Chapter 2 #2
I tried to fight, but my limbs were already going heavy, thoughts scattering like rain on windshield glass.
The last thing I saw before the darkness took me was my own reflection in the rearview mirror—eyes wide, mascara running, looking exactly like the kind of girl who'd sign her life away for money she couldn't keep.
Consciousness returned in pieces. First, the ache in my shoulders. Then the dryness in my mouth. The soft surface under me. The weight around my throat.
I opened my eyes to pastel pink.
Pink walls. Pink carpet. White furniture with pink accents. It looked like a nursery had fucked a Victoria's Secret and this was their bastard offspring. Soft lighting from fixtures shaped like clouds. A canopy bed with white lace curtains. Plush toys arranged on shelves like witnesses.
And around my neck, leather and metal that pressed just enough to remind me it was there.
I jerked upright, hands flying to my throat. A collar. An actual fucking collar, like I was a dog or a—
"Good morning, little one."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, soft and feminine and terrifyingly cheerful through hidden speakers.
"Daddy's so happy you're awake. Let's begin."
"What the fuck?" My voice came out rough, throat dry. I stumbled out of the bed—and when had I been changed into a soft cotton nightgown?—looking for a door, a window, anything. "Where am I? What is this?"
"Language, little one. Good girls use nice words."
"Fuck your nice words!" I spun around, addressing the ceiling since I couldn't find cameras. "Let me out! This is kidnapping! This is—"
"This is exactly what you agreed to, Miss West."
The voice changed, shifted from that cloying sweetness to something recorded. My voice. My cocky, confident voice from that coffee shop: "Where do I sign? Just show me the line and I'll sign whatever you want."
Then Mr. Winters, careful and clear: "All rights of refusal revoked upon activation. Do you understand?"
Me again, impatient and dismissive: "Yeah, yeah, I get it. Rights revoked, whatever. Where's my money?"
The playback ended, leaving me standing in the middle of this pink nightmare with my own words echoing in my ears.
"Now then," the sweet voice returned, "let's go over the rules. Rule number one: Good girls use their inside voice."
A screen descended from the ceiling—because of course it did—showing text in cheerful pink letters:
RULE #1: USE YOUR INSIDE VOICE
"This is insane." I moved to the wall, running my hands along it, looking for seams, doors, anything. "You can't just keep me here. People will look for me. My friend knows—"
"Your friend Mika received a text from your phone explaining that you've taken an amazing opportunity abroad.
Your jobs have been notified of your sabbatical.
Your apartment will be maintained in your absence.
" The voice never lost its gentle tone. "No one is looking for you, little one.
You're exactly where you're supposed to be. "
My legs gave out. I slid down the wall, pink carpet soft under my bare legs. They'd thought of everything. Planned everything. And I'd handed them the blueprint with my signature.
"Rule number two: Ask nicely for what you need."
RULE #2: ASK NICELY
"I need to leave." My voice cracked. "Please. I made a mistake. I didn't understand—"
"You understood perfectly, Miss West. You simply didn't believe it would happen." A pause, then: "Would you like some water? You must be thirsty."
I was. Desperately. But asking felt like giving in, and I'd already given too much.
"Stubbornness is expected in the early stages. Take your time, little one. Daddy is very patient."
Daddy. The word made my skin crawl even as something else, something I didn't want to examine, stirred underneath the revulsion.
I pulled myself up, exploring my prison with growing desperation.
The bed dominated one side—king-sized, covered in soft pink sheets and white lace pillows.
A vanity with a heart-shaped mirror. A closet I couldn't open.
What looked like a bathroom door, also locked.
No windows. No visible cameras, though I knew they were there.
The air smelled like vanilla and baby powder.
"Your belongings have been catalogued and stored. You'll have access to them upon successful completion of the program."
"What program?" I tried the closet door again, pulling until my hands hurt. "What do you want from me?"
"Compliance. Growth. Transformation." The voice sounded almost fond. "You signed up to be studied, Miss West. To have your behaviors modified, your responses conditioned. We take our research very seriously here."
"This isn't research, it's imprisonment!"
