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  It does me no good.

  He simply grabs me by the throat again and applies pressure with his thumbs in warning. It is the smallest exertion for him. Barely any effort at all, and already, I can hardly breathe.

  The resistance flees from my body in the presence of dread. I feel like a well-trained dog already. Bowing to his silent commands in such a short amount of time.

  I fear for my sanity if this is only day one. Part of me questions whether it might be better if he did kill me now.

  When he sets me down onto my feet, and my breath returns, it is the first opportunity that I have to take in the room around me.

  It is simple. Barren. And also, horrifying. There is nothing more than a bucket in the corner. And a piano in the center.

  A piano.

  The thing that used to be my instrument of choice now terrifies me more than anything.

  Javi makes a gesture to the shiny black nightmare.

  “Play for me,” he demands.

  I glance up at him, and my reply is reflexive. Instant. A mumbled no. I wait for another threat. More terror. But it doesn’t come.

  “No?” he repeats. “Suit yourself, beauty. I will play you a song instead.”

  I don’t understand what he means. Because he leaves the room, sliding the heavy door into place until the locking mechanism clicks behind him.

  I swallow and look around me. At the nothingness. At the emptiness. I’m freezing, and there is no comfort to be found in here.

  Not anywhere.

  I wrap my arms around myself and walk the length of the room to keep warm. I’m hungry and thirsty, and I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve eaten.

  The hunger that has been absent since my father’s disappearance is now back with a vengeance. My body is preparing for a fight. An all-out war.

  But after a while, my feet are numb, and the walking isn’t helping. My stomach is growling, and my eyes are heavy, and I can think of nothing else to do. So I sit down in a corner and curl into myself.

  The floor is hard. Painful. Uncomfortable. But even so, the exhaustion from earlier events lulls me into a deep sleep quickly.

  I don’t know how long it lasts for. Only that I am jarred awake by the most horrifying of sounds.

  Confusion and shock take me prisoner when I open my eyes and confront the images in front of me.

  I never noticed it before. The projector on the wall. The projector that has now become my worst nightmare.

  It’s a replay of a well-known celebrity gossip show. And I am the unwitting guest star of their conversation. The topic is old hat.

  Specifically, the rumors of me sleeping with one of the judges to win the show. Each host throws in their two cents before they read some of the twitter comments from the aftermath while they laugh.

  Fat, talentless cow.

  Her face looks like it got ran over and glued back together.

  Bitch can’t sing her ABCs. Go home, American Star, you’re drunk.

  Another waste of human space. Hope she gets hit by a bus.

  THE INSULTS CONTINUE, flinging at me like arrows. It’s a constant loop of interviews and my most caustic critics replayed at a volume I can’t ignore.

  I close my eyes and hum to try to block it out. I press my hands to my ears. It doesn’t work.

  I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to be weak. And I hate him for this. I have never met anyone so evil. Rage overcomes me.

  I pound on the door until my nails break and my fingers swell. When that doesn’t work, I launch my entire body against the frame.

  I scream until my throat is raw. I force the ball gag from my mouth in a fit. And just when I think I can’t take another second, everything goes silent again.

  I stare up at the ceiling. At the blinking light where he is undoubtedly watching me from. I wait for the torture to begin all over again. But it doesn’t.

  Ten minutes pass.

  Then twenty.

  And thirty.

  I curl up on the floor, on edge and exhausted. My eyes fall shut, and I start to drift off again. The moment I do, the projector screams back to life with more of the same.

  This time, I do cry.

  The tears fall and the words I can’t avoid blister every corner of my mind. I don’t know how long it goes on for. I can’t tell night from day in this room. So I count the drinks instead.

  Twice a day, he brings me a jug of water.

  It isn’t enough. And I’m never prepared. I never know when he’s going to come.

  So far, he’s been six times. But I’m never fast enough to get to him. He opens the door without a sound and sets them inside. Then he leaves before I get a chance to attack.

  He has to know. He has to know that I would kill him right now if I could.

  I’m going insane. I haven’t slept in three days, and I’m starving, and my mind is so fractured from this unspeakable torture that I could murder him with my bare hands if he let me near him.

  I would try. And I wouldn’t feel guilty for it. This is the animal he’s turned me into.

  In three short days.

  By the fourth, I can take it no longer. The humming doesn’t work. Talking to myself doesn’t work. Blocking it out isn’t an option. And so I do the only thing that I can. I sit down at the piano, and I close my eyes.

  And I play.

  My fingers are rusty and cold and numb, and it hurts. The pain is almost crippling as they move over the keys. But the sound that floods the room is such a welcome relief that I push through it.

  I push through it until my movements are fluid and my voice is humming along with the notes. And just like that, everything else fades away.

  My fear is gone, and I am playing again.

  I think of the notes. The notes he used to write me. And his words.

  Sing me a song, with words only I can hear.

  THIS IS what he wanted all along.

  When I open my eyes again, he’s there. In the doorway. My fingers pause, and he shakes his head. The room is silent now. The projector turned off. And I’ve lost the will to fight.

