Hours bled away in the suffocating darkness.
Suddenly, the deadbolt on the storage room door snapped open with a loud click.
Two heavy-set maids marched into the room, their hands gripping thick strips of cloth.
Elsie scrambled backward, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her hand brushed against an old, ceramic vase on a dusty shelf. She grabbed it and hurled it at the closest maid.
The vase shattered against the floor, missing the woman by inches.
The second maid lunged. She tackled Elsie to the ground, shoving a foul-tasting rag into Elsie's mouth and tying it tight behind her head.
They dragged Elsie by her ankles out of the storage room and threw her onto the carpet of the sprawling guest bedroom next door.
Aisha walked in. In her hands, she held a piece of black lace lingerie so sheer it was practically transparent. Her eyes gleamed with a sick, twisted excitement.
"Strip her," Aisha commanded.
Elsie fought like a wild animal. She kicked, she twisted, she let out muffled screams through the gag, but the two maids pinned her down with their heavy knees.
They violently ripped the black cashmere coat from her body. The buttons popped off, scattering across the hardwood floor like teeth.
Tears of absolute humiliation spilled from Elsie's eyes, burning the fresh scratches on her cheek. She bit down on the gag so hard her jaw ached.
The maids forced her arms through the straps of the degrading lace dress, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. They hauled her up and shoved her roughly into the chair in front of the vanity mirror.
Aisha grabbed Elsie's chin, forcing her to look at her reflection.
Aisha picked up a tube of bright red lipstick and smeared it messily across Elsie's lips. "Look at you," Aisha mocked. "Cheaper than a club stripper."
Elsie stared at her exposed, trembling body in the mirror. Her stomach violently cramped. The trauma from the video, the feeling of being exposed and violated, slammed into her system. Her entire body began to shake with severe PTSD tremors.
Aisha clapped her hands together, looking pleased. "If you don't make Mr. Mortimer happy tonight, Elsie, I will personally flush your parents' ashes down the toilet."
Aisha turned and walked out, the maids following close behind. The bedroom door slammed and locked.
Elsie pulled the gag from her mouth, letting out a broken, animalistic sob.
She forced her shaking legs to stand. She stumbled toward the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, desperate for any way out.
She looked down. It was a two-story drop, at least twenty-five feet. Directly below was a walkway paved with jagged cobblestones. Jumping meant broken legs, or worse.
Just as despair threatened to drown her, the heavy iron gates of the estate slowly swung open.
A convoy of three massive, black armored SUVs rolled aggressively into the courtyard.
The door of the middle SUV opened. A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out. He wore a perfectly tailored dark suit, his presence radiating an icy, terrifying authority. Beside him, Lee Weston lowered his phone and spoke in a tight, professional murmur. "Sir, just as you anticipated, we've tracked Mortimer Graves's signal to the vicinity of this estate. The evidence of their transaction is fully secured, and the FBI is standing by for your signal."
Elsie pressed her hands against the glass. She recognized the sharp line of his jaw immediately. It was the man from the bridge. The man who saved her.
Down below, Fenton rushed out the front door, his face plastered with a sickeningly eager smile. He reached out to shake the man's hand, but the assistant beside him coldly swatted Fenton's hand away.
Elsie's heart leaped into her throat. This was her only chance.
She slammed her fists against the reinforced glass, screaming for help. But the soundproofing was too thick. They couldn't hear her.
Arthur was already walking toward the front door.
Panic seized Elsie. She grabbed the heavy brass base of the vanity lamp. With a primal scream, she swung it as hard as she could against the window's locking mechanism.
The metal latch dented and gave way.
Ignoring the sharp pain in her hands, Elsie shoved the heavy glass window open. The freezing autumn wind ripped into the room, biting at her exposed skin.
She leaned halfway out the window. "Help me!" she screamed, her voice tearing through the quiet courtyard.
Down below, Arthur's footsteps stopped dead.
He whipped his head around, his sharp eyes instantly locking onto the second-floor window.
He saw the fragile silhouette clinging to the frame. Then, he saw the sheer, degrading lace dress she was forced into, and the tear-stained terror on her face.
The temperature in the courtyard plummeted. A murderous, apocalyptic rage ignited in Arthur's dark eyes.
Fenton followed his gaze and turned white as a sheet. "Mr. Michael, please, that's just my niece. She's... she's severely mentally ill-"
Upstairs, Elsie heard the heavy thud of the bodyguards throwing themselves against the locked bedroom door. They knew she had opened the window.
She looked down at the man staring up at her. She didn't know why, but looking into his eyes gave her a sudden, reckless surge of courage.
She swung her leg over the ornate balcony railing.
The bedroom door burst open behind her. The maids screamed, lunging forward to grab her.
Elsie closed her eyes, let go of the railing, and let herself fall into the empty air.
