Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
I’m so bored. Just like my last four months in captivity, I frequently check my pulse to make sure I’m still living.
Jesus. Maybe my therapist is right. Perhaps I do have Stockholm syndrome.
As I walk along a footpath that follows the coastline, I stop to admire a new building that’s been in construction since Grayson dropped me off at Hailey’s building with a bag full of borrowed clothes and his phone number scribbled across a napkin. We’ve talked a handful of times since he assisted in my release, but it is more in reference to Lera and Sofia’s ongoing care than me.
Sofia one hundred percent has Stockholm syndrome, but just like me, she denies it.
So immersed by the porthole-like windows in the foyer of the building, I don’t realize I’ve walked inside until a woman greets me with a big smile. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
“It’s gorgeous,” I agree, mesmerized by the aqua walls and pink-trimmed windows. It is so bright it should be hideous, but it makes me smile. “Is every apartment as colorful as the foyer?”
As she nods, her smile grows. “Would you like a tour?”
“Um…” I check the time. When I notice I still have thirty minutes before my bus arrives, I sheepishly bob my chin.
“This way.” She rattles off details of the apartments still available for sale while we ride the elevator to the top floor. “This is the only apartment not available. It was purchased off the plan before the build began.”
“The construction crew works fast. This was nothing but a pile of dirt when I…” I can’t say freed, so I mumble, “… came home.”
“College?”
Her question stumps me for a second. “Um… no. I was… traveling.”
“Lovely. I’ve been wanting to go to Italy for years.” She gestures for me to exit the elevator car first before she finalizes, “Even more so after seeing this apartment being decorated.”
“Aah…”
The realtor laughs when the decor leaves me speechless.
It isn’t in a good way.
The drapes are hideous, and not a single one matches.
“It’s an acquired taste that grows on you.” As she leads us into the kitchen, she rattles off a number of features. “All appliances are built-in, the flooring is heated, and the butler’s pantry has three dishwashers.” She displays how the tap mixer pulls out before she swivels to face the stovetop. “You also have a pot tap, which comes in handy for any little fire mishaps us working ladies have.” I appreciate she is adding me to her statement, but I haven’t worked a day in my life.
Well, that’s if you exclude fighting to stay alive.
“What’s that?” I ask, curious about the handle in the middle of the six gas burners.
“That is a…” Unsure, she yanks up the handle, then twists her red-painted lips. “A sandwich press?”
As the world spins around me, I take in all the odd features she pointed out—the hideous curtains, the bright blue carpet, the sandwich press in the middle of the stovetop that’s big enough to make grilled cheese sandwiches for two.
There’s just one thing missing from the features I told Ghost my forever home would have.
A pantry full of pickles.
Tears burn my eyes when my race into the butler’s pantry has me stumbling onto row after row after row of pickles.
“Where is he?” I ask the realtor when my race through the spacious apartment fails to find another presence except her. “The man who bought this apartment, where is he?”
“It wasn’t a man,” she replies, shocked by my sudden meltdown.
I’m acting like a lunatic and stupidly feeding off her fear. “Then who the fuck is it?”
“It was designed by a woman.” When she ruffles through her clipboard, hopeful she will lose my focus the instant she shifts it onto someone else, I’m anticipating for her to say my name, so you can picture my absolute devastation when she utters the one name I don’t want to hear, “Sofia. It was purchased and designed by a Sofia Bobrov.”
A ghost didn’t design this apartment for me.
His alive-and-still-breathing sister did, most likely in penance for listening in on exchanges she wasn’t meant to be a part of.
Kirill didn’t authenticate my purity the second time because he assumed the night Ghost rubbed his cum over and inside me that we were having sex.
No one knew how strong Ghost’s determination was to free Lera and me from his lifestyle.
Not even me.
EPILOGUE
KATIE
Six Months Later…
Air-conditioned air blasts my face when I step onto the tourist bus at Procida, Italy. It was just like Blaire’s photographs showed—bright, colorful, and full of life. I’ve spent the last several hours exploring, and my feet are aching. I can’t wait to get back to the cruise ship to soak them in a tub.
Hailey laughed when I said I was taking a six-month around-the-world cruise. She said it was a vacation for retirees before they die.