The sliver of light that cut through the heavy velvet curtains was an assault. It hit Elenora's eyes like a physical blow.

The door opened.

A maid walked in, carrying a basket of towels. She saw Elenora crumpled on the floor and gasped. She dropped the basket and rushed forward.

"Miss!"

"Don't touch her."

The command came from the hallway. Fitzgerald walked in. He was wearing running clothes-grey sweatpants and a tight black shirt that clung to his chest. He was sweating. He radiated heat and vitality.

The maid froze, backing away with her head down.

Fitzgerald walked over to Elenora. He didn't bend down. He nudged her shoulder with his running shoe.

"Get up," he said. "Don't play dead."

Elenora peeled her eyes open. The room spun. Her tongue felt like sandpaper.

"Water," she croaked.

Fitzgerald stared at her flushed face. He saw the sweat beading on her forehead. He turned to the side table and picked up a glass carafe of water. He poured a glass. The ice clinked against the crystal.

Elenora reached out a shaking hand.

Fitzgerald tipped the glass.

He poured the water onto the carpet, inches from her fingers.

"You want water?" he asked. "Go to the bathroom."

Elenora watched the water soak into the fibers. Tears welled in her eyes, hot and stinging. She didn't have the energy to curse him.

She gritted her teeth. She pushed herself up. Her arms trembled violently. She dragged herself to her feet, swaying like a sapling in a gale.

She took a step. Then another.

As she passed Fitzgerald, her knees buckled.

She fell forward.

Fitzgerald's hands shot out. It was instinct. He caught her by the arms before she hit the floor.

Her body slammed against his. Through his thin shirt, he felt her heat. She was burning up. Like a furnace.

For a second, his grip tightened. His thumb brushed the inside of her arm. His eyes widened, a flash of something like panic crossing his face.

Then he shoved her.

He pushed her away as if she were contagious.

Elenora stumbled back and hit the doorframe of the bathroom. Her forehead cracked against the wood. A trickle of blood ran down into her eyebrow.

"Are you trying to infect me?" he snapped, wiping his hands on his pants.

Elenora touched her head. Her fingers came away red. The pain sharpened her mind, cutting through the fever fog.

"If you want me dead, just do it," she whispered. "Why torture me?"

Fitzgerald stepped into her space. He grabbed her face, his fingers digging into the cut on her forehead.

"Death is an escape," he hissed. "You are my property, Elenora. You don't get to die until I say so."

He turned to the wall panel and punched a button.

"Send the doctor up," he barked.

He looked back at her.

"Give her a shot. A vitamin cocktail. Something with a stimulant. I don't care what it takes. Just keep her breathing."

He walked to the armchair in the corner and sat down, pulling a tablet onto his lap.

"Tonight," he said, not looking at her, "you have a performance. An old friend is coming."

Elenora slid down the doorframe to the floor. The doctor arrived minutes later. The needle stung her arm. The drugs flooded her system, making her heart race, forcing her body to function when it wanted to shut down.

Fitzgerald sat there, reading stocks, ignoring her ragged breathing.

The dress was black. It was cut so low in the front it barely covered her, and the back was non-existent. It was a second skin of silk and shame.

Elenora stood in front of the mirror. The makeup artist Fitzgerald had hired had covered the bruise on her cheek and the cut on her forehead. She looked beautiful. She looked like a doll.

She stepped into the hallway.

The usual guard wasn't there. It was a new kid. Silas. He couldn't be more than twenty. He had acne scars on his chin and nervous eyes.

When he saw Elenora, he blushed. He looked at the floor.

"Follow me, Miss," he mumbled.

Elenora walked slowly. The drugs the doctor had given her made the world feel sharp and jittery.

"Please," she whispered.

Silas stiffened.

"This dress... it's too tight. I feel faint."

She leaned against the wall, putting a hand to her forehead. It wasn't entirely an act.

Silas reached out to steady her. "Miss? Are you okay?"

His touch was gentle. It was the first gentle thing she had felt in days.

