. If someone in here knows my mom, then does that mean…
Did she have something to do with this?
The thought is enough to make me physically ill, my gut twisting as bile crawls up my throat.
He unlocks another door at the end of the hall, and we step into the glass-walled corridor overlooking the open atrium below.
I glance down.
Two dozen women move through the space beneath us, all dressed in identical white loungewear. Some sit in clusters, talking quietly. Others read. A few recline on pale sofas like they’re at a spa instead of a holding pen.
No one is crying.
No one is screaming.
They look… peaceful.
A chill crawls up my spine as I scan the crowd, searching their faces for any sign of distress, but I don’t find it. And I’m not sure whether that’s a relief or the most terrifying part of all.
My gaze shifts, catching on three men in suits standing off to the side, separate from the women. One of them looks strangely familiar. Hazel eyes, dark hair, sharp features…
For a moment, I think stress is playing tricks on me. That I’m projecting familiar faces onto strangers because my brain is desperate for something recognizable. Then he looks up, our eyes meeting through the glass.
The resemblance hits me all at once. Ford’s eyes, staring back at me from another face. It’s his brother– the one I saw at the charity gala. Drew.
The air goes thin, like someone’s punched the oxygen out of me. Drew’s lips part slightly, his expression shifting to one of unmistakable surprise.
Caleb nudges me forward, and my feet move, but my thoughts stay behind. They linger on that look in Drew’s eyes, on the way his posture changed the second he saw me.
I risk another glance down, hoping to catch his eye again, but he’s already turned away, back in conversation with the other men like nothing happened.
If he didn’t expect to see me, then maybe the Kings didn’t orchestrate this.
So what is he doing in a place like this?
Is he a buyer? An investor? Just another polished piece of the machine?
Was Gideon alone in setting this up, or was my mother a part of it? Would she even care if I called for help?
The questions pile up faster than I can sort through them, and underneath all of it is an ugly, desperate thought.
If the Kings weren’t involved, will they come looking for me? And if they do, what’ll happen when they find me here?
Ford would probably mask any reaction with that infuriating smirk of his, pretending none of this touched him.
Wes would try to play the hero, making a big show of saving me so he could twist it against me later for leverage.
Raf wouldn’t say anything at all– he’d just study me with that cold, unreadable stare, forcing me to break the silence first with some pitiful plea for help.
The idea twists something sharp in my chest. I don’t know which possibility is worse– that they’re responsible for all of this, or that they aren’t.
We turn again, leaving the atrium behind to pass through another set of doors, and a wave of urgency crashes through me. I need an ally if I want any chance of getting out of here. This guy might be my only shot.
I wait until he slows slightly at the end of the next hall before trying again. “If you knew my mother, do you have her number?” I ask, my voice small. “I really need someone to call her. I don’t think she knows I’m here.”
He shakes his head as he unlocks another set of doors. “No phones.”
“Please,” I press, softening my tone, letting a tremor slip in. “If you don’t have her number, I could give it to you. Or you could let me call her. Just for a minute.”
His hand closes around my upper arm– not painfully, but firmly enough to remind me how easy it’d be for him to overpower me– and he guides me into the next corridor. “I can’t help you, Ava,” he murmurs quietly as the doors whisk shut behind us.
“Why not?” I whisper back, desperation bleeding into my tone.
The muscle in his jaw flickers, eyes darting my way for a split second. “Boss has taken a special interest in you.”
A chill spreads under my skin. “Natalia?”
“No,” he scoffs bitterly. “Her boss.”
That catches me off guard. I’d assumed she was the one running things here.
“Who?” I ask, aiming for casual but falling short.
“Nobody you want to meet,” he grumbles, coming to a stop in front of a steel door. His gaze flicks up toward a security camera mounted in the corner. “Just keep your head down,” he adds as he reaches past me to unlock the door with his smartwatch, voice barely audible. “Trust no one.”
The door slides open with a low hiss, and he steps back, inclining his chin. “Go on.”
I give him one last, long look, then exhale a shaky breath, turning to enter the gleaming white room.