I slipped back into the Isles, making every effort to avoid drawing attention. My black eye throbbed, a reminder of the fight earlier, and I hoped Marge wouldn't notice. I moved as quietly as I could, but Marge, cigarette dangling from her lips, seemed to have a sixth sense for trouble.
Without looking up from her magazine, she asked in a low, steady voice, "Where are you rushing off to in such a hurry?"
I froze, my heart sinking.
Marge's gaze remained fixed on her reading, but her voice took on a sharper edge. "I heard about the scuffle. You know Oliver's not going to be thrilled when he finds out his money-maker is temporarily off the market. It's bad for business."
I shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of her words. "It wasn't planned," I said defensively. "I just—"
"Just?" Marge interrupted; her tone icy. "You're being reckless, as usual. You need to think about the decisions you're making. Clearly, you're not doing a great job of that."
Her disapproval stung, and I felt a pang of guilt. "I didn't mean for things to get out of hand," I said, struggling to find the right words.
She finally looked up from her magazine, her expression stern. "Maybe you should start considering the consequences of your actions. Oliver's patience isn't limitless, and neither is mine. Get your act together, or you might find yourself in deeper trouble than a black eye."
With that, she turned back to her magazine, leaving me standing there, feeling the weight of her words and the responsibility, I'd taken on. I knew she was right, but it didn't make it any easier to hear. As I made my way to my room, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was walking a tightrope, and one misstep could send me crashing down.
Back in my room, I caught my reflection in the mirror and winced. My black eye was a dark, angry purple. It looked worse up close, and I felt a surge of anxiety about how to deal with it.
I considered running to Raya to see if she had some concealer that could cover it up. I glanced at the clock and saw I still had a bit of time. Without a second thought, I dashed past Marge, who barely looked up from her magazine. "Be right back!" I called out.
Marge shook her head, muttering, "That girl is something," as I disappeared down the hall.
I burst into Raya's salon, nearly knocking the door off its hinges. Raya looked up, her eyes widening in surprise. "Hey! What's up?" she asked, her tone light but curious.
"No time to explain," I said, catching my breath. "I need some concealer—fast!"
Raya's eyes twinkled with understanding. "Oh, I see. Just give me a sec." She shuffled through her drawer, pulling out an assortment of makeup products. "No need for explanations. You're lucky you came to me—got the perfect shade match right here."
As Raya worked on finding the right concealer, she rambled on about her latest beauty finds and how they were supposed to work magic on stubborn blemishes. Her chatter was a welcome distraction, and I found myself relaxing a bit despite the situation.
"There we go," she said, finally finding the shade she wanted. "This should cover up that eye like it was never there."
I took a deep breath and let Raya work her magic. The concealer went on smoothly, and I couldn't help but feel a bit
of relief as the dark purple around my eye started to blend into my natural skin tone.
"There," Raya said, stepping back with a satisfied nod. "Good as new. Just don't make a habit of getting into fights, alright?"
I smiled, feeling a bit more confident as I looked in the mirror. "Thanks. I owe you one."
She waved me off with a grin. "Maybe try to avoid the black eyes altogether."
With the concealer doing its job, I approached Marge's desk with a newfound confidence. "Good as new, right?" I said, flashing a grin.
Marge took a slow drag from her cigarette, eyeing me with a mixture of skepticism and irritation. She exhaled a cloud of smoke before replying, "No makeup in the world could keep Oliver from finding out about that." Her gaze was sharp, clearly unimpressed by my attempt to cover up the black eye.
The weight of her words sank in. "I know," I said, trying to steady my voice. "I just thought I'd at least try to make it less obvious."
Marge sighed, shaking her head. "Just try to stay out of trouble, will you? Oliver's already got enough to worry about without you adding to his problems."
When I walked back to my room, I was startled to find Oliver sitting on my bed, his presence both commanding and unexpected. He stood up as I entered, his gaze intense and assessing. As he moved closer, I could feel the weight of his scrutiny. He leaned in, and I could smell his minty breath, chewing on his gum, mixed with the faint aroma of cigar smoke. He lifted my chin gently, his eyes scrutinizing the bruise on my face.
He licked his thumb and swiped away a streak of makeup from my eye. The motion stung, and I winced involuntarily. His gaze was unyielding as he said, "What am I going to do with you?" His tone was a strange blend of sternness and flirtation.
