“And now…it’s too late.”

“THIS IS YOUR room.”

Alrik shoved me over the threshold, barring the doorway with his body. My white heels clipped on the sparkling silver tiles, sinking deep into a sheepskin rug as I stumbled from his push.

I wanted to rub my skin where he’d touched me. I wanted to wash and wash and wash.

We’d arrived a little while ago, soaring from clouds to land, concluding our journey at a private airstrip. A chauffeur-driven car delivered us from there to here, and the resplendent home of my captor did nothing to make my stay more welcoming.

The moment he’d dragged me inside, he tore me through the space, past the dining room, kitchen, lounge, and up a flight of steps that branched off in two directions. He took the left, wrapping his fingers tightly around my wrist as if I’d run away any second.

There’s nowhere to run.

I had no idea where I was. No hope of escape.

I lost count of how many rooms existed off the corridor until he opened a white-lacquered door and tossed me inside.

Either Alrik had a fascination with white, or he had no inspiration when it came to decoration. The walls were white, the bed white, even the dressing table, bedside units, and armoire. White, white, white.

My eyes dropped to my dress.

Was that why he’d bought me? Because I’d been prepped for sale in snow?

I backed away toward the alabaster curtains, hiding a view of a country I’d never visited, hidden in the lateness of night.

His hands spread like shackles as he marched toward me. “Time to welcome you to your new home, don’t you think?” Grabbing the front of my dress, he yanked. Hard.

The pretty pearls and intricate stitching did its best to withstand such torture, but the pieces tore with a loud shriek.

My arms came up automatically. Not to protect my decency—that luxury had been beaten out of me back at the trafficking hotel—but to hide my toilet paper novel.

Too late.

The scribbled pieces scattered onto the carpet like tiny squares of misery. My bitten pencil bounced free like a splinter from my heart. I wanted to scoop them up, but there was no point. He’d seen, and no matter if I picked them up or left them, he’d steal them from me.

That was what men like him did.

I’d been bought to share his perverted life in whatever way he saw fit. I wouldn’t cry over my revealed words, and I wouldn’t beg him to leave them alone.

His eyes latched onto the mess on the floor, a sinister smile twitching his lips. “Well, well, what do we have here?”

I sucked in a breath, glowering with all the force I had left.

He raised an eyebrow as he squatted to pick up a piece. Reading the scribbles, he looked up. The fact he bowed before me didn’t escape my knowledge. However, I wasn’t silly enough to believe the position put him below me. He could cause just as much pain down there as he could with me scrunched up and crying on his toes.

“What exactly is this?”

I broke eye contact, glaring at the white painted wall. No artwork. No personality—a blank void of nothingness.

“Not replying to me is getting very old, very quick.” Alrik straightened, shoving a handful of my pages in my face. “Don’t want to tell me? Fine. In that case, you don’t need them anymore.”

Snatching up every last sheet, he stomped to the door. “I suggest you get some sleep, Pimlico, because tomorrow, your true welcome begins.”

To No One,

He’s gone. He’s taken my previous confessions to you but not my pencil. I’ll hide whatever I transcribe now, so he’ll never have these new pages. It’s late, very late, but I don’t have a clock in this emotionless tomb. Tomorrow, my life will change, and I may or may not be able to write to you about what I live through.

Just knowing you’re there to listen is enough. Having your acceptance and no judgement will keep me going.

My mother would be proud of me. I’ve lasted this long with my dignity intact.

Can I tell you a secret, No One? Whatever Alrik does to me tomorrow—sexually—will be the first thing anyone has done to me. I’m eighteen and a virgin. Laughable, right? But that’s what happens when you live in my world. My mother forced me to choose books over boys and studies over sex. I mean, if I’d found a guy I liked enough to last a few dates and sloppy kisses with, her rules wouldn’t have stopped me. But I didn’t find him. And now, I never will because that choice has been taken from me.

Is it stupid not to be afraid of his fists or boots or chains? Is it ridiculous that I don’t fear sticks and whips and torture equipment? All I truly fear is him. His…penis.

Will it hurt?

Will I bleed?

Who will be there to talk to me when it’s over and I feel different? When he forces me from girl to woman? Teen to slave? Free to broken?

You, I guess. Only you.

Until tomorrow, No One.

Sleep well because I won’t.

TO NO ONE,

I—I thought I could do this. But I can’t. I thought I could tell you what he did. But I won’t. All I can say is…his idea of welcome included things I never want to experience again. It hurt. So, so much. I can barely sit without wanting to scream in agony while writing this to you.

He took my virginity.

Multiple times.

He made me wish sex was never invented.

God, it hurt so much, No One.

But he didn’t kill me.

So I’ll focus on that.

And do my best to figure out how to survive.