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“Shoes.”

I step into them.

André lifts his head.

The gun lowers toward him.

“Get dressed.”

He pushes himself up on one elbow. “This feels unnecessary.”

“Now.”

He scrambles for his clothes.

A minute later, we are both being pushed toward the door.

André is still buttoning his shirt.

“The sex was good. This feels excessive.”

“Walk,” the man behind me says.

We take the stairs.

I listen for another guest, a television, a door opening. At the next landing, I slow beside the entrance to the corridor.

The gun presses harder.

I keep moving.

Downstairs, an empty service passage leads to an outside door.

Two cars are waiting.

One of the men shoves André toward the first.

“Wait—” he says, looking back at me.

The rear door closes on the rest.

The man behind me steers me toward the second car. Another man is waiting beside it. A driver is already behind the wheel.

I stop so abruptly that the man behind me runs into my back.

“No.”

He opens the rear door, puts a hand on the back of my neck, and forces my head down.

I catch the doorframe with both hands. Pain tears through my scraped palms.

He twists my arm behind my back and drives me forward until my shoulder gives before my grip does.

I let go.

He shoves me into the back seat and climbs in after me.

The man waiting beside the car gets in from the opposite side.