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“Feisty little thing, aren’t you? I can see why Stephen likes you.”
Stephen. At the mention of his name my breath catches. Stephen must be worried sick. Defeat starts to creep into my body because I can’t conquer these men on my own. No one knows where I am. No one saw me leave the office through the back door with Byron. Panic settles in my body, and I start to shake. John grabs my arm again, digging his fingers in farther to the point I feel my arm may meet the same fate as my wrist and actually break under the pressure. He pulls me along, out the bedroom door and into the sitting area, where I stumble onto the sofa. The room is small, dark and furnished with old, mismatched chairs and a TV. I see Byron sitting in one of the armchairs, looking a little disheveled and tired. His hair is ruffled, and his shirt unbuttoned a little. The look would have appeared sexy only a few weeks ago to all of us women in the office, but now I find him repulsive.
“Good to see you are awake, Molly.” He smirks at me as his eyes wander over my body, taking in the blood on my hands and feet and my now floppy wrist.
“You’re a mess, let me help you freshen up.”
I can’t speak. I have no idea what he is talking about. Byron stands and walks over to me and picks me up, throwing me over his shoulder like Stephen did last night, but instead of feeling beautiful and wanted, I feel weak, like a sack of potatoes, as there is no love in Byron's actions. Walking a few steps down a short hall, we reach a decaying bathroom that has chipped tiles, a half-torn shower curtain, and rusty taps. There is a towel, along with hair and beauty products that all sit waiting on the vanity. On the back of the door is a dress and pair of shoes.
“Shower, dress, and cover your bruises with makeup. I want you to look untouched.” He unties the rope and then proceeds to walk to the corner of the tiny bathroom, and he sits on a small stool, leaning back against the wall, eyes firmly placed on me.
“Can I have some privacy?” I say to him meekly as I know that my time is up. I can’t fight them, not now that I am in so much physical pain. I can’t run, and I can’t open doors or windows easily with my wrist broken and my head thumping.
“No. In fact, I may decide to help you myself if you take too long.”
That comment is enough to push me into action as I look to the shower and turn on the taps. As the water warms up, I see my reflection in a small mirror above the vanity and my breath catches, the nausea rising into my throat again. I have a massive bruise that has turned pure black on my temple, blood streaks from my nose and a small cut on my lip. No wonder I feel battered. I am battered. With no recollection of how they came to be on my body, I step into the shower stall and take off my clothes behind the privacy of the moldy shower curtain.
I make quick work of my cleansing, the best I can with one hand. I grab the towel from the side of the shower, a ratty, dirty towel that is in complete contrast to the fluffy white one I used this morning, and dry off in the shower behind the curtain. Peeking out, I see Byron still there. He is now standing, with the dress in his hand. “Come here,” he says sternly, his voice husky and by the look of need in his eyes, I know he wants to see me. I wrap the towel around me, haphazardly because my wrist is in excruciating pain, so I just can’t use my hand, and step out from behind the shower curtain. Taking a small step toward him, I am revolted by the look of him. Shaking, I take a second small step, slowly and hesitantly, like a scared bird waiting for the enemy to attack.
“Drop the towel,” he commands.
My breath stills. I am feeling vulnerable here in front of him in just a towel, but it is the only source of protection I have, and I really don’t want to let it go.
“I don’t…”
He cuts me off. “Drop. The. Towel,” he growls out, his nostrils flaring, his jaw is tight, leaving no room for questions, so I do the only thing I can do. I drop the towel. I release my hand and the towel drops to the floor, my eyes following it. My entire body begins to shake as Byron brings his hand to my cheek and caresses it, just like a lover would.
“So sexy. I knew you would be.”
His hand starts to travel south, down my neck and over my shoulders. His fingers feeling every dip and curve, his palm flat wanting to touch me as much as he can. My lips are shut tight, and I am biting my tongue so hard, trying to hold in the scream that is daring to break free. His palm is now on my chest, and it moves to cup my breast, his fingers squeezing around it and pinching my nipple. The sharp pain is not pleasant at all. My eyes fill with water, but I don’t dare let a tear fall. I taste blood in my mouth, and I know I have bitten my tongue through the sheer force of my teeth which are clamped together, gritting and grinding.
“So goddamn fucking sexy, Molly.” Byron’s voice is solid, full of want and desire. My eyes remain downcast, but I can see a large bulge in his pants and the whole situation makes me want to vomit as I struggle to remain upright, my body is shaking so hard. His hand continues to travel down farther along my stomach before he cups my mound and I gasp in horror. I look up and his eyes are penetrating, his nostrils flaring, his breaths short and sharp. He is totally getting off on this while I am about three seconds away from screaming. Just as I start to raise my arm to push him away, there is a bang on the door and I use the interruption to jump away, putting distance between us.
“Hurry the fuck up!” John yells from outside.
Byron throws the dress at me. “Hurry up, you got five minutes to get this on and hide those fucking bruises on your face.” Then he grabs his penis from outside of his pants and adjusts himself quite visibly before turning and walking out of the bathroom, leaving the door wide open.
I quickly try to cover my body, struggling with one hand, I pull the dress over my head and shimmy it over my body. I look through the makeup on offer. None of it is the right shade for my skin tone, but with shaking hands, I put on concealer and foundation to cover the bruises as requested and put on some bright red lipstick in the hope it makes me look like a clown so they will leave me alone.
“Molly, get out here!” Byron barks from the other room as I step away from the mirror looking like a woman of the night and not at all like the simple girl I am. The difference is striking.
Walking toward the sitting room, I can see a camera set up on a tripod and a white sheet against the wall.
“You look perfectly fuckable, Molly,” Byron says, walking up to me and pushing my hair behind my ears with a smirk on his face. My body starts to tremble just being near him.
“What do you think, John? Are you keen to try her as well or can I keep her to myself?”
John looks from Byron to me and back again. “You know I like them younger, Byron.” Looking back at me, he continues, “A lot younger”. I throw up a little in my mouth at that statement because I know exactly how young he means.
Grabbing my arm, Byron pulls me across the room to where he is, then stands behind me and puts both his hands on my hips, gripping them tight. Leaning forward to my ear, he whispers, “I want you, Molly.” He grinds his hips forward so I can feel how hard he is through the dress. I feel sick. Dread fills my stomach and water rims my eyes. My wrist continues to throb in unbearable pain and my body is permanently shaking in distress.
John is playing with a laptop and looking like he is uploading images of women. This is all so surreal and frightening. I feel like I am in a nightmare, this can’t be reality? Have I gone crazy?
Byron notices I am watching John and grabs my hand, pulling me toward the bedroom.
“No!” I yell, pulling back, not wanting to go with him. His grip on my arm is hard, and I can feel my muscles squishing together with my bones as he cuts off the blood supply to my hand. Byron continues to pull, and I continue to resist, not wanting to go into that bedroom with him. I know if I do, it will be life altering in the worst possible way.
Frustrated and angry, he stops, and I think it is over as he turns to look at me. “You think you are too good for me, Molly, now that you have a billionaire like Stephen Sullivan?” Understanding washes over me as his fist flies out and connects with my cheek bone with a chilling crack. The pain is excruciating, but I don’t have time to react as my body is thrown backward by the punch and my head connects with the side table. My forehead slams into the wood before my body goes limp and my world goes black once again.