I opened my mouth to explain, but Oliver cut me off. "I know exactly what happened."
Oliver turned his back on me, and I felt a mix of fear and an unexpected spark of excitement. I couldn't help but notice how his pants fit snugly around his thighs and butt. The moment was tense, charged with an unspoken tension.
After what felt like an eternity, Oliver turned back around. His expression was more composed now, his voice steady. "I have a few errands I need you to run. The shift in his demeanor was palpable, and I felt a surge of excitement. I felt like I was being given a role of significance.
He added, "I can't have my top clients seeing you all bruised up. It's bad for business. While you were busy playing hero in the corridors, your clients had to be distributed to other girls. Not everyone's thrilled about it, considering its cutting into their breaks—and not just for today. You made a decision that's going to affect the entire rotation for the next few days."
My chest tightened with a mix of guilt and frustration. "It wasn't like I planned to get into a fight."
He raised an eyebrow, smirk creeping back onto his lips. "Of course not. But this place doesn't care about intentions. Actions matter. Decisions matter. You want to play hero? Fine. Just remember, every choice you make affects someone else down here. People are already starting to notice."
His eyes narrowed slightly, his tone softening but still carrying a warning. "You're not the only one working off a debt around here. Now, thanks to you, some of the girls are going to be doubling up on clients. Their schedules are already grueling enough."
His words stung, and for a moment, I felt the weight of the choices I'd made. I hadn't thought about how stepping in to help Farrah would ripple out and affect everyone else. I'd been so focused on proving myself, on protecting someone who seemed as lost in this place as I was, that I hadn't considered the cost.
He handed me several envelopes, each marked with a name scrawled across the front. As he detailed the locations where I needed to drop them off, I glanced at the envelopes in my hand. One of them was addressed to Aspen, which immediately caught my attention.
"Make sure these get to the right people," Oliver instructed, his tone leaving no room for error. "And he envelope for the door guard is top priority."
I nodded, trying to keep my expression neutral. However, a sinking feeling of dread settled in my stomach as I processed his instructions. The envelope for the door guard, especially with its top-priority label, felt like more than just a simple task. It felt like a setup—an elaborate test to see if I would try to make a run for it. The exit of the Vault was a significant checkpoint, and the notion of having to deliver something there made me wary.
Oliver's gaze was steady, his demeanor nonchalant, but I could sense the underlying tension. It wasn't just about delivering envelopes; it was about proving myself, staying in line, and avoiding suspicion. I could almost hear the unspoken message: don't mess this up.
I glanced at the stack of envelopes in front of me, each one a silent test of my reliability. If I lost any of them, or failed to deliver to the right hands, it wouldn't just be a mark against my name—it would push me further into debt with Oliver. The thought sent a chill through me. For every mistake, there would be a consequence, one I couldn't so easily escape from anymore.
I took a deep breath, giving him a confident nod as I slipped the envelopes into my bag. "Got it. I think I can manage simple tasks."
Oliver stepped close, his breath warm against my skin. "And just so you know, the guard won't let you past the door. Trying to escape would be a waste of time."
I mulled over his words. While I didn't want to be under someone else's control, being under Oliver's didn't seem so bad—at least for now. I looked up at him with a hint of snark and asked, "So, what's in it for me? What do I get out of running your errands?"
Oliver weighed his words. "You know, I'm debating whether to count these errands against your debt or not. See, by having you run around, I'm actually losing money. You make me far more profit working with clients, and now I've got to shift your clients to someone else. That's going to ruffle some feathers with the debtors in Class A. They're not going to be thrilled about picking up your load."
I couldn't help but chuckle at his pun about the "load." "Nice one," I said with a smirk.
Oliver's smirk widened as he leaned in, his lips almost brushing against mine. Just before they made contact, he pulled back slightly and said, "Now be a good girl and try not to get into any more trouble." His tone was playful yet firm, leaving me with a mix of anticipation and a hint of defiance.
He walked out of my room, leaving me with me with envelopes and my own thoughts.
His words clung to me like a second skin: "Now be a good girl…" His smirk, his voice—both playful and commanding—replayed in my head, stirring a dangerous blend of defiance and anticipation. I could still feel the ghost of his breath near my lips, the closeness of what almost happened but didn't. He had me right where he wanted, dangling on a string, waiting for me to make my move.
