7

Camila

The urge to resist surges through me, my body coiled like a spring, yearning to erupt with every uncertain step I take. Don’t fight yet. I need to orient myself before I make a move. I know I’m outnumbered. Patience is my only ally.

"Inside," one of the men grunts, pushing his hand against my back. A forceful shove sends me stumbling forward. I regain my balance and spin around to confront them—there's a click. I freeze, imagining the barrel of a gun aimed at my chest. They’re going to shoot me. I’m dead. Oh shit.

My breath rushes out in a frantic stream, my ears straining to catch any hint of what Asher’s men might be planning.

Silence greets me.

That wasn’t a gun cocking. It was the door closing!

Ripping off the blindfold, I find myself alone in a bedroom. Despite its size, it doesn’t feel empty. The shelves lining the walls are meticulously adorned with bowls of dried flowers and small candles in shades of red, complementing the sunflower-yellow carpet. A single window with heavy, dark blue curtains draws my attention. I rush to it, pulling the fabric aside. My fingers find the frame, inching the glass upward. It’s unlocked, unnecessary to be otherwise.

A fall from this height would break bones.

I stick my head out, surveying the floodlit expanse of lush grass below. It resembles a prison yard. The black Escalade remains parked, but the other vehicles are gone. Squinting at the closed gates, I spot the faint outlines of two figures just beyond them, barely moving.

Curling my nails into the windowsill, I take one more deep breath of the crisp night air before closing the window. Escape this way is not an option. It’s time to search the room for alternatives.

The queen-sized bed with its four posts reaching the ceiling, draped in a canopy like the hem of an elegant gown, catches my eye. The burgundy blanket and matching pillows scream luxury. It’s the kind of place I’d fantasize about lounging in. But right now, I hurry to the shelves, desperately seeking anything sharp.

There must be something I can use as a weapon here! Yet every drawer I open reveals only spare blankets, satin sheets, and even a stack of plush robes and slippers. There’s nothing I can use to defend myself. My gaze falls on the discarded blindfold. The thought of using it as a makeshift garrote seems absurd. I’d never manage it, especially against someone like Asher. He’s so tall, I doubt I could reach his throat even if I caught him off guard. How am I going to protect myself from Asher or his men when they return?

But one thing is certain: I refuse to remain here, waiting for the worst to happen.

I tread softly on the thick carpet as I approach the door, careful not to make a sound. With a hesitant touch, I turn the brass knob. To my surprise, the door swings open with a soft click. Paranoia whispers that this might be another trap as I cautiously lean forward to peer into the hallway. Stretching in both directions is a long, well-lit corridor. A red and gold runner lines the floor, while polished walnut wood walls are adorned with elaborate artwork.

My gaze lingers briefly on the empty sockets of a stone angel gracefully perched on a pedestal. Other pieces exude a romantic charm. I would never have guessed this mansion belonged to a man as cruel as Asher.

My heart begins to drum. The idiots forgot to lock me in! If I move fast and avoid being seen, I can slip out of here before Asher returns. Thinking about him makes my heart fold itself into origami. By all means, the man should disgust me. I’ve never met someone so cocky, so damn full of themselves. But the thought of him suddenly conjures up the memory of his body on me, warm and insistent as he sandwiched me against the car while he whispered in my ear—voice dripping with sinful wickedness and promises of endless carnal desires.

Don’t go getting Stockholm syndrome already. Steeling my nerves, I creep to the left. I vaguely remember being turned around a corner after coming up a stairwell, right before being pushed into the bedroom. The blindfold took my orientation away, but my gut gives me a good feeling that this is the way I have to go.

But the longer I walk—calves cramping from tiptoeing—the more I think I made a mistake. Door after door reveals nothing but closets, empty bedrooms, or a smattering of offices. Growing more panicked, I start walking quicker. Where do I go? Where’s the way out? Fifteen doors, still nothing. Asher’s mansion is a labyrinth.

I also have a suspicion I’m being watched. Each time I glance around, I see nobody, yet the hair on my scalp tingles. It’s strange … If there are people spying on me as I wander, why aren’t they stopping me? Asher went through the trouble of blindfolding me, shoving me in a room, but he didn’t bother tying my hands or feet.

Does he want me to explore his home? Not understanding his motivation leaves me exasperated. I don’t have time to make sense of it. If this is a trap, fine. It’s better than sitting quietly in that damn room while waiting for the guillotine to fall.

Door number sixteen comes within my reach. It has a clean brass knob, the pale wood indistinguishable from all the rest. Whoever designed this mansion had a cohesive vision. I’ve only been on this one floor; I haven’t found the stairs yet. It’s possible the other floors look different … I don’t want to find out.

Escaping is my singular focus.

I peer inside, confirm it’s not a way out of the house, then begin to rush off to find door seventeen. Just before I leave, something catches my eye. I do a double take. No way. Ice swims inside my veins as I move into the room. In front of me, propped up on the wall, is a large poster board. Taped to it are various pictures.

Photographs of me.

Covering my mouth in horror, I scan the photos one by one. I was wrong; not all of them are of me. Some are of my mother, a few are of the dance studio itself. That’s when I notice the horrific fact that unifies all of them. These photos ... They were all taken after my father’s funeral! I know because I had my mother braid my hair that day. She placed one of the white roses from Dad’s wreath in my hair.

Afterward, too grief-stricken to even shower, I left my hair braided for days. The flower wilted, but I kept it in place. One morning I woke in a panic to find it gone.

I tore apart my bed. My bathroom. Even my car. That was when Mom found me. Taking my hands, she pulled me close, ignoring—or so I thought—my rattling sobs. When she curled my hands around something solid, I saw she was crying too.

She pressed a small brooch—the rose cast in resin—into my palm. That brooch is in the photos, pinned to my collar. Lifting my fingers, I touch my neck, feeling for the ghost of the small hard object. I stopped wearing it daily a few months ago. I wish I hadn’t.

“What is all this?” I whisper. Shaking my head in horror, I look for more clues. Someone had to take these pictures. Was it Asher? Or someone else? How long have I been being followed? Clutching the hem of my dress, I fight back a violent tremor. Being stalked isn’t new to me.

But this … This is like something from a horror movie come to life.

One of the photos of Mom catches my eye. She’s standing outside the studio, cigarette between her fingers. What if it’s not me who’s being watched? Could this have something to do with her? If I had a match, I’d set this strange altar on fire. The second-best option is to leave.

Rubbing my arms nervously, I begin to back away, only for my shoulders to thump against something solid. It yields slightly, the way a wall can’t. Yelping in surprise, I turn just in time to see who’s behind me.

Thick shoulders allow him to effortlessly block my only path of escape. His presence commands obedience. Like any good prey, I freeze under the twin voids of his eyes, the blackness sucking me in.

Holding me down.

Asher has found me.