"Inside voice, little one. That's your first warning."
A warning. Christ. I laughed, high and slightly hysterical. "Or what? You'll spank me?"
Silence. Somehow that was worse than threats.
I don't know how long I spent searching that room. Hours, maybe. Looking for weak spots, hidden panels, anything. The collar was seamless, no visible latch or lock. The walls were solid. The locked doors might as well have been welded shut.
"Would you like some water now?"
My throat burned. My head pounded. But asking meant acknowledging this was real, that I was really here, that I'd really fucked up this monumentally.
"No."
"Very well. Daddy will check on you soon."
The lights dimmed slightly, leaving me in a twilight pink glow. I curled up on the floor—I wasn't getting in that bed, wasn't playing along—and tried to think. There had to be a way out. A loophole. Something I'd missed.
But I'd missed everything important, hadn't I? Too busy being clever to be smart. Too focused on the money to see the cage.
Time passed strangely in that pink room. No clocks. No windows to track the sun. Just the soft lighting that never quite went dark and the gentle hum of air circulation. My throat got drier. My stomach, emptier. The collar, heavier.
"It's been six hours, little one. Stubbornness becomes self-harm after a certain point."
Six hours. It felt like minutes. Like days.
"Water," I croaked, hating myself for breaking. "Can I have some water?"
"What's the magic word?"
I closed my eyes. Counted to ten. "Please."
"Good girl."
A soft chime, and a panel I hadn't noticed slid open in the wall. Inside, a single bottle of water. Not even a glass one I could break and use as a weapon. Plastic. Room temperature.
I drained it in seconds.
"Wonderful. Progress already. Would you like to know what comes next?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"You always have choices, little one. They're just limited to the ones we provide."
The screen descended again, showing a schedule in that same cheerful pink:
7:00 AM - Wake up
7:30 AM - Bathroom privileges
8:00 AM - Breakfast
9:00 AM - Morning session
12:00 PM - Lunch
1:00 PM - Quiet time
3:00 PM - Afternoon session
6:00 PM - Dinner
7:00 PM - Free time
9:00 PM - Evening routine
10:00 PM - Bedtime
"Sessions?" My voice was still rough. "What kind of sessions?"
"That depends entirely on you, Miss West. Cooperative subjects have very different experiences than resistant ones."
The threat was clear even through the sweet tone. Play along or suffer. Submit or be broken.
"I want to speak to Dr. Mire."
"Daddy will visit when you're ready. Right now, you need rest. It's nearly bedtime."
"It's—" I had no idea what time it was. How long I'd been unconscious. How long I'd been here. "I'm not tired."
"Bedtime isn't about being tired, little one. It's about routine. Structure. Learning to follow the rules."
The lights dimmed further. The screen retracted. And I was left alone in the growing darkness with only the weight of the collar and my own stupidity for company.
I lasted another hour before crawling into the bed. The sheets smelled like lavender. The pillows were obscenely comfortable. Everything about it was designed to seduce compliance through comfort.
"Good girl. Sleep well, little one. Tomorrow, we begin in earnest."
I stared at the ceiling, collar pressing against my throat with every swallow. Somewhere beyond these pink walls, Dr. Gabriel Mire was watching. Waiting. Patient as he'd promised to be.
I'd thought I was so smart. Thought I'd beaten the system by hiding, by running, by refusing to show up when called.
But they'd just been letting me tire myself out, like a fish on a line.
Now I was here, exactly where I'd signed up to be, in a nursery that looked like a fever dream and felt like a cage.
The last thought before exhaustion took me was that I should have read Section 61-A. Should have read every section, every word, every implication.
But then again, would it have mattered? The money had been too good, the temptation too strong, and my certainty that I could outsmart any system too absolute.
Now I was here. Collared. Caged. About to begin whatever "program" Dr. Mire had designed for girls too stupid to read the fine print.
"Sweet dreams, little one. Daddy can't wait to meet you properly."
The voice followed me into sleep, where pink rooms became pink chains and every dream ended with the echo of my own voice, cocky and careless:
"Where do I sign?"