I took a deep breath and peeled open one of the envelopes, hands shaking more than I wanted to admit.
Money. Neatly folded bills stared back at me, more than I had ever seen in one place. My throat tightened, counting the stacks in my head. There had to be thousands—maybe tens of thousands. Enough to change my life. Enough to buy me freedom.
My fingers trembled as I reached for the second envelope. The seal cracked under the pressure of my nails, revealing several tickets, all different shapes and colors. I spread them out on the daybed. Train tickets, plane tickets, even a crumpled one for some obscure ferry line. Each one had a code scribbled on the back, like breadcrumbs leading to a way out.
My heart raced as I realized what I was looking at. This wasn't just money. These tickets represented a route out of Greyfield, out of the Vault.
I could leave. Right now. There had to be more than one route out of the Vault.
The thought hit me with the force of a train. I could take this money, grab one of these tickets, and disappear. No more Vault, no more late-night assignments, no more of Oliver's suffocating control. I could be free.
I stood up, pacing the small room, trying to clear the adrenaline flooding my system. But the weight of the money, the feel of the tickets between my fingers, kept pulling me back into the same spiral.
I sank back onto the bed, staring blankly at the tickets. The pull to Oliver was strong, magnetic, inescapable. No matter how far I let myself dream of running away, his face always appeared, cutting through my fantasies like a cold blade. The sharpness in his eyes, the way he looked at me like I was both his prize and his possession… it rooted me here in this world.
Fear and excitement mixed inside me, tying my thoughts in knots. If I left, would he care? Would he even notice? Or worse, would he come after me? Oliver wasn't the type to let go of something—someone—he considered his.
My chest tightened at the thought of defying him, imagining the repercussions, the cold fury that would follow if he found me gone, or even trying to leave.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the images, but his presence lingered like a shadow I couldn't shake. I wanted to hate him. To want nothing more than to be free of him. But deep down, I knew that wasn't the whole truth.
There was a part of me that needed him. Craved his approval. His attention. His control. And that terrified me as much as it exhilarated me. The idea of leaving him felt like tearing a piece of myself away, as if part of me was forever bound to him, no matter how hard I tried to sever the connection.
I sat there, torn between two impossible choices. Run, and risk everything, or stay, and remain trapped in this twisted game of his.
Minutes passed, each one more torturous than the last. My thoughts bounced between images of a life far away, a new name, a fresh start… and the suffocating allure of Oliver's world.
Finally, I stood up and stuffed the envelopes into my bag, the decision settling into place like a weight on my chest. I wasn't ready to leave. Not yet.
I would deliver the envelopes. I would play Oliver's game. But the idea of escape would stay with me, a constant hum in the back of my mind.
I set out, the envelopes tucked securely into my bag. The first few deliveries went by in a blur—small vendors, random shops. Each of them took the envelope with barely a glance in my direction. No words, no acknowledgment of my existence. I might as well have been invisible.
But even as I handed them over, my mind was somewhere else—focused on the larger envelopes still in my bag. I kept thinking about Oliver's words: The door guard's envelope is top priority. It was the largest, besides Aspen's. The idea of bribing the guard with Aspen's money crossed my mind more than once. If I gave him the money, maybe he'd let me slip away. I could use one of those tickets, get out of Greyfield for good.
But that would leave me with nothing. No money, no resources. Just a one-way ticket out and the clothes on my back.
I stopped on a corner, pretending to fix the strap on my bag, though really, I was just stalling. The option to leave was right there—so close I could almost taste it. But something was holding me back.
Oliver.
His face flashed in my mind again. It wasn't fear that gripped me; it was something far more complicated. My obsession with him was clouding every thought, every plan. If I finished these deliveries, maybe he'd see that I was more than just his errand girl. I might earn a place working for him, outside of the Isles. Freedom, of a different kind.
But there were no guarantees.
As I stood there, I reflected on my first two encounters in the Violet Room. They had been…pleasurable, more than I'd anticipated. But there was a gnawing fear in me now, a fear that the future ones might not be as memorable.
What if the next time wasn't as sweet? What if I couldn't handle it?