"Please," she said, grabbing his wrist. "I just need a phone. One minute. My father... he's dying."

Silas looked at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. He looked at her tear-filled eyes.

"I can't," he whispered. "The Boss..."

"He's going to kill my father," Elenora sobbed. "Please."

Silas wavered. He was young. He saw a damsel in distress, not a prisoner.

He pulled her behind a large marble pillar, a blind spot.

"Thirty seconds," he hissed, pressing a burner phone into her hand.

Elenora's fingers flew across the keypad. She dialed Jered, the family lawyer.

Pick up, pick up, pick up...

"Hello? Jered's voice. "Elenora? My God, the police have a file open-"

"Jered, I'm... he has me. You have to find-"

The phone was ripped from her hand.

Elenora spun around.

Fitzgerald was there. He wasn't looking at the phone. He was looking at Silas.

Silas dropped to his knees. His face went gray. "Boss, I-"

Fitzgerald crushed the phone in his hand. Plastic cracked. Glass shattered. He dropped the debris on the floor.

He grabbed Elenora by the back of her neck. His fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her head back. He pushed her face against the cold stone of the pillar.

"I told you," he whispered into her ear. "No secrets."

He looked at Silas.

"Take him downstairs."

Two massive guards appeared from the shadows. They grabbed Silas. The boy started screaming.

"No!" Elenora yelled, struggling against Fitzgerald's grip. "It was me! I forced him!"

Fitzgerald laughed. It was a dark, ugly sound.

"Defending your new boyfriend already?"

Jealousy, hot and irrational, poured off him. She had begged him. A nobody guard.

Fitzgerald watched Silas get dragged away. He turned Elenora's face so she had to watch too.

"The dinner is cancelled," he said. "We have a lesson to learn."

The basement smelled of rust and damp earth. A single bulb swung from the ceiling, casting long, shifting shadows.

Silas was tied to a wooden chair. His face was a mess of blood. His right hand was taped flat against a heavy wooden table.

Elenora was shoved into the room. She stumbled.

Fitzgerald stood behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist. It felt like an embrace. It felt like a trap.

"Betrayal is expensive, Elenora," he murmured against her hair.

He reached out and picked up a heavy industrial hammer from the table. He pressed the handle into her hand.

"No," she whimpered, trying to drop it.

Fitzgerald's hand closed over hers, locking her fingers around the wood.

"You do it," he said. "Or I put a bullet in his brain."

He pulled a gun from his waistband with his free hand. He leveled it at Silas's forehead. He pulled back the hammer of the gun. Click.

Silas sobbed. "Miss... please... my hand... just the hand..."

Elenora couldn't breathe. The room was spinning.

"Choose," Fitzgerald whispered. "A broken hand? Or a dead boy?"

"I can't!" she screamed.

Fitzgerald pressed the barrel of the gun to Silas's skin. "Three... two..."

"I'll do it!"

Elenora squeezed her eyes shut. She raised the hammer. Fitzgerald's hand guided hers, adding his strength to the swing.

She brought it down.

The sound was wet and crunchy. Metal hitting bone.

Silas screamed. It was a high, thin sound that broke into a gargle as he passed out.

Elenora dropped the hammer. She turned to the side and vomited onto the concrete floor.

Fitzgerald didn't even look at the boy. He stared at Elenora. She was broken. She was guilty now. She was his.

He holstered the gun. He scooped her up into his arms. She was limp, shaking uncontrollably.

"See?" he whispered as he carried her up the stairs. "You're a monster too."

He didn't take her to the guest room. He kicked open the double doors of the Master Suite.

He threw her onto the massive bed. The black silk sheets were cool.

Elenora stared at the ceiling. There was a splatter of Silas's blood on the hem of her dress.

Fitzgerald loosened his tie. He pulled it off and dropped it on the floor. His eyes were burning with a mix of adrenaline and lust.

"Now," he said, unbuttoning his shirt. "Let's discuss your escape attempt."