Page 46 of Vega

I put my phone in my pocket, then picked up the container of what I knew, was Sonnet’s favorite order from Cava, and headed to her room.

When I opened the bedroom door, she sat on the bed with her hair wild around her face and her eyes red from crying or rage.

Her voice was rough when she spoke. “I told you I’m not eating shit.”

I stepped inside anyway and set the food on the bed near her. “Eat.”

She looked down at the bowl. For one second, I thought greed might win.

Then she grabbed it and hurled it at me. The bowl hit my chest and exploded open. Saffron rice, grilled chicken, pickled onions, cucumbers, tomatoes, romaine, hummus, tzatziki, and garlic dressing splattered across my shirt but most of it hit the floor in a wet, colorful mess.

A chunk of chicken slid down my chest.

Sonnet’s breathing came hard, but she looked satisfied. I glanced down at the food covering me, then back at her. Then I picked up the empty bowl from where it had landed near my foot.

“When you get hungry enough, eat off the floor.” I walked out before I forgot that I wasn’t supposed to touch her the way I wanted to.

Behind me, she screamed something I couldn’t make out with her ruined voice.

I shut the door and locked it.

Then I stood in the hallway with my mind still stuck on the fact that even furious and my biggest headache, Sonnet Ellison was the most fascinating woman I had ever met.

SONNET ELLISON

The room scared me more than an empty basement would have. This room had been prepared for me. The dresser held clothes in my exact size. The bathroom cabinet contained the toothpaste I preferred and the sensitive-skin products I bought because everything else irritated my face. The snacks were things I had purchased within the last week. The books stacked on the nightstand were the ones on my To Be Read list.

He had studied me.

I knew there was a camera somewhere in that room. I had spent the first hour searching for it but had no luck. I had spent the next hour trying to escape. But the bars on the window prevented me from trying to open it.

The masked man had taken my phone and Apple Watch, and the room contained no clock. So, I had no idea of time. But I had watched the sun rise and set three times from behind the covered window. That was the only way I knew days had passed.

The masked man came with every meal, bottles of water, and sometimes juice and my favorite tea. Refusal to eat left me too weak to fight anymore.

The morning after I threw the Cava at him, he came back with breakfast and cleaned the dried rice, chicken, cucumbers, tomatoes, hummus, and sauce from the floor while I sat on the bed and refused to eat breakfast too.

He didn’t argue that time. He only cleaned, replaced the water bottle on the nightstand, and left another tray I ignored until the food went cold.

Hunger had started making me light-headed, but fear and pride was stronger than hunger. Eating felt too much like accepting the situation, and I refused to make captivity easier for the man responsible for it. So, I also refused to shower. In result, I was starting to stink.

I could feel myself slipping, like my mind was going back to a dark place I had spent years climbing out of. The room, the locked door, the waiting, the feeling that somebody else controlled whether I ate, moved, slept, or saw another human being, all of it dragged me backward. Suddenly, I was that little girl again, trapped in a home where adults controlled the doors and my feelings didn’t matter.

I worried about Dior. He had to be losing his mind. By now, I figured he had called and texted me too many times. Maybe he had gone to my apartment or my job. Thinking about him hurt worse than the hunger. He was the only family that had ever chosen me.

The door opened, and I lifted my head. The masked man stepped inside carrying another tray. Lunch, I guessed, which meant it had to be somewhere around noon. Time had become something I measured by food I refused to eat.

His gaze moved to the stack of books on the nightstand, as if he was disappointed that I still hadn’t touched them.

Then his gaze came to me.

I spoke before he could. My voice came out weak and rough. “I need to talk to my best friend. I need to talk to Dior.”

He stopped near the bed.

“Please,” I added, hating the desperation in my tone.

The masked man set the tray on the nightstand. “I already went to see Dior.”