end result, and the only result that matters, is that I will not be chained to Katya for the rest of my life. Franco knows this. And yet, I indulge his worries out of respect. He always has my best intentions at heart, so he deserves to be heard, even though it will not change my mind.
“Tell me what has you so concerned,” I suggest.
“She is likely to be highly unpredictable. It is impossible to say what state she will be in when you first meet her. The things she has been through. She will be damaged.”
I glance at the photograph of the girl on my desk. The one her friend Mack gave me in the hopes that I could find her. That I could save her. It is the photo I have studied night and day for the last three weeks. I know everything about her. I have read all her files. Uncovered all of her history up until the point she was sold. And the things Franco says are true. She is broken. She is damaged. I know this better than anyone.
I pour myself another cognac and raise my glass in agreement.
“And that is why she will be perfect.”
2
Talia
Death.
The word has such a sense of finality to it. But it’s more than just an ending. People die long before they ever make it to the grave.
They die in little ways, every single day.
A loss of feeling. A lack of caring. Sometimes it is slow. Sometimes it has the subtlety of a hurricane.
Death can inhabit the body long before the soul ever leaves.
In my case, this is true. It is the only truth I know.
And I am ready to embrace the death of this life with open arms. I am ready to fly. To find peace.
One more week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight more hours.
Then I will have enough. Enough remnants of the white pills to set me free. If tonight goes as planned, I might even shave a day off that number. Arman is always generous with the pills when he is entertaining guests. To keep me placid. To keep me in line.
After he fucks me.
Because he never fucks me when I’m high. He doesn’t grant me such courtesies. For him, I’m always stone cold sober.
He’s inside of me right now. Fucking me like the filthy pig he is. The same as he always does before a party. This is so I don’t forget who owns me when all of his friends are inside of me tonight. He finishes with a grunt and then tosses me aside onto the stained mattress that I spend my days on.
I don’t look at him when he speaks. I already know what he’ll say. The same warning I always receive. His accent is heavy and his breath is too. Only the words are different this time. I almost miss it through the haze of my despondency, but there’s something in his voice that captures my attention.
It’s difficult to identify exactly what it is. Something sounds off. I’ve never heard Arman nervous before, but right now, that’s exactly how he sounds.
“Tonight is important,” he says. “These men must be satisfied. You must put in effort.”
I don’t respond to him because I never do. He doesn’t deserve my words. My words abandoned me long ago, around the same time my sanity slipped out the door. But the question is there in my eyes when I look up at him, and he answers.
“If you embarrass me tonight, I will flay you alive for all to see.”
Nothing. I feel nothing when he says that. Because his promises of death, no matter how brutal, are always false. He treasures his ownership over me too much to let me go.
His trophy. His prized slave. The American with the pretty blonde hair and vacant eyes. Nothing else matters in this wasteland.
“Karolina!” he snaps his fingers and she appears a moment later, her hands folded in front and her head bowed in submission.
Karolina loves Arman. And she hates me. He always makes her wait outside the door while he fucks me. So she knows her place. She may have her freedom to roam the mansion and his trust, but she will never have Arman’s heart. Because the man doesn’t have one.
He jerks his head at her, and she steps forward without any further instruction. Her hand moves to the locket around her neck, and Arman holds up a finger, speaking to her in a language I still haven’t figured