  This is my chance to kill him. To claw his eyes out. But I can’t move.

  I’m so tired. So numb. All I want to do is sleep.

  “Keep playing,” he tells me.

  I stare at him. It would be so easy to give in. To do what he wants and stop this pain. This torture. But I can’t bring myself to give up.

  Not yet.

  So, I stop playing.

  He leaves the room again. The projector does not come on again. Not that night. Or any after.

  Instead, I am entombed in silence. Silence so deafening, it is a different animal altogether. I start to imagine sounds that aren’t real. I start to see shadows that I know aren’t real. I feel like I’m going insane all over again, and I don’t know which is worse.

  The room is pitch black now. There is no light to be found in this prison. Twenty-four hours a day, I sit in darkness.

  I talk to myself. I pick at my skin. Bugs crawl all over me. I hear him in the room with me, breathing. At some point, I hear a baby crying. When I seek out the source of the noise, it disappears entirely.

  He brings me food, but I never know when. I can’t see him. I crawl around the floor like a dog, seeking it out. Always the same thing, over and over again.

  Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

  I eat them and want for more. My stomach is so empty that it is caving in on me. Sometimes, I catch myself biting my lip just to taste the blood.

  I am feral.

  Wild.

  An animal.

  And this is what he wanted.

  I cry. I wail. I mutilate myself on the walls, cutting and scratching my skin just to feel something different. I haven’t showered since I’ve been here. I go to the bathroom in the bucket, like a heathen. I get my period and have no choice but to use some of my precious drinking water to clean myself with.

  I am disgusting. Ashamed. Cold and lonely and tender in
a way that I never thought was possible.

  At some point, my mind fractures completely. I feel it happen.

  I am broken.

  And I am willing to do anything. Anything at all. Anything he says. Just to stop this madness. So with my last scraps of remaining energy, I crawl to the piano stool and pull myself from the floor. I sit down and will my fingers to move. They are stiff and painful and bloody.

  But I play.

  I play a song for him. With words only he can hear. I sing him a song I’ve never sung out loud. With lyrics from my journal.The one that the world has never seen or heard before. And soon, the door opens again. This time, there is light.

  It hurts my eyes.

  It’s so beautiful, I cry because I can’t bear to look at it. To believe it’s real. But he’s there. And I don’t stop playing. I don’t dare.

  I play him three more songs before he halts me. He comes to sit beside me on the bench. And he does something that I don’t expect. He pulls me into his arms and pets my cheek reverently. I burrow into his palm. Into his warmth and his touch and his scent, so comforting after so long in isolation. And I hate myself for it.

  I want to die for feeling this way. For allowing him to break me. For turning me into this slave to human affection, even at the cost of reaping it from a monster.

  He holds me. He soothes me. And it is so confusing. It feels like a trick from this man who has tortured me for so long.

  He kisses my face. I am foul. But he doesn’t care. His lips are soft, and they feel good. I will do anything to feel good.

  I tell him so.

  “Good girl,” he answers. “You are learning, my Bella.”

  I nod into his chest like a puppet. And then I cry. He rubs my back. Then he carries me from the room. Back to the conservatory. To the bathroom nestled into the far corner.

  He deposits me in the bathtub. The cold porcelain bites into my skin and penetrates my bones. But I don’t even flinch this time. I’ve grown used to the cold. I’ve become one with the agony. And right now, the smallest of luxuries, even from him… feels like everything.

  “Lay back, beauty,” he directs me. “It’s time to come clean.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  SHE LAYS BACK in the tub when I ask without protest.

  And finally, the beauty is broken.

  It took longer than I anticipated. She is stubborn. Strong.

  Even now, when she looks up at me with misty eyes, it pains her to give in. To break down and need these things from me.

  The monster.

  The beast.

  Her captor.

  If I had any sympathy for the sweet girl, I would tell her she has no reason to be ashamed. It is a systematic destruction of the human psyche that anyone will succumb to, given the right amount of time and circumstances.

  But I am not sympathetic to her plight, even as I wash her and she responds to my touch like a well-broken pet.

  She is beautiful. Lovely. Even as messy and shattered and filthy as she is right now. But I won’t allow that to make me forget. She will pay. She has to.

  It is the only way.

  And so I wash her, but I do not comfort her anymore. Comforts must be earned. And right now, she still has much work to do.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” she whispers so meekly as I wash her hair.

  “To see if you are stronger than their words,” I tell her.

  This is not the thing I should have said. But it is exactly the reason I chose the method that I did. And I must remember not to be so honest with her. Because now she looks at me differently.

  She looks at me like I might care. Which I don’t. And she must never think otherwise.

  “Bella,” I reply. “Do you remember what I said earlier about having a use for your mouth?”

  She doesn’t answer me, so I tug on the wet strands of her hair until she squeezes her eyes shut.

  I do not like her this way. Acting so delicate. Her nipples are hard, and I am certain if I were to thrust my fingers between her legs, she would be wet for me.

  Little liar.

