Chapter 8 #2
I lean toward Inez as far as the restraints allow. Her breathing is uneven, bordering on hysterical. “Look at me,” I whisper urgently. “Slow down. Breathe. I don’t know what they’ve done to you yet, but panicking is going to make it worse. Stay with me. Okay? Stay here.”
She nods through tears, trying.
I force myself to focus, straining to hear through the thin office walls. Lionetti’s voice carries clearly enough.
“Have the friend examined first,” he says. “Make sure she’s cleaned up and ready.”
Ready for what?
My stomach turns.
A man asks something I can’t make out.
“And Becca?” Lionetti responds after a pause. “She goes to the club. I already have interest lined up. Keep her pristine. I want her presented properly.”
Interest.
Presented.
The words rearrange themselves in my head until the truth clicks into place.
This isn’t ransom.
This isn’t intimidation.
This is a sale.
A violent wave of nausea rises up my throat. My wrists strain against the cuffs, metal biting deeper into skin that’s already raw. I try to steady my breathing, but my chest feels tight, like there’s not enough air in the entire building.
“They’re selling us,” I whisper to Inez, the realization hollow and sharp.
She shakes her head like if she refuses to understand it won’t be real.
I twist in the chair, testing the bolts on the floor, trying to find weakness in the metal. There’s none. My muscles are already sore from earlier. I’m not strong enough to break free, and they know it.
Footsteps approach from behind.
Before I can turn fully, something sharp pierces the side of my neck. A quick burn, then warmth spreading under my skin.
My body reacts before my brain does. I jerk forward, but my limbs feel slow and heavy. The concrete floor tilts. The light overhead blurs into a halo.
I try to fight it. I really do.
I think about my shop. My home. Every client who ever trusted me. I think about how Jenna's laugh sounded when she left. I refuse to let that be the last thing I remember.
But the darkness presses in anyway.
The final thing I register is Lionetti's voice in the distance, instructing someone to handle me carefully.
Then everything goes black.
I wake up to pain.
Not the sharp kind—the dull, bone-deep ache that tells me my body has been moved, handled, positioned while I was unconscious. My shoulders throb. My wrists burn. My head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton and set on fire at the same time.
I try to open my eyes, but something's wrong.
The world is muted, shadowed. I blink hard, trying to clear my vision, but it doesn't help.
There's something on my face. Something covering my eyes—not blocking them completely, but obscuring everything, turning the room into a hazy blur of shapes and colors.
I try to lift my hand to touch it, but my arms won't move.
Tied again.
My wrists are bound above my head this time, secured to something solid. A headboard. I'm on a bed. The realization sends a cold spike of fear through my chest.
I force myself to breathe. Slow. Controlled. Don't panic.
But my body doesn't listen. My heart hammers against my ribs. My stomach churns violently, bile rising in my throat. I'm nauseous, dizzy, like the room is tilting beneath me even though I'm lying still.
What did they give me?
I shift slightly, testing my restraints, and that's when I notice the rest.
I'm not wearing my clothes.
The fabric against my skin is different—tight, constricting, lace biting into my thighs and waist. I glance down as much as I can through whatever's covering my eyes and see black. A dress. Skin-tight. All lace. My legs are bare. No shoes.
My breath catches.
They undressed me.
While I was unconscious, someone's hands were on me. Stripping me. Dressing me. Positioning me.
The thought makes my skin crawl, makes me want to tear out of my own body.
I force myself to focus. Look around. Assess.
The room swims into view slowly, shapes sharpening through the haze.
It's big. Bigger than any bedroom has a right to be.
A massive gold chandelier hangs from the ceiling, dripping with crystals that catch the low light and scatter it across red velvet drapes covering the walls.
The bed beneath me is plush, expensive, draped in dark silk.
And then I see the table.
It's against the far wall, directly in my line of sight. A long mirror sits behind it, reflecting everything back at me. And lined up across the surface, arranged almost artfully, are—
Oh God.
Sex toys. Whips. Restraints. Bottles of lube. Paddles. Things I don't even have names for.
My stomach lurches violently. I turn my head away, squeezing my eyes shut, but the image is burned into my brain.
This isn't just a room.
This is a stage.
And I'm the entertainment.
"Inez," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Inez, where are you?"
Silence.
I strain against the ties, twisting my head as far as I can, searching every corner of the room. But there's no one. Just me. Alone. Tied to this bed in this nightmare.
