Mira's POV
The door clicked shut behind me, and I jumped at the sound.
My heart wouldn't stop racing. I pressed my back against the wall, staring at the giant bedroom like it might swallow me whole. This couldn't be real. Rooms like this didn't exist in real life—only in movies about rich people.
The bed was huge, bigger than my entire dorm room back at school. White sheets so clean they almost glowed. Fluffy pillows stacked like clouds. On the nightstand sat a lamp that probably cost more than my mom's car.
But I couldn't look at any of it without remembering where I was. Who owned this place. What he might want from me.
My hands still shook as I walked further into the room. Each step felt wrong, like I was leaving dirty footprints on someone else's perfect floor. Paint and garbage still covered my clothes, dried and crusty now. I could smell myself—sour and rotten.
That's when I saw them.
Clothes laid out on the bed. Fresh, clean clothes.
I moved closer, afraid to touch them. A soft gray shirt. Black pants that looked my size. Even socks and—my face burned hot—new underwear, still in the package.
How did he know my size?
The question made my stomach flip. I grabbed the clothes quickly and looked around for a bathroom. A door on the left stood slightly open, light spilling through the crack.
I practically ran inside and locked the door behind me.
The bathroom was even fancier than the bedroom. White marble everywhere. Gold faucets. A shower big enough for three people. Towels so fluffy they looked like they'd never been used.
I turned on the shower, and water poured out like a waterfall. Steam filled the room immediately—hot water, the kind our dorm never had. I waited for it to warm up, then stopped. What if someone came in while I was showering? What if this was all a trick?
But I couldn't stay covered in paint and garbage forever.
I locked the bathroom door twice, then checked it three more times. My hands fumbled with my crusty shirt, peeling it off like old skin. The paint had dried to my actual skin underneath, pulling at my arm hair. Everything went into a pile on the floor—clothes so disgusting I never wanted to see them again.
The hot water hit my head, and I almost cried.
Paint swirled down the drain in rivers of purple and green. Chunks of garbage floated past my feet. I scrubbed my hair over and over, using the expensive shampoo that smelled like flowers. My scalp hurt where people had pulled my hair, and my shoulders ached from carrying my backpack for hours.
I washed until the water ran clear. Then I washed again, just to be sure.
When I finally turned off the shower, the bathroom was full of steam. I wiped the mirror with my hand and stared at my reflection.
I didn't recognize the girl looking back.
A purple bruise covered my left cheek—I didn't even remember getting hit there. My eyes had dark circles underneath, like someone had drawn them with a marker. My lips were cracked and bleeding. I'd lost weight too. My collarbones stuck out like chicken bones under my skin.
When did I get so thin?
I touched the bruise, and pain shot through my face. How long had it been since I'd eaten a real meal? Days? Weeks? Time had blurred together since the video, since Victoria had destroyed my life.
I put on the clean clothes. They fit perfectly, which scared me more than if they'd been too big or too small. The shirt was softer than anything I'd ever worn. The pants hugged my legs just right.
He planned this. He knew I'd end up here.
That thought followed me out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom. The comfortable bed waited, but I couldn't make myself get in it. What if lying down meant letting my guard down?
I sat on the edge instead, my feet planted on the floor, ready to run.
Minutes ticked by. The room was so quiet I could hear my own breathing. No sounds came from outside the door—no footsteps, no voices, nothing.
What was Damian doing right now? Was he in another part of this huge house, planning something? Would he come through that door any minute?
I stared at the doorknob, waiting for it to turn.
It didn't.
An hour passed. Maybe two. My eyes grew heavy, but I forced them open. Sleep meant danger. Sleep meant not being ready.
Through the window, I watched the sky change from black to dark blue to lighter blue. Morning was coming, painting the clouds pink and orange.
I'd made it through the night.
Nothing had happened. No one had tried to hurt me. The door had stayed closed.
My body sagged with relief, but my brain kept spinning. Why? Why bring me here just to leave me alone? What did Damian Kane want?
A soft knock on the door made me jump to my feet.
"Miss Mira?" A woman's voice, gentle and old. "I've brought breakfast."
I didn't answer. My throat had closed up.
"I'm leaving it outside your door, dear. Eat when you're ready."
Footsteps walked away, fading into silence.
I waited five full minutes before I crept to the door. My hand shook as I turned the knob and pulled it open just a crack.
A tray sat on the floor. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Orange juice. Fruit cut into perfect little pieces. The smell made my stomach growl so loud it hurt.
I grabbed the tray and slammed the door shut, locking it again.
The food was still warm. Real food, not cafeteria garbage or vending machine snacks. I sat on the floor with my back against the bed and ate like I hadn't seen food in a year. The eggs melted in my mouth. The toast crunched perfectly. The orange juice was fresh-squeezed.
Halfway through eating, I started crying. Big, ugly tears that dripped into my eggs. I didn't even know why I was crying—because the food tasted good, or because I was trapped, or because I was so, so tired.
I finished every bite, then crawled onto the bed. Just for a minute, I told myself. Just to rest my eyes.
The pillow was so soft. The blanket wrapped around me like a hug. My body sank into the mattress, and for the first time in weeks, nothing hurt.
My eyes closed.
I was asleep before I could stop myself.
---
A sound woke me up.
Not a knock. Not footsteps. Something else—a scratching sound, like metal on metal.
My eyes flew open. Afternoon light filled the room. I'd slept for hours.
The scratching came again, from the door. Not the doorknob. Above it.
I sat up slowly, my heart pounding. Was someone trying to break in?
Then I saw it.
A small panel in the wall next to the door—one I hadn't noticed before—slid open silently. Through the gap, I could see darkness. And in that darkness, something moved.
A piece of paper slid through the opening and fell to the floor.
The panel closed just as quietly as it had opened.
I stared at the paper from across the room. White. Folded in half. Just sitting there like a trap waiting to spring.
Don't look at it, my brain screamed. But my feet moved anyway, carrying me across the room.
I picked up the paper with shaking hands and unfolded it.
Five words, written in sharp black letters:
"Tonight, you meet your buyer."