  “Perhaps I was wrong,” I say. “Perhaps you need to spend some more time in your piano room.”

  “No!” she cries and curls into herself. “Please, Javi. I will do anything. Anything! Just don’t send me back in there.”

  Tears streak down her face, and they make me hard.

  “You will do anything, you say?”

  Her shoulders fall in defeat, and she nods. Her answer is quiet. Sullen.

  “Yes. Anything.”

  I want to play with her. I want to torture her some more.

  “So, you will fuck me?”

  She blinks up at me, and my words do not shock her as much as I had hoped.

  My broken toy simply nods and gives me another meek yes from her dry lips. The angelic virgin, so easily offering up her virtue to a monster. She is ruining my fun, and she should not be so agreeable.

  My methods have been too effective, it seems. Or perhaps I am just being too picky with her. This woman confuses me. And I need to stop thinking so much.

  I squeeze her throat, and her eyes grow large as I remove the ball gag from my pocket and secure it around her mouth once more.

  “Until I have a use for it.” I rub my fingers over her bottom lip.

  She does not cry again. Even as I dry her and touch her with my bare hands. She does not try to move away, or even tremble beneath my touch.

  My cock is still hard, but now I am angry too.

  When she is dry, I drag her along to the kitchen where my dinner waits in the oven.

  “Get on your knees,” I direct her.

  She does as I ask without protest, the threat of the piano room still looming fresh in her mind when I remove the hot plate from the warming rack.

  “Are you hungry, Bella?”

  Her mouth waters and she does not need to answer verbally because the evidence is dripping down her chin.

  She nods.

  “If you want to eat, you need to earn it. Do you understand?”

  There is the slightest flash of indignance in her eyes, which she snuffs out with a nod.

  “Good girl,” I answer, soothing her with false security.

  My dick wants a reaction from her, and I am determined to get it.

  “Now get down on your hands and knees.”

  She does as I ask, her eyes focused on the tile floor while she waits for her next instruction. I kneel down beside her, hot plate in my hand, searing my own skin. There is pleasure in the pain while I watch her this way.

  So submissive. So broken. So degraded.

  Her father would be so ashamed. Appalled. He will cry when he learns of the things I have done to his precious daughter.

  “If you spill this, beauty, you go back to the piano room for two weeks. Do you understand?”

  Again, her eyes shoot up to mine, terrified. Resistant. And determined. She really will do anything not to be alone. How confused she must be, to crave my company so.

  I do not give her further warning. Instead, I set the hot plate onto the center of her back. And apart from a strangled noise in her throat, she does not move. Her body is rigid, her jaw taut. She is trying desperately to transcend the frayed nerves beneath her sensitive flesh.

  I walk to the dining room table and sit down, gesturing for her.

  “Come to me now, sweet Bella.”

  She crawls towards me. Slowly and carefully. Her pale blue eyes staring up at me like a beacon in the night. And she really is stronger than anyone gives her credit for. Because she does not spill. She does not cry. She does not move, even after I’ve retrieved the plate from her back.

  I spoon some of the pasta and chew while she watches. Her mouth is still watering.

  Hungry.

  Starving.

  And I told her I would reward her.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask again.

  She nods eagerly.

  “Then do I have a use for your mouth?�
� I tap the ball gag.

  It takes her a moment to understand what I want. Her face falls, but still, she nods. What a pliable little fuck toy she will be. I remove the gag and watch her as I continue to eat.

  She is confused. Unsure. Awaiting more of my instructions. But she needs to know that it won’t always be so clear.

  “I thought I had a use for your mouth, beauty. Why are you just sitting there?”

  She crawls beneath the table without further insistence and positions herself between my legs. My cock is so hard I will probably blow my load in the first five minutes. How long I have waited to have this from her. How much I have anticipated it.

  She unzips my jeans with a trembling hand and reaches inside to retrieve my cock. I hear a small gasp from beneath the table when she sees it, and I smirk between mouthfuls of food.

  It takes her a few moments to figure out where to put her hands, and I don’t help her.

  I try to keep my distance. I try to focus on eating instead of her. I want to look. To watch. And this is how I know I can’t.

  I shouldn’t want these things with her. She is nothing more than a toy to be used. A doll to play with. I must remember this. Even when she takes her first lick, and my balls squeeze and contract with the need to fuck her throat raw.

  It is too soft. Too hesitant. This isn’t the way I like it. I let her get a feel for it before I start telling her so.

  “Do better,” I demand.

  Her nails dig into the material of my jeans, and she draws me deeper. But still too shallow.

  “I thought I had a use for your mouth, beauty. Do I need to go elsewhere and send you back to your room?”

  She makes another sound and drinks me all the way in this time. It feels like heaven. And now, now she is doing what I like. My dick lurches inside of her mouth, and I catch myself looking down at her when I shouldn’t be. Admiring the way her lashes look against her pale skin, and the way her silky black hair falls over her shoulders and tickles my balls. I imagine what it will feel like to have her lips on mine, hungry for me. And then heat flushes through my body.