CHAPTER SIX
Rumors swirled—Hirsh had made a deal with the Warden. A promise. A trade.Something negotiated behind closed doors, spoken in low voices and sealed without witnesses.Something I was never meant to understand.
That was why I hadn’t been sold like the others.Not mercy.Not luck.
I hadn’t been overlooked.
I’d been reserved.
I was never off the table that night—just moved out of sight, kept behind velvet rope and mirrored glass, reserved for someone else.
Marked for another kind of breaking.
And somewhere behind the layers of luxury, behind the illusion of protection Hirsh draped over me like a silk shroud, I felt it—that something had changed.
The claim has been made.
There was a thread pulled taut by a hand I’d never seen. A decision made above Hirsh—by the Warden, or someone who could make even him listen. A name that lingered like a brand, burned into the silence of those too afraid to speak it.
The Warden didn’t need to look at you to ruin you.
He just needed to remember your name.
I didn’t know if I was being punished. Or prepared.
All I knew was that I was chosen.
Not for escape. Not for freedom.
For something else.
I’d learned early that silence was protection. That stillness was certainty. If I was quiet enough, I could slip beneath the surface—float through rooms unnoticed, untouched. Unchosen.
But being Mr. Hirsh’s favorite was never about safety. It was all about presentation.
Precision.
Performance.
That’s what they whispered when they thought I couldn’t hear: The Starling.
His little favorite.
The one he trained. The one who "took it better." The one who never cried—at least not when they were watching.
But I knew what they didn’t.
Being his favorite wasn’t a gift. It was a warning.
It was a Thursday. The stench of cheap cologne and stale whiskey clung to the air, already thickening the halls before they stripped me down. No undergarments. No shoes. Just the thin black dress they put me in—tight, body-hugging, cutting into my skin like a brand.
It clung to every line of me, the fabric stretched thin and unforgiving.
The neckline dipped just enough, held up by delicate straps that looked more decorative than supportive.
The skirt was too short, unevenly cut with a soft draped ruffle that fell to one side, shifting with every movement to expose more than it concealed.
My hair was brushed smooth, my lips stained a bright, cruel red.
They dressed me up like a doll—something to be displayed, owned, and used.
The material caught the light with a cheap sheen, pretending at elegance it didn’t have.
Instead, it felt like a costume designed to reduce me to a silhouette instead of a person.
Tonight wasn’t about me.
It was about the men Mr. Hirsh needed to impress.
I stood frozen by the door as he greeted his guests—six of them, bloated and polished, their laughter clever and fake.
I didn’t know their names. I didn't want to.
But I recognized the hunger in their eyes—the kind that tore through flesh and soul alike.
Men like them came here to buy more than just bodies.
“Come here,” Mr. Hirsh said without looking, a casual motion that made my stomach twist. “She’s well trained. Sweet as honey, twice as smooth. She’ll make you want to stay longer.”
My body betrayed me and stepped forward before I could think.
He pulled me down—not onto his lap, but to the cold, hard floor beside him. A silent claim. Knees pressed hard into tile, the cold bit through skin and bone, and seeped deep where no warmth could reach.
“She responds best to praise,” Hirsh said, his voice dripping with a smug, almost theatrical cruelty.
“Just bathe her in compliments—she’ll practically bloom like a tragic little flower.
But don’t be fooled. She’s terrified of saying no.
That’s the secret ingredient…fear, delicately tied up in a pretty ribbon like it’s a gift. ”
They laughed. Low chuckles that reverberated in my chest.
And then came the hands.
One slid out, fingers rough and intrusive, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear—too rough to be gentle—brushed my cheek with knuckles like an owner marking territory.
Another hand traced a path down my shoulder, caressed across my collarbone and lingered over the tops of my breasts, as if I was nothing more than a piece of furniture to be tested and appraised.
I didn’t move.
Another man leaned in close, breath thick with scotch and something fouler. “May I?” he asked—not to me—but to Mr. Hirsh.
“You can touch,” Hirsh said. “But only with your hands.”
My body flinched anyway.
The man grinned, his fingers ghosted down my thigh under the hem of the dress. “So well trained,” he murmured, voice low and hungry. “Like velvet. Does she cry?”
“Sometimes,” Hirsh said. “But never loud. She’s a good girl, isn’t she?”
I didn’t answer.
He snapped his fingers sharply.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered, hating the way my own voice trembled and cracked.
“Louder,” he commanded, a cruel smile playing across his lips.
“Yes, sir,” I said again, louder, the sound of my obedience feeding their amusement.
The hands wouldn’t stop. Rough palms and greedy fingers slid over my waist, dug into my hips, then forced their way between my thighs, spreading me open.
Every touch scorched my skin like acid, shame exploding through me in white-hot waves that made my stomach churn and my throat close.
Humiliation burned so fiercely I thought I might vomit from it.
But I didn’t move.
I couldn’t.
My mind shattered and fled, clawing desperately behind my eyes, curling into a tiny, trembling ball where the nightmare couldn’t quite reach—yet I could still feel everything.
I counted seconds.
I focused on the chandeliers above—cold crystal prisms casted fractured light over the horror.
I focused on the rhythm of their voices—heavy, cloying, and laced with cruelty, like perfume sprayed too thick in a closed room.
I focused on a single point just beyond them, anything that wasn’t the sound of them talking about me like I wasn’t even human.
