Page 69 of Salvatore

I flinch, cowering in fucking weakness. “It’s for the best.” I clear the pathetic emotion from my voice. “Please let Liv and Allison know how sorry I am.”

Gabriel snatches the cell from my hand and disconnects the call. “That’s enough.” He stalks forward, intimidating me back into my pink prison. “You’d better not be causing trouble.”

“I’m not. I swear.”

“Good. Because there’s no need for you to worry about employment.” He continues prowling forward, forcing me to retreat until my calves hit the bed, and I flop my ass down on the unicorn duvet. “I have the perfect job for you.” He pockets my cell, then cups my face in his hand, staring down at me in fake kindness. “With such a pretty mouth, men will pay in droves to see it filled.”

I ignore the nausea. The rage. His putrid schemes aren’t new to me.

He strokes my cheek with his thumb. “You always thought you were better than this family, Isabella, but time will show that you needed us all along.” His hand falls away. “I will let my men know you will be making your debut on screen as soon as your face has healed. Until then, enjoy the peace before I make you a star.” He turns and walks for the hall where my brother stands, grinning.

I fist my hands in the covers, my lower lip trembling—not from sadness, from pure livid fury.

Gabriel will make good on his promise. He doesn’t offer idle threats.

The door closes and I curl into myself on the bed, staring at my pillow for hours.

What the hell am I going to do if my face heals and I haven’t figured a way out of here?

I won’t fight. I’m not going to titillate an already perverted audience.

If my body is to be used for entertainment, I’ll be as apathetic as I can.

I’ll lie there and stare at the ceiling. I won’t say a word. I won’t even make a sound.

My eyes burn, the threat of tears haunting me as the afternoon drags on.

Night falls and I don’t bother moving from the bed when the door opens and my dinner is thrown inside.

Despite the chance I took in making that call, nothing has changed.

Another day passes marked by the sound of sex from somewhere else in the apartment, only this time I’m heckled through the door every time footsteps grow near.

“Your turn is coming.”

“That ass is mine.”

“I’m getting hard just thinking about it.”

The last taunt came from my brother, and I’m not surprised. He’s always been a fucking asshole, but at one point I was sure he had humanity. Now? Not so much.

My ability to eat vanishes. Depression sets in.

I wait until it’s dark the following day, when the loud music from the living room tells me it’s going to be a long night, then open the balcony door a crack, letting the fresh air cast away the scent of rotting food.

I keep the lights off as I wash my face in the bathroom, not wanting to see my broken down reflection, then dry my skin with the lone pink towel that should’ve been burned weeks ago, let alone washed.

I want to scream at the heavy bass filtering through the tiled wall. Everything is so incredibly loud—my thoughts, my fears, my despair.

The worst part is that my bruises are barely visible anymore—the scratch on my cheek nothing but a fading pink line.

I anticipate I have a day before my fate will be sealed. Maybe two at most.

They’re going to break me on camera and enjoy every minute of it.

I focus on controlling my breathing, slowly backing myself away from the edge of sorrow, then open the bathroom door and stop dead in my tracks.

In the darkness of my moonlit room, a suit-clad man waits on my bed, a black, skull-painted bandana covering the bottom of his face while a baseball cap hides his eyes.

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