time to leave

The mirror was cruel. The reflection was obscene. The weight of the hoops pulled at your delicate lobes with every tremble; the bangles clashed as your hands quivered in front of you, the sound a mocking jingle. The mini-dress stretched across hips that weren’t yours, breasts that suffocated against the Lycra, thighs too smooth, too bare. The towering pumps **** your stance into something wanton, an arch in your lower back you couldn’t straighten.

You clutched the dresser edge, knuckles white against the varnish. “This isn’t me,” you rasped. The words came out in Yulia’s voice, husky and accented, like a bad actress trying to make herself sound dangerous. “Andrea, Jesus Christ… this isn’t me.”

Andrea placed her hands firmly on your shoulders, pressing you down to sit before you toppled in the heels. Her eyes darted toward the door, then back. “Listen to me. He’s coming back in less than an hour. You couldn’t fight him like this. You’d only get hurt. You had to… play along. At least for now.”

You shook your head violently, earrings swaying, hair brushing your cheekbones. “You’re asking me to crawl into bed with that—monster. To smile. To kiss him. To—” Your throat locked, the words stuck. You could still feel Victor’s gaze burning through you, the way he had stood in the doorway like you were already property.

Andrea gripped your chin, forcing your painted lips up to meet her eyes. “I’m asking you to survive.”

The silence pressed heavy between you.

Then, the sound of footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. Approaching down the corridor like the tread of a judge walking to the gallows.

The door handle turned.

Victor stepped inside. His broad frame filled the space, suit jacket unbuttoned now, tie loosened, as though he had discarded any need for pretense. His eyes swept once over you, slow and devouring, a predator’s appraisal of prey dressed just to be eaten.

A smile curled under his mustache. Not kind. Not warm. Possessive. “Mm. Better.” His accent thickened, his voice rolling low. “Now you look like mine.”

Your stomach lurched, bile rising against the constriction of the bra. You wobbled as you tried to stand, bangles clattering with the movement.

Victor strode closer, looming until the scent of his cologne—spiced, dark, suffocating—smothered your senses. His thick fingers reached out, catching your chin, tilting your face up like you were nothing more than merchandise being inspected. The gold hoops swung, mascara-heavy lashes fluttered despite yourself.

Victor’s smile deepened. “Yes. My bride was awake at last.”

Andrea’s jaw clenched. She took a step forward, but Victor’s eyes snapped to her, a silent warning. She froze.

You tried to speak, but your painted lips only parted on a strangled breath.

Victor chuckled low, brushing a thumb across the swollen gloss of your lower lip. “You would learn to be silent unless spoken to. But first…” His eyes traveled down, lingering on the curve of the dress, the stretch of thighs, the tottering heels. “First, we would go home.”

He turned to Andrea with a curt nod. “You would visit later. She belonged with me now.”

Your blood iced.