14. The Girl
The Girl
Monika
She's thrown into the room like a bag of trash. She stumbles, catches herself on the desk, and immediately scrambles to the far corner. Her back hits the wall. Her knees draw up to her chest. Her arms wrap around her legs.
She's shaking.
I don't move. I don't speak. I just watch her—the way her eyes dart around the room, cataloging exits, assessing threats. The way her breath comes in short, sharp gasps. The way her body curls into itself, trying to make itself smaller, trying to disappear.
She's been here before. Not this room, maybe. Not this exact place. But she's been in rooms like this—rooms with concrete walls and steel doors and men who do terrible things. She knows what happens next. She's learned to expect it.
I feel something break inside me.
Not the part of me that wants to survive. The part of me that wants to be good.
"Tasha."
Her head snaps toward me. Her eyes are wide, wild, the eyes of an animal that's been cornered. She doesn't respond. She just stares at me, her body rigid, her breath still coming in those short, sharp gasps.
"My name is Monika," I say. "I'm the one who fixed your arm. Do you remember?"
She doesn't nod. She doesn't shake her head. She just watches me.
"I'm going to get you out of here," I say.
Something flickers across her face. Something that might be hope or might be fear or might be something else entirely.
"You can't," she whispers.
Her voice is small. Broken. The voice of a child who has learned that promises are lies and hope is a trap.
"I can," I say. "I will."
She shakes her head. "They'll hurt you. They hurt everyone."
"They won't hurt me." I move slowly—carefully—toward her. I don't want to scare her. I don't want to make her flinch. "I know the man who runs this place. He won't let anyone hurt me."
"He's the worst one."
The words hit me like a slap. Because she's right. Nathan is the worst one. He's the one who ordered her abduction. He's the one who had her beaten and starved and sold. He's the one who threw her into this room like she was nothing.
And I love him.
I love him, and I hate him, and I don't know how to reconcile those two things.
"Tasha." I kneel in front of her. I don't touch her. I don't reach for her. I just sit there, at eye level, and look at her. "I need you to trust me."
"I don't trust anyone."
"I know." I feel tears prick at my eyes. I blink them back. "I know you don't. I know you've been hurt. I know you've been betrayed. But I'm not like them. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to sell you. I'm going to get you out of here."
"Why?"
The question is simple. The answer is not.
"Because it's the right thing to do," I say. "Because you deserve to be safe. Because someone should have protected you a long time ago, and no one did."
She stares at me. Her eyes are brown, like mine. Brown like river stones. Brown like the earth after rain.
"What's your name?" she asks.
"Monika."
"Monika." She says it slowly, like she's testing the word. Like she's trying to decide if it's safe. "You fixed my arm."
"Yes."
"You didn't hurt me."
"No."
"You were gentle."
"I tried to be."
She's quiet for a long moment. I can see the war going on behind her eyes—the part of her that wants to trust, and the part of her that knows better.
"What happens now?" she asks.
"I'm going to make a plan. And we're going to get out of here. Together."
The plan is simple.
It's so simple that it might actually work.
I tell Tasha to pretend to be sick. To scream. To cry. To make as much noise as possible. When the men come to check on her, I'll be ready. I'll knock them out. I'll grab her. We'll run.
"It's dangerous," I say. "If something goes wrong—"
"What?" she asks. "What happens if something goes wrong?"
I don't answer. She knows what happens. She's seen it before.
"I'm not afraid," she says.
"You should be."
"I've been afraid my whole life." She looks at me with those steady brown eyes. "I'm tired of being afraid."
I understand. I understand more than she knows.
We wait.
The room is silent. The fluorescent light hums. The concrete walls press in around us. I can hear footsteps in the hallway—men walking by, talking in low voices, doing whatever it is they do when they're not hurting children.
I think about Nathan. About the way he looked at me when I told him to stop. About the way he said "I love you" like it was a curse and a prayer and the only thing he had left.
I think about Aleksander. About the way he held me in the greenhouse. About the way he said he would fix this, even if it destroyed him.
I think about Gabriel. About his desperate hope and his trembling hands and his unwavering belief that I could be saved.
They're all trying to save me. In their own way. In their own broken, monstrous, desperate way.
But I'm the one who's going to save Tasha.
And that's enough.
"Now," I whisper.
Tasha nods. She takes a breath. And then she screams.
It's a terrible sound—high and sharp and full of pain. The sound a child makes when they're being hurt. The sound that should make anyone who hears it want to help.
The footsteps in the hallway stop. Voices murmur. Then the door is wrenched open and two men rush in.
They don't see me.
I'm behind the door, pressed against the wall, the fire extinguisher in my hands. The first man—broad, bald, with a scar across his cheek—sees Tasha on the floor and lunges toward her. The second man follows.
I swing.
The extinguisher connects with the first man's head with a sickening crack. He goes down, his body crumpling to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. The second man turns, his eyes wide, his hand reaching for his gun.
Too slow.
I swing again. The extinguisher catches him in the temple. Blood splatters between us, landing on my dress, my cheek, my hands. He stumbles, falls, doesn't get up.
I stand there, breathing hard, my hands shaking. I've never done anything like this before. I've never hurt anyone like this before.
But I don't feel guilty. I don't feel ashamed.
I feel alive.
"Come on," I say to Tasha. "We have to go."
