Blackmail photos.
"They're in my purse, Aston," I said. I felt a flush of shame, like I always did at my behavior. I was doing things I could barely stomach. The Congressman was an asshole, a disgusting man. But he was a disgusting man with a wife, someone who cared about him. Someone who would be hurt by the kinds of photos I had taken.
I hated what I was doing.
I hated who I had become.
I could do nothing else.
Aston's phone rang, and he answered it, his words clipped, short. I listened for any information that might help me. I was always listening, despite the danger, filing away bits and pieces of knowledge in my head that I thought might someday help me find out anything...where Aston was keeping my son, how I might destroy Aston.
More often than not lately, I was beginning to lose hope.
When he hung up the phone, he returned, sliding his arms around me, the way I imagined a lover would.
As if I knew what a lover would do. I'd never had one. I'd only had owners.
“I’m tired of the others,” he said, his finger circling round and round my nipple.
Then don't whore me out to others, I thought. It was always this way, after Aston did something like this. He would be filled with momentary regret, rage that some other man had me, paranoia that I might have enjoyed sex with someone else.
That was something I could never imagine, sex with anyone being enjoyable. It never had been, and it never would be.
"I'm yours and yours alone, Aston." I spoke the words I knew he wanted to hear, my heart pounding in my chest, the words I thought might get me a reprieve from a beating.
But I knew better.
He kissed my neck, and I turned my mind off, knowing what he was about to do, that he would claim me as his own, some kind of warped need to replace the man who I'd supposedly been with. I looked behind him at the expanse of room, the sweeping windows that overlooked the lights, the hustle and bustle of Las Vegas. It was a place where you could disappear if you weren’t careful. I’d disappeared here before.
"You're mine," he said.
"I'm yours," I parroted.
"Never forget it, Meia." He whispered the words in my ear, his breath hot on my skin, and I felt nauseous. My instinct was to run, to fight.
But then my son would be dead.
Aston's hands were up under my dress, sliding over my ass. "All of this is mine," he said. I could feel my entire body tense to his touch.
And then he did what he wanted with me, his touch rough, his movements painful.
Afterward, I straightened my clothing, smoothed my dress and my coat as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. At least he would let me leave, had no interest in seeing me until his lust for me had been stoked again. Thank heaven for small mercies. I didn't think I could bear it to live with my tormenter.
Of course, I'd been forced to do it before, with the old man, the man who first bought me.
"Aston," I said, my voice hoarse. He didn't look at me, standing on the other side of the room gazing out at the cityscape, sipping from a glass. "Can I talk to Ben?"
I hated the way my voice sounded - small and timid. I hated to beg him for anything, but this is what I was reduced to doing.
He still didn't turn. "Keith will set it up," he said. "Sunday. One hour."
I exhaled, my relief palpable, and felt a welling up of emotion, a feeling of overwhelming gratitude toward him. Tears filled my eyes, and I wiped them away. I didn't want to cry here, not in front of him. And I hated that for a moment, I felt gratitude toward my captor for allowing me the small mercy of calling my child.
The child he had stolen from me.
As I walked away, I half-expected him to be behind me, to pull me back inside, to beat me for daring to request to speak with Ben. Aston didn't like it when I made requests of my own. It demonstrated my lack of respect for him, he'd say. And so I held my breath as I walked quickly down the hall, my heels making clicking sounds on the tile as I walked across the hall to stand at the elevator. I waited, my arms crossed around my waist, my fingers dancing on the fabric of my purse. I waited for him to open the door, to walk out to the elevator and drag me back into the penthouse by my hair, to beat me senseless. Every part of my body was on edge, tensed. I held my breath.
Ready for the attack.
I clutched the purse to me, my fingers turning numb at the ends from holding on so tightly.
Then the doors to the elevator opened and I stepped inside, exhaling as they closed.
My breath caught in my throat. You would think I would be used to this by now, the feeling of terror. It was always around me, my constant companion. It would never leave me.
It was a feeling I'd known for years, since the beginning. One that only grew stronger, day by day. I'd thought it was bad when I was at the finishing school in Bangkok, but I didn't know horror, not until I was sold to the old man.
~ ~ ~
Nine Years Ago
Las Vegas
I stood there, wearing the dress that had been chosen for me by my handlers. On the outside, I was the picture of elegance, wrapped in silk and jewels. But the jewels were fake, costume jewelry purchased by my handlers. And the dress hid the fading bruise on my back where I had been hit, an outburst by one of my instructors, who had been reprimanded for leaving the mark so close to when I’d be sold.