Eleonora paced the room. The carpet was worn, the pattern faded.
The door opened. Vivian entered, followed by two maids. She held a dress. It was pink, frilly, and hideous.
"Put this on," Vivian ordered. "Mr. Hightower is coming for dinner."
"I will not marry that toad," Eleonora said.
"Your father owes him fifty million. You are the collateral."
The maids moved forward. Eleonora fought them. She scratched one, but they pinned her down. They stripped her of her suit and forced her into the pink monstrosity.
They dragged her downstairs.
The dining room was dimly lit. At the head of the table sat Mr. Hightower. He was a man made of grease and gold rings. He looked at Eleonora like she was a steak.
"Miss Compton," he leered. "Worth every penny."
Richard poured wine, his hands shaking. "She's yours tonight, if you sign the check."
Eleonora felt vomit rise in her throat.
Hightower reached out. His hand, covered in coarse hair, moved toward her arm.
Eleonora grabbed the steak knife from the table.
She slammed it down.
The blade vibrated, stuck in the wood, one millimeter from Hightower's finger.
The room froze.
"Touch me," Eleonora whispered, her eyes wide and manic, "and I will remove your fingers."
Hightower jumped back, then laughed. A wet, hacking sound. "Spicy! I like it!"
"Eleonora!" Richard roared.
Julian burst into the room. He was waving a paper. "The doctor confirmed it! Tiffany miscarried! Because of the fall!"
It was a lie. A blatant, convenient lie.
"Oh my god!" Vivian wailed.
"I'm pressing charges," Julian said, staring at Eleonora. "Assault. Unless..."
"Unless she disappears," Hightower suggested. "Marry me, little girl. I'll make the lawsuit go away. I have... influence."
"Fine," Julian said. "Take her. Just get her out of New York."
Eleonora looked at the knife. She couldn't fight them all.
She dropped her shoulders. "Okay."
"Okay?" Hightower blinked.
"I'll do it. But I need to use the restroom. To... freshen up."
Hightower grinned. "Don't be long."
Eleonora walked into the hallway bathroom. She locked the door.
She didn't look in the mirror. She climbed onto the sink.
She dug her fingernails into the ventilation grate. It was painted shut, but the screws were old. She remembered the simple pearl earrings they hadn't bothered to take. Prying one off, she used the sharp metal post as a lever, jamming it into the screw's rusted groove. The pearl snapped off, but the metal bit into the slot. It was agonizingly slow, her fingers raw, but the screw turned.
She pulled the grate off. A blast of dusty air hit her face.
It was a crawlspace. She used to hide here when her parents fought.
She hoisted herself up. The pink dress tore. She didn't care. She crawled into the darkness, the dust filling her lungs, crawling toward the only exit she knew.