At some point, my thoughts drifted—Montgomery’s face under my fingertips, his quiet steadiness.
I didn’t cry.
No matter how hard I wanted to, the tears never came.
After the men were gone and the wine was spilled, Mr. Hirsh took my chin in his fingers and said, “You did well, Starling. You earned your place tonight.”
I nodded, but inside, something cracked.
Something that would never fully repair itself or heal.
I remained kneeling.
“Get up,” he added, and I obeyed immediately, my knees screamed in protest as I stood.
He turned, walked a few paces before glancing over his shoulder. “You’re not going back into that filthy room tonight.”
My stomach flipped. That was rare. I hadn’t slept on anything soft in…weeks? Months? Time blurred in this place. My body didn’t know comfort anymore.
Instead of the familiar dark corridor that led to the lower level where he held us, he led me up the main staircase. My bare feet pressed into the plush carpet—too soft. Everything felt too clean, too quiet.
“You’ve earned something different,” he said, stopping in front of a heavy wooden door. He opened it and stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter.
The room was…beautiful.
Amber light flickers low, spilling across the dark marble floor in slow, shifting waves that throw everything into soft, cinematic shadow.
At the center of the room sits a massive four-poster bed, its ornate black pillars stretching upward into gothic arches, draped in heavy midnight silk that falls like a curtain over something meant to stay hidden.
There are no crisp white sheets here—only deep, plush linens that swallow the light, velvet-soft and suffocating in their luxury.
It doesn’t feel like a cell. Not a cage. A room like this feels almost alive, wrapped in noir opulence that borders on obsessive. The kind of place I used to dream about before everything went wrong—only now it’s darker, heavier, like the dream turned on me.
My chest tightened, confusion settling in like a weight I couldn’t name.
“You may shower,” he said. “And then you can sleep.”
I turned toward him. “Alone?” I asked before I could stop myself.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “No handlers. No cameras.”
He lied so easily.
I didn’t know it then, but I’d feel that lie later—bone-deep.
“Thank you, sir,” I whispered, because it was what he wanted to hear.
He nodded once and left, the door clicked shut behind him.
For the first few minutes, I stood frozen in the center of the room, waiting for the trap to spring. But nothing happened. No shouting. No dragging me back. No pain. Just stillness.
The hot water of the shower felt unreal, like I’d slipped into someone else’s skin. I scrubbed until my body turned pink, until my fingertips wrinkled, until I almost convinced myself the filth from earlier had been washed away.
I hesitated anyway, every nerve still braced for something I couldn’t see.
And as I finally settled, my thoughts betrayed me—slipping, uninvited, to Montgomery.
To the way he looked at me like I wasn’t something to be handled or arranged, but something he was trying not to break.
The memory shouldn’t have mattered here.
It shouldn’t have followed me into this room. But it did.
I remembered his face with an almost painful clarity, like my mind had been waiting for permission to keep it.
The sharp line of his gaze, the restraint in it—like everything he didn’t say was working harder than what he did.
I had memorized him without meaning to, piece by piece, until I could summon him too easily in the dark.
And it unsettled me more than it comforted me. That quiet, treacherous pull in my chest whenever I did. Like my body recognized something my mind refused to name.
Then came the knock—soft and steady.
My heart slammed awake as I sat up, breath caught tight in my throat.
The door creaked open and three men stepped inside.
Not handlers.
Clients. Faces I’d seen before, etched in memory, all wearing cruel, satisfied smiles.
A cold dread crawled down my spine, freezing me in place.
“I thought—he said—”
“Yeah,” one stepped forward, voice low and smooth like a knife. “He said you’d be sleeping up here. But he never said with whom, Pet.”
The door pushed closed behind them—but it didn’t latch. I heard it, felt it, that almost-click settling somewhere uneasy in my chest.
Without warning, a rough, calloused hand clamped down on my bare shoulder, fingers digging in like claws, possessive and bruising.
The grip was so tight I knew it would leave marks—marks that screamed ownership.
Those thick fingers began tracing slow, deliberate circles, scraping over my skin as if branding me, claiming every inch as theirs.
Another hand slithered along my collarbone, heavy and hot, before the thumb dragged downward with cruel, mocking tenderness, pressing into the soft swell of my breast. It skimmed just beneath the thin fabric of my nightgown, teasing the edge of my nipple, intimate and violating all at once—a filthy promise of what was coming.
I stayed utterly still, body locked in rigid terror, every muscle screaming in protest as a violent wave of panic surged through me, choking my throat and flooding my veins with ice. I barely dared to breathe, terrified that the smallest sound would unleash them completely.
Then, from behind, a third hand twisted brutally into my hair, yanking my head back with vicious control. The sharp, burning pull ripped across my scalp like fire, forcing a humiliated gasp from my lips as tears stung my eyes.
Their hands roamed with merciless, hungry familiarity—groping down my arms, digging hard into my waist, then sliding greedily beneath the hem of my gown to invade the most private, sacred places that had only ever belonged to me.
Thick fingers pushed between my thighs, stroking and spreading, claiming every hidden inch with deliberate, violating ownership.
Each touch burned like a brand, a filthy declaration that I was nothing more than property now—something to be inspected, molested, broken, and used however they pleased.
Not a single word was spoken.
Their hands spoke with brutal clarity: I was theirs to touch, to take, to ruin.