Page 3 of Broken Doll

"Why’s she so special?"

"Above my pay grade but the order came straight from Killion’s mouth so I’m not going to question it."

Killion. The name hooks into my dissolving brain like a fish barb.

As consciousness bleeds out, I think about Isaac. He'll come home to an empty house tonight. He'll notice I'm gone sometime tomorrow,probably, but that’s the shitty part about hiding things about your life—people don’t notice when you stop showing up.

I lie a lot to my husband. Girls’ trips that are really just fuck parties; guys numbers hidden behind the facade of a fast-food restaurant; a burner phone for the really nasty shit that I’m into.

I’m a lot of things to a lot of people but one thing I can’t claim is faithful wife.

Is this my karma? Seems kinda excessive even by L.A.’s standards but whatevs. If this is how I go out, so be it. It was fun while it lasted.

My last coherent thought: The last time I felt this light-headed, Isaac had proposed on a Malibu balcony. I'd said yes because it seemed easier than saying no and because his father's connections implied Isaac would make good money for me to spend.

Some choices aren't really choices at all. But darling, the ones that are? Those are the ones that'll kill you.

When I was a kid, my momma used to say if anyone ever tried to steal me, they'd bring me right back within the hour because I was such a pain in the ass they couldn't handle me. "Like returning a rabid raccoon to the wild," she'd drawl, cigarette dangling from her lips, bourbon in hand.

Well, Momma... I'm about to find out if you were right.

As darkness crashes over me like a rogue wave, a strange calm settles in my bones. Whatever these government types want from me, they're about to discover I'm not just another easy mark.

I’m Landry fucking James. I’ve swallowed bigger threats before breakfast.

They underestimated the wrong woman.

Now I’m about to be their worst fucking mistake.

Iwake up on an old cot with a thin mattress, the kind you see in movies involving human trafficking. My mouth tastes like a gnome popped a squat and shit on my tongue.

My head is spinning, a consequence of the knock-out drug they jammed in my neck, which, by the way, still hurts. I work my jaw, wincing as pain ricochets through my bones. "I want to talk to the manager," I warble, my voice ragged and hoarse. "Hello? The service here sucks. Zero stars. I'm gonna leave a helluva a scathing Yelp review."

Metal walls. A single overhead light buzzing faintly. No windows, no furniture except for the shitty prison bed. Not exactly the Hilton.

I exhale, slow.

I've been in some bad situations before. Fucked my way into more trouble than I can count. But this?

This is new.

I cross my arms, shifting my weight. My outfit—so perfect for the club, for playing—feels absurd here, all leather and lace in a room that looks like a goddamn meat locker.

I don't know how long I wait. Could be five minutes, could be an hour. Time feels slippery in this place, stretched thin and brittle.

Then the door opens.

And he walks in.

He doesn't belong here.

Not in the way the others do. Not like the man who dragged me out of the club or the one who dumped Derek in an alleyway with no interest in his safety.

This guy? He looks like he should be anywhere else—an office, a boardroom, maybe sitting across from my husband at some networking event, drinking overpriced scotch and pretending to give a fuck about stocks.

His suit is impeccable. Not a wrinkle, not a single thread out of place. His tie is straight, his watch gleams, and his face—handsome in a forgettable, almost corporate way—is calm. Measured.

He doesn't leer. Doesn't smile. Just tilts his head slightly as he looks me over, like he's assessing whether or not I'm worth his time.

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