Where is she?
What did they do with her?
Panic claws at my chest. I try to sit up, but the room spins violently, nausea crashing over me in waves. Whatever they drugged me with is still in my system, thick and heavy, dragging me down.
I need to get out of here.
I need to find her.
I pull at the restraints again, harder this time, ignoring the burn in my wrists. And then—
They give.
Not much. But enough.
I freeze, my breath catching. Slowly, carefully, I twist my left wrist, testing the knot. It's loose. Sloppy. Whoever tied me up either didn't care or didn't know what they were doing.
Thank God for incompetence.
I work the rope methodically, my fingers clumsy and slow from the drugs, but eventually it loosens enough for me to slip my hand free. Then the other. I sit up too quickly and the room tilts violently, my vision blurring at the edges.
I grip the edge of the bed, breathing hard, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
When it finally steadies, I swing my legs over the side and stand.
My knees buckle immediately.
I catch myself on the bedpost, gripping it hard enough that my knuckles go white. My legs feel like they're made of water. My head pounds. But I force myself upright, one hand braced against the wall as I stumble toward the door.
It's locked.
Of course it is.
I rattle the handle anyway, pulling hard, but it doesn't budge. The door is solid, heavy, probably reinforced. I'm not getting through it without a key.
I press my forehead against the wood, trying to think through the fog in my brain.
Maybe I could yell. Scream for help. Someone might hear me.
But even as the thought forms, I know it's useless.
This is Lionetti's club.
Everyone here works for him.
No one's coming to help me.
I'm about to turn back toward the room, to search for something—anything—I can use as a weapon, when I hear it.
The lock clicks.
I freeze.
The door swings open slowly, deliberately, and someone steps inside.
Heels first.
Red bottoms.
Then the dress—black corset cinched tight, feathers trailing from the hem like something out of a burlesque show. A mask covers her face, red and black, ornate and theatrical. Red lipstick. Perfectly applied.
And then she laughs.
That laugh.
I know that laugh.
"Well, well, well," Jenna purrs, stepping fully into the room and letting the door swing shut behind her. "Look who's awake."
She moves slowly, circling the bed like a predator sizing up prey. Her eyes—visible through the mask—are bright with something that looks like satisfaction. Like she's been waiting for this moment.
I straighten as much as I can, gripping the wall for support. My head is still spinning, but I force myself to meet her gaze.
"What the fuck is going on?" I demand, my voice hoarse. "Where's Inez?"
Jenna's smile widens. She stops at the foot of the bed, one hand trailing along the silk sheets.
"Oh, don't worry about your little friend," she says sweetly. "She's not around. Daddies got something planned for her."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
My stomach turns violently. I fight the bile rising in my throat.
"What the fuck do you mean she's gone?" I snap, taking a step toward her. "What did you—"
The slap comes fast.
Her palm cracks across my face so hard my head whips to the side. Pain explodes across my cheek, sharp and immediate. I stagger, catching myself on the bedpost.
"You don't ask the questions here!" Jenna hisses, her voice sharp now, all sweetness gone. "I do!"
I press my hand to my face, tasting blood on my lip. The room spins again, but I force myself to look up at her.
She's standing over me now, her chest heaving, her eyes wild behind the mask.
I laugh.
It's bitter. Hollow. But I laugh anyway.
"So, what, bitch?" I say, my voice strained but steady. "What's your plan? You gonna fuck me to death?"
I tilt my head, smirking despite the pain.
"You could've at least bought me dinner first."
Another blow.
This one harder.
My head snaps back and I taste more blood. My vision blurs, but I don't fall. I grip the bedpost tighter, refusing to go down.
Jenna leans in close, her breath hot against my ear.
"You wish you could have all of this," she hisses. "But guess what? It belongs to Izzy. Remember him? The whole reason you're here?"
She grabs my chin, forcing me to look at her.
"You thought because you were a 'somebody' you could keep him? Well, I wanted him. And what I want in this world, I get."
Another slap.
My ears ring.
"Izzy?" I whisper, my voice cracking.
The name feels foreign in my mouth. Like it belongs to someone else's life.
"This is what this is all about?" I say, louder now, disbelief cutting through the fog in my brain. "The same man I helped save his career? The man I loved genuinely? The one who couldn't keep his dick in his pants, so I left him?"
I stare at her, my vision swimming, my voice strained.
"Izzy?"