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Penelope
I chewat my fingernail and stare at the wall. Mick delivered my dinner earlier. Chicken cordon bleu, saffron rice, and lightly seasoned broccoli. If I can be lucky while imprisoned, at least I’m getting served the same meals made for Roman. Did he tell his personal chef to prepare double, or did he continue to have enough made for both of us as if I never moved out?
Does any of the staff know I’m down here? I haven’t heard people other than when Mick and some other guy deliver my food.
I’ve been locked up for two days. I don’t want to believe it but after the first hour when I accepted that I have no phone, no window, and no way to leave this room, it started to settle in. Then I laid out my blankets on the cot and endured the worst nights of sleep in my life. Not only didn’t I get to sleep in a bed, but I didn’t have a warm, hard body with me.
If Cannon was supposedly paid millions to kill me, then what am I worth alive to Roman? It has to be something or I wouldn’t be locked up.
Is Cannon locked up?
Is he…dead?
My stomach drops. He can’t be dead. But Mick and his guys don’t seem like people who would haul him quietly to the police station. Cannon doesn’t seem like the type to go willingly.
He can’t be dead. I feel like I’d know. And if he’s not, I’m not sure how I’ll feel. Relieved, yes. Upset? Irate? So damn curious. I can’t figure him out. He didn’t tell me pertinent information about Roman or my stalker.
I’ve given up trying to figure Cannon out. Roman is my first concern.
Is he biding his time? Am I worth more to Roman if I die a different way? It’s morbid and surreal, pondering how my death could benefit someone.
Ugh, I have no idea. The biggest conspiracy I’ve been around is when a girl I competed against was caught sleeping with one of the judges when they were both married to different people.
Roman’s business has nothing to do with me, though he’s in business with Father. But my death wouldn’t affect Father’s business. It might affect him, but he has enough people to keep the company running.
I nibble too much skin and a pinch of pain makes me clench my fist. I gave up trying to quit the habit while I’m imprisoned. The only other thing to do down here is dance, and I’m not putting on a show for my captors. I glare at the black dome attached to the ceiling. The one that wasn’t there before.
I start tapping my foot. Restless energy fills me. I was mentally and physically exhausted yesterday. I slept like crap, but I lay on the cot and stared at the ceiling. I didn’t cry as much as I thought I would. Yet, I was listless. Depressed.
Today I was angry and confused. Tonight I’m restless. I’m used to moving around during the day. I’m definitely not used to being imprisoned in the same room all day. The fury is still here. I’m not the frightened, naive girl Roman expected would get hauled back home like she’d been naughty.
So how am I going to get out of this?
My fingernail’s back in my mouth. I switch to tapping my teeth with the tip of my finger. I’m not giving Roman the satisfaction of one more tender cuticle.
I rise, stiff muscles protesting like I haven’t done a thing for months. Is it dark out yet? I walk past my plate. It’ll be gathered in the morning when breakfast rations are dropped off. I thought of trying to jump Mick, but he always yells through the door to stand back and stay back or he’ll secure me in place. I never leave my cot. And I gave him the finger behind his back once. It was on camera, so maybe that’s why he’s so rude.
I walk with my hand hovering over the mirrors as if they’ll tell me the weaknesses in the room. As if they’ll confirm that there’s a way out for a person with no tools and no brute strength.
When I get to the door, I run my fingers across the wood. I’m so fucking bored. I’m used to the energy of children. The constant chatter before, during, and after class. There’s an intercom on the wall next to the doorframe. Another new addition. If you need anything, just give me a buzz, but if you abuse it, I’ll rip the damn thing out of the wall.
I gnaw the inside of my cheek. A sliver of rebellion rises like a hot-air balloon. I press it.
A few moments later, Mick’s voice floats through. “What?”
I grasp for a request, wanting only to give him a little annoyance that can’t possibly be compared to what I’m going through. “Can I get more water?”
“Use the fucking faucet.”
Mick hasn’t been cruel, but he isn’t nice. He doesn’t like me. I’m just a job, and he’s getting sick of babysitting.
Was he paid four million dollars or is he pissy about being the discount option?
“It tastes funny,” I say. The water from the bathroom faucet is chlorinated as much as the pool in the backyard.
“Too bad.”
I stick my lower lip out in a pout. It’s better if he thinks I’m more like a petulant rich bitch than a real, thinking human. I don’t know how, but it might pay off in the future.
