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Changes to my routine are never good.
I don’t have to wait too long to find out what’s going on: as soon as I’m secured in my seat, the plane starts rolling down the runway. Once it levels off from its ascent, Anton steps out from the cockpit.
Fuck.
“Hi, Kate,” he says, straightening his tie as he sits down next to me. The sleeves of his black suit brush over my bare wrists. It pains me to admit the waft of his sporty cologne is the best thing I’ve smelled in weeks. “I was hoping we might talk,” he adds, unwinding the tape from around my mouth.
If this is about that hard question I asked Matthew Ryan…
Somehow, after everything I’ve been through, I still do stupid shit.
“Yes, sir,” I say when he’s pulled the cloth from my mouth.
Anton effects a hurt expression, tapping his chest.
“I thought you would say something snarky or defiant. Are you not feeling well?”
Fucking asshole. I haven’t given him attitude in months. The consequences aren’t worth it. He knows I’m done giving him reasons to make my life worse. If I mouth off, I’ll spend nights in my cell wearing a straight jacket instead of just chains. If I refuse to answer when spoken to, they’ll keep me awake for days with random blasts of noise. If I don’t comply with an order immediately, they’ll spike my food with microdoses of poison and hallucinogens and leave me to suffer for the night.
Anton knows I perpetually feel like shit, because he’s engineered my life to deprive it of even a single moment of happiness or relief.
“I feel the same as always, sir,” I say. The words I’m fine can never come out of my mouth, or he’ll do something to make me not fine.
“That was an interesting show today. Did you know about the attack before you went on the air?”
Is this a trick question? He’s aware that no one tells me anything. That’s by design. If I talk to my producers before a show, it’s because they’ve permitted it. I never speak to the audience personally. How would I know about the attack?
“No, sir.”
“Before the show, did you speak to anyone?”
“No, sir. No one.”
Anton nods, studying me. He’s questioned me enough times, he can tell I’m not lying.
“And your handlers said nothing?”
“No, sir.”
This is ridiculous. What the hell is the point of this? No one speaks to me, and I don’t speak to anyone without Anton’s people knowing. I’m under constant surveillance. I’ve been completely controlled by him ever since… since he killed Ingram. Not once have I attempted to escape or beg someone for help. I may have mouthed off a few times when my frustration overwhelmed my caution, but the price of a failed escape attempt is too high. I won’t risk Brendan and John’s lives.
“Good,” he says, sitting back and getting out his tablet. Before he turns it on, he takes off his tie and wraps it around my forehead, blinding me.
He spends the rest of the flight sitting next to me, quietly scrolling his screen. I can hear the tap of his finger over the subtle hum of the engines. He doesn’t ask me any more questions. I shiver in the cabin’s cool air; normally I’d curl up in my cell, but with my wrists locked in place all I can do is endure the cold.
Once we land, Anton’s guards release me from the chair but immediately handcuff me. Anton takes his tie back, fastens a collar around my neck and attaches a leash. Normally the guards would lead me to the harem, but tonight Anton takes it upon himself.
The courtesans pay me little attention, either not caring that I’m here or afraid of getting in trouble if they speak to me. I don’t blame them. Whenever Anton’s men bring me to the Enclave, I spend a night at the harem bound to an upright, wooden frame. They ball-gag me and blindfold me. I’m completely exposed and on display. No one is allowed to touch me, but it’s still humiliating.
There was a time when I might have gotten off on a predicament like this; inside, some part of me still feels a surge of excitement whenever I’m restrained. I can’t help if it reminds me of Ingram. And when they punish me with some cruel torment… part of me finds succor in the pain. I can never fully shake the belief that I deserve to suffer.
Although it’s a relief when Anton leaves me, I still wonder what happened on the plane. Why all the questions? Was he testing me, or messing with me? I’ve been subjected to enough of his games to have a good sense of when he’s playing one. It felt like he was serious.
I tune out the comings and goings of the masters and courtesans as the night progresses. Having Anton’s finger on the switch that could kill him at any time hasn’t kept all of the men away; several show up to have their way with the women. If they’re merely pretending to abide by Anton’s rule, they’re putting on a good performance. What does it really matter who is in charge as long as they’re rich and can fuck to their hearts’ content? It’s not very likely they’d take a stand on principle.
As the night wears on and the men turn in, the courtesans pass out on the sofas or in their masters’ rooms. I lose myself thinking about dead arms dealers and Anton’s surprise visit. Is there some kind of connection? Why would Anton ask me about it? Did my show’s producer, Stephanie, overstep her authority in having me cover the attack? I suppose that’s possible. Though, it doesn’t explain what Anton was doing in New York. Why not question me when I arrived at the Enclave? He could have had business dealings in the city, I guess. Still, he seemed inordinately concerned about my coverage of the attack.
Late in the night, a hand pulls back my blindfold.
