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GENEVIEVE
They leave me in the room for hours. I can hear their hushed voices through the floorboards of the old house, but I can’t make out the words. The sun slowly sinks below the horizon, and I watch it fall as darkness takes hold. It’s a reminder of what I feel inside. Everything has been leading to this moment. I’m a fighter, but where’s the fight gone? Why do I feel so desperate for these men’s attention? I should be trying to escape, trying to break the window, but I don’t, for fear of upsetting them.
When did I start to care more about their feelings than my freedom?
When did everything become so twisted? When did I become the woman who puts a man’s feelings above her own comfort and happiness?
I don’t sleep. Insomnia is an old friend that appears when I’m stressed or anxious. I don’t think I’ve ever been this riddled with anxiety and fear before, so it makes sense that my eyelids never droop. Part of me fears they’ll take care of it while I’m sleeping. Part of me thinks if I close my eyes, they’ll sneak in here and slit my throat while I’m asleep.
A larger part of me almost feels like I deserve it.
I know what I did wasn’t wrong. I’m a prisoner, and lusting after my captors doesn’t change that. Of course I’d call out to try and escape, but I hadn’t revealed them. I didn’t say names or call the police. I didn’t even tell Chaz who they are. I don’t regret that decision, even as I’m faced with the possibility of death. I’m not afraid of death. I came to terms with that phantom long ago.
But I had hoped I could survive a little longer.
As the sun rises over the horizon again and I realise exactly how much time I’ve spent staring out of a dark window, contemplating my life and the decisions that have led me here, there’s a jingle at the door that jerks me from my thoughts. The lock turns and clicks before the old, wooden panel opens with a creak. By the time the door slowly opens, there’s no one standing there. I can hear whoever opened the door stomping down the stairs. By the sound of the footsteps, I have to guess it’s Gage. Still, despite the open door, I sit on the bed for several long minutes, staring at freedom.
Archer told me to stay in my room. This could be a test. They could be waiting right outside to kill me the moment I move. But I refuse to cower in indecision and fear.
Determined, I straighten my shoulders and remain seated. I stare at the open doorway, daring anyone to test my loyalty. If this is a test, I’m going to pass it. If my death awaits me at the bottom, I won’t say hello.
There are footsteps on the stairs again, but they stop halfway up. It’s Archer. He’s always lighter on his feet.
“You can leave the room, Genevieve,” he calls, his voice like silk against my skin, beckoning me to trust him. Archer is a thief of all things—money, jewels, hearts, and now, it seems, my strength.
I hesitate. He’s giving me a direct order that contradicts his previous one. Surely that means the earlier command to stay in my room no longer applies.
When did I become this creature who listens to a man? That thought hits me hard. I’m a strong, successful, independent woman, and here I am, taking orders from a man like I’m a dog. But this isn’t about that. This isn’t the time for feminist notions. If I don’t prove my loyalty to these men, they have no use for me. It’s either play the part or die. I have no doubt those are the only options available. There’s still a chance they’ll take the money I offer, but I know too much, and after betraying their trust before, how could they trust that I wouldn’t tell anyone about them?
No, this is about proving myself. This isn’t about following orders or lowering myself to a dog. This is about survival.
Standing on shaky legs—I’ve been sitting on them far too long—I silently move over the floorboards, purposely stepping on those I know squeak. My feet are covered in dust from walking barefoot on the floor, but I can’t seem to care. As I walk past the old mirror, I catch my distorted image in it. Dark circles ring my eyes, which are puffy from tears. My hair is a mess, but I don’t try to smooth it down. I’m still wearing the same shirt they gave me. They haven’t given me anything new. I look like a true prisoner now, and because I haven’t been able to eat much the past few days, the angles of my face seem sharper.
I’d give anything for the chance to at least clean my face before I go downstairs, but I don’t want to make them wait. If they get angry, I could die. Although they have never raised a hand towards me or physically hurt me, old habits die hard. In the days before I became Genevieve Dalton, I was only Birdie, a young woman who flinched at any raised hand and stole to survive.
I was a kid who endured more than she has ever spoken out loud, as if giving those memories a voice would make them real.
No, those memories will go to the grave with me.
The only thing I have time to do is finger comb my hair, attempting to tame the blonde locks into some semblance of order before I leave the room entirely and stare at the staircase. Archer isn’t waiting for me there. In the time it took for me to lament my appearance, he’d clearly gone back down. I can’t see any of them, and that makes me nervous. Am I descending these stairs to the firing squad?
Carefully, I lay my fingers against the panelled wall and use it to guide myself down. I’m a little light-headed from lack of food, but I would have taken my time down the stairs anyways. There’s no use rushing, especially if these are my final moments.
I’m not that eager to die.
The balls of my feet touch each step slowly, making small sounds as I place my full weight on it. With each step, flashes of my life fill my head of the things I’ve done, and the things I could have done. I’m shaking, trembling, and uncertain at what I’ll see when I get to the bottom.
I don’t look up from the stairs until I’m on the final step, and then I blink…and stare at the four men doing perfectly normal things in the house.
I pause, feeling confused as I watch Archer slide his hand over his tablet, his fingers rapidly moving information around like he’s a magician. He’s completely relaxed, his face devoid of emotion.
Booker is sitting on the opposite side with another old newspaper in his hands. He’s reading it, but he doesn’t turn the page. He looks tenser than normal, his shoulders bunched up. Before, I’d tease him about it and maybe offer to give him a massage, but today, I look away from him.
Gage is leaning against the windowsill, his eyes narrowed on me, the only one of the four who dares to look at me. All that animosity sits there in his eyes, a gift for me that I don’t particularly want. We were never on smooth footing before, but now I know Gage wouldn’t hesitate to stab a knife through my gut. I hurt one of his own. I did that despite them all starting to trust me.
My eyes seek out Eric before I’m prepared. He’s standing in the kitchen, his gaze on the counter. There’s a partially eaten apple in his hands, as if he stopped at the sound of my movement and never continued. His hair is just as unkempt as mine, and though I can’t see his face, I know the hurt that’s written there.
That sends a pulse of agony through me before I lock it down and focus on surviving once more. They have done what no other has been able to—they have stripped me of my name again. I’m not Genevieve here, the rich bitch they think I am.