She's on her feet, her eyes wide, her face pale. She looks at the men on the floor, then at me, then at the open door.
"You did it," she whispers.
"We did it." I reach for her hand. "Now run."
The warehouse is a maze.
I've been here before—twice now—but I've never seen it from the inside. The cages line the walls, empty now, their doors hanging open. The shipping containers loom in the shadows. The offices are dark.
I lead Tasha through the corridors, my heart pounding, my breath coming fast. I don't know where the other men are. I don't know if Nathan is still here. I don't know anything except that I have to get her out.
We reach the loading dock.
The vans are still here. The men are still here. They turn when they see us—their faces registering surprise, then anger, then something that might be fear.
"Stop her!" someone shouts.
I don't stop.
I run.
I run through the loading dock, Tasha's hand in mine, the cold air hitting my face as we burst through the door. I run past the vans, past the trucks, past the men who are too slow to catch us.
The gate is ahead. It's open. It's always open.
We're going to make it.
We're going to—
A hand grabs my arm.
I'm yanked backward. Tasha's hand slips from mine. I hear her scream—not the fake scream from before, but a real one—and I turn to see her being pulled away by one of the men.
"Tasha!"
I try to reach for her. I try to fight. But the man who grabbed me is strong—stronger than I am—and he's dragging me toward the warehouse, his grip like iron.
"Let her go!" I scream. "Let her go!"
The man doesn't answer. He just keeps dragging me, his face blank, his eyes empty.
And then, suddenly, he stops.
I look up. Nathan is standing in the doorway of the warehouse, his face pale, his eyes dark. He's looking at me—at the man holding me, at Tasha being pulled toward the vans—and there's something in his expression I've never seen before.
Conflict.
"Let her go," he says.
The man holding me hesitates. "But—"
"I said let her go."
The man releases me. I stumble, catch myself on the wall, and look at Nathan.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
He doesn't answer. He walks toward me, his footsteps slow, his eyes never leaving mine.
"I'm letting you go," he says.
I don't understand.
I stand there, frozen, staring at him. The man who's been holding me steps back, his face confused. The other men—the ones who were pulling Tasha toward the vans—stop what they're doing.
"I'm letting you go," Nathan repeats. "You and the girl. Go."
"Why?"
He doesn't answer. He just looks at me with those dark, unreadable eyes, and I see something there. Something that might be regret or might be love or might be something else entirely.
"I don't know why," he says finally. "I just—I can't. I can't do this to you."
"You're trafficking children. You're hurting people. You're—"
"I know." His voice cracks. "I know what I am. I know what I've done. But I can't—I can't lose you. Not like this."
"You already lost me."
"I know." He closes his eyes. "Go. Before I change my mind and you go in the van with the girl."
I don't wait. I grab Tasha's hand and I run.
The car is where I left it—the nondescript sedan, parked behind the dumpster. I pull Tasha into the passenger seat and I drive.
I drive through the city, my heart pounding, my hands shaking. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know what I'm doing. I just know that I have to get her out.
The hospital is a small one on the edge of the city—the kind of place that doesn't ask questions, that doesn't look too closely at the bruises and the scars. I park the car in the lot and I help Tasha out.
"Listen to me," I say. "You're going to go inside. You're going to tell them you were kidnapped. You're going to tell them you escaped. You're not going to tell them anything about me or about the warehouse or the man that runs it. Do you understand?"
She nods. Her eyes are wide, but she's not crying. She's past crying.
"What about you?" she asks.
"I have to go back."
"Back to the men who hurt me?"
"Back to the place I live." I touch her face—gently, carefully. "I have to stop them. I have to save the others."
"You can't."
"I have to try."
She looks at me. Her eyes are brown, like mine. Brown like river stones. Brown like the earth after rain.
"You're good," she says. "You're good, Monika."
I feel tears prick at my eyes. I blink them back.
"Stay safe," I say. "Stay safe, Tasha."
She turns and walks into the hospital.
I watch her go. I watch her disappear through the sliding glass doors. I watch her become someone else's responsibility.
And then I get back in the car and I drive toward the Mire mansion.
I don't remember the drive.
I don't remember the streets I took or the turns I made or the time that passed.
I just remember the gate—the iron gate that swings open when it recognizes my car—and the driveway lined with evergreens.
I remember the fountain in the center of the circle, frozen solid.
I remember the house looming before me, stone and glass and the ghosts of everyone who's ever walked through its doors.
I park the car. I walk inside.
The foyer is dark. The chandelier is unlit. The portraits on the walls watch me pass—Elena, and the ones who came before her, the women who've been claimed by this family and never quite escaped.
I stop in the center of the foyer. I look at the stairs—the stairs that lead up to my room, to Aleksander's room, to Nathan's room, to Gabriel's room. I look at the doors—the doors that lead to the library, the ballroom, the greenhouse, the study.
I'm back.
I'm back in the cage.
But something's different now. Something has shifted. Something has changed.
I'm not the same girl who walked out of this house earlier tonight.
I'm something else. Something that's been forged in the fire of the warehouse, in the darkness of the cages, in the desperate, impossible act of saving a child.
I'm not a victim anymore.
I'm not a prisoner.
I'm something else. Something that might be dangerous.
I walk up the stairs. I walk to my room. I close the door.
And I start planning.