Page 8 of Broken Doll

I take one last breath.

Deep. Slow.

Then, as if he read my thoughts, Suit Guy produces a pen and hands it to me.

It's cold. Smooth. Heavy in my grip. The weight of a choice I can never unchoose.

I hold the contract against the steel wall, put the tip to the page, hover over the signature line—Landry James, in neat, unbroken print.

My fingers tighten.

One more second. One last hesitation. One last chance to drop the pen, walk away, let my old life swallow me whole.

Then I sign.

The ink dries fast.

Just like that, I disappear.

I return the pen and the contract, my pulse finally slowing to something steadier.

I lift my chin. Meet Killion's eyes—not Suit Guy's—because I already know who's really in charge here. And then, voice even, I ask?—

"When do we start?"

Killion's smile is all teeth and no mercy.

"We already have."

He turns to leave, but pauses at the door. "Get some rest, Ms. James. Tomorrow, the real pain begins."

“What about Isaac?” I ask quickly.

“You’ll be provided your cell. You’ll tell him you’re going to be gone for a few weeks —an impromptu girls trip that you can’t miss. Make it believable. This is your first test.”

And somehow, I know he's not exaggerating. That what's coming will test every limit I've ever pushed, break every boundary I've ever crossed.

“Easy-peasy,” I shoot back but as the door slams shut behind him, locking me once more in this steel coffin, I feel something I haven't felt in years.

Alive.

Truly, viciously, terrifyingly alive.

I lie back on the prison cot, staring at the ceiling, a smile playing at the corners of my lips.

Landry James is dead.

Long live whatever the fuck I'm about to become.

Ishouldn’t be nervous.

I don’tgetnervous.

Nerves are for people who give a shit, who second-guess, who flinch. I’ve spent years training that out of myself—every hesitation, every flicker of doubt, burned away in private rooms and tangled sheets. And yet?—

When I woke up, the club clothes were gone—vanished like they never existed. Instead, there was a sad little pile of prison-chic waiting for me: gray sweatpants, a white tank that looked three sizes too small, and tennis shoes so aggressively plain they screamed government-issue.

Someone had undressed me while I slept. Stripped me bare and redressed me like a fucking doll. I should've felt violated, but all I could think was: amateur move. If you want to break a woman who's been naked in front of half of Los Angeles, you'll need more than a peek at her tits.

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