Farrah's warning about the door guard from the theater echoed in my head, making me uneasy. She said he was dangerous, and the thought of him paying me a visit to the Isles sent a chill down my spine. The idea of escaping suddenly seemed more appealing. Even thinking about it felt like a betrayal to Oliver, like I was already crossing a line I couldn't uncross.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my thoughts. Maybe I should call Farrah, ask her about possible routes out of the Vault. Just to keep my options open. But the fear of admitting my indecision kept me from reaching for my phone.
Instead, I tightened my grip on the strap of my bag and kept walking. For now, I'd keep delivering these envelopes. But the thought of running was there, lingering in the back of my mind, a constant hum beneath every step I took.
I hated the way he consumed my thoughts, how he lingered in every corner of my mind, even when I tried to push him out. I couldn't remember a single time in my life where I had felt that…obsession. The burning need to be near someone, even when I knew it was dangerous, even when I knew it was wrong.
The way my skin felt when he got too close, the way my heart raced when I caught him watching me—it was maddening.
I hate this, I thought bitterly, my jaw tightening as I turned down another hallway. I hate how much I desire him. It felt like a betrayal of myself, of the person I thought I was. I wasn't weak. I didn't let men get under my skin like this. I had never let anyone make me feel this way before.
I was addicted to the very man who kept me trapped, dangling freedom in front of me just out of reach. I hated him for it. And yet, I couldn't stop wanting him.
Something tightened in my chest. It was a strange, heavy mix of sadness and anger that I couldn't quite place. I felt so exposed here, like every layer of protection I had put up was being stripped away. My thoughts kept drifting back to my parents. I hadn't thought about them this much in years.
The anger I felt wasn't just about my situation here in the Vault; it was about facing emotions I had buried long ago. It was infuriating to feel this vulnerable, to be reminded of things I had pushed far to the back of my mind.
I envied Farrah, her ability to seem so detached, so unbothered. I wished I could be like her, to shut off my emotions and just get through this. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't escape the weight of my own feelings. The Vault was doing something to me, something I didn't fully understand.
A tear slipped down my cheek and I brushed it away angrily. I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the small, familiar shape of a nebula tablet from the gift basket Oliver had left me. It had been a symbol of something he wanted to offer—an escape, a solace, even if just temporary.
I hesitated, the tablet's promise of escape was both tempting and terrifying. The idea of taking it to drown out the depression that was sweeping over me was seductive. I thought of how it might numb the raw edge of my emotions, how it might offer a brief respite from the turmoil inside me.
In the streets, I would have never hesitated. Drugs were a quick escape, a way to dull the sharp edges of life and push away the pain. They were just part of the game, something to rely on when the world got too heavy. But now, here in the Vault, I felt hesitation I couldn't quite shake.
It wasn't just about getting high or escaping for a moment. It was about the risk of losing myself completely, of becoming something I had always fought to avoid. The idea of letting Nebula take over, of surrendering to its effects, filled me with a mix of fear and uncertainty.
I stood there, torn between the immediate comfort the tablet promised and the fear of what it might do to me.
As I held the Nebula tablet in my hand, my mind was suddenly flooded with memories of my parents. The sharp sting of those memories was like a fresh wound, reopening and raw. I remembered their descent into addiction, how the drugs had slowly consumed them, how their lives had unraveled before my eyes. Their overdose was a painful, tragic end to a story I'd tried so hard to forget.
The thought of them, lost to the very thing I now held in my hand, should have filled me with more hesitation. But instead, the memories pierced through me with such force that they pushed aside all my doubts. The fear, the warnings, the risks—they all seemed to fade in comparison to the pain I was feeling right now. The idea of escaping this mental torment, of finding any kind of relief, was overwhelming.
The moment the tablet touched my tongue, the sweetness was a jarring reminder of what I was about to do. It was almost comforting, as if the Nebula was trying to coax me into its embrace. I swallowed, the flavor lingering like a deceptive promise of relief.
the effects began to wash over me, I could feel the immediate rush of numbness start to take hold, a temporary sanctuary from the relentless anguish that had consumed me.
For now, the sweetness was my escape, a fleeting respite from the storm of emotions and memories. And as the Nebula began to dull the sharp edges of my thoughts, I allowed myself to sink into the hazy comfort it promised, hoping that this moment of peace would be enough to get me through.