Chapter 5 Violet #2
A sweater next. Cream cashmere, soft as butter. Then gray. Then olive. My colors. The colors I gravitate toward in every store, every season, without even thinking about it.
I push the everyday clothes aside, my hands moving mechanically, my brain refusing to process what I’m seeing. Behind the jeans and sweaters and soft cotton t-shirts, there’s another section.
Lingerie.
I freeze.
A lace set catches the light, bra and matching underwear, the kind of thing that’s expensive. Delicate. Something I would never buy for myself, not in a million years.
I pull it out, check the tag, and see my measurements.
Red silk. Black lace with ribbons that would tie at my thighs, not my hips, my thighs. Sheer mesh sets that are completely transparent. A leather harness that makes my bile rise in my throat because it’s not clothing, it’s… decorative. Meant to display, not cover.
And white. A schoolgirl set with tiny bows and ruffles that makes me want to vomit because the implication is clear.
Not what I would choose. What someone chose for me. What someone wants to see me in. What he’s already decided I’ll wear.
I slam the wardrobe doors shut so hard the frame shudders.
My legs give out, making me sit down hard, back against the wardrobe, and dry heave into my hands. Nothing comes up. There’s nothing left. Just my body trying to reject what my brain has figured out.
The sick fuck has been planning this for months.
Sitting in that café, pretending to care about my work, pretending to be charming, while he had this waiting for me.
While he’d already bought lingerie to dress me up like his personal fucking doll.
I want to set it all on fire. I want to burn this whole beautiful room to the ground with him in it.
I no longer think he wants to kill me, it’s more twisted than that.
He wants a doll. Something pretty to dress up, keep in a beautiful room, and take out when he feels like playing.
And I’m it.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. My chest is so tight it feels like my ribs are cracking inward. He’s going to come back. He’s going to walk through that door and expect me to… what? Wear those things? Smile? Play along?
I’d rather die.
Breathe. I hear Danny’s voice, low and steady in the back of my mind. My brother, who spent two years in Walpole for assault, taught me how to survive when everything goes to shit.
Breathe and assess. You’re from Southie, Vi. You’ve seen bad men before.
In through my nose. Hold. Out through my mouth.
Bad men make mistakes.
In. Hold. Out.
Find the mistake.
The panic doesn’t go away, but it starts to organize itself. Fear with a purpose. Fear that’s looking for an exit instead of just screaming.
I force myself to think it through. The door is locked, hinges on the outside.
The windows open three inches and stop. No exits.
I searched every drawer, every cabinet. He’s removed anything that could be used as a weapon, reinforced everything else.
The chair won’t break. The glass won’t shatter.
The books just bounce off like they’re made of foam.
I haven’t found his weakness yet. But there has to be one. There has to be.
I stand up on legs that still shake. I walk to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. The reflection in the polished metal mirror is a disaster. Red eyes, blotchy skin, hair tangled and wild.
But I’m still wearing my own clothes. The jeans and henley I wore to the café this morning. The boots I put on before walking to the cathedral.
He didn’t change me while I was unconscious. Didn’t touch my clothes, didn’t undress me, didn’t put me in one of those silk things hanging in the wardrobe.
A small mercy. I’ll take it.
I start searching again. More carefully this time. Not looking for an escape, but for anything he might have overlooked. A gap in the surveillance, a flaw in the construction, a single thread I can pull that might unravel this whole elaborate cage.
Just have to find it.
The lock clicks, the sound is like a gunshot in the silent room. I freeze mid-movement, one hand still pressed against the wall where I’ve been searching for hidden seams.
The door swings open, and there he is. The man who drugged me. Who built me a cage and filled it with silk and leather harnesses. Completely composed, as if he’s just stepped out of a business meeting instead of checking on the woman he kidnapped.
I want to claw his eyes out. Ruin his expensive dove-gray suit. Mess up his perfect dark hair with my fingers wrapped around his throat.
His eyes sweep the room. Take in the chaos I’ve created. The overturned furniture, the scattered books, my tangled hair and shaking hands.
He doesn’t look angry.
His mouth curves, just slightly. Like he’s pleased. Like this is exactly what he expected.
Satisfaction.
“Good morning, tesoro.” His voice is warm and gentle. Wrong. He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. The lock clicks again, a sound like a coffin closing.
He looks at the destruction I’ve wrought. Looks at me.
Not like I’m a problem to be dealt with. Not like I’m a prisoner who’s made a mess. Not even like I’m a woman he wants.
Like I’m a painting he’s finally hung in the perfect spot.
Like I’m exactly where I belong.
I’m not.
And I’ll find a way out of here if it kills me.