Page 18 of Riot

Silence.

Ten years. Not a word. Not a whisper. Not a damn sign.

I don’t know if Boaz has me hidden that well or if... maybe he just stopped looking.

Maybe I wasn’t worth the war.

Still, I won’t die here.

I refuse.

One day, I’m getting out of this place. And before I do, I’m going to wrap my hands around Boaz Haim’s neck and feel his pulse fade under my fingers. I want to watch the light leave his eyes and know that I did that. All this anger I’ve been holding? It’s not for nothing.

It’s fuel.

And one day soon, I’m going to burn this whole bitch to the ground. My thoughts were still wrapped around blood and fire when his voice tore through the halls.

“Virgin!”

Loud. Sharp. Like he was calling for a damn dog.

I closed my eyes and clenched my jaw. I hated that name. Hated that I answered to it. Hated how he reduced me to a label he could fetishize. In this house, I wasn’t Allure. I was a role. A function. A sick fantasy wrapped in white fabric and servitude.

His pure maid.

If only he knew what these so-called clean hands prayed for every night. How they curled into fists behind closed doors. How they itched to wrap around his throat while he slept.

But it was dinner time. And dinner was ritual.

Boaz liked his meals made with “holy hands,” as he once put it. Said it brought him peace to be served by someone untouched. Someone untainted. He believed it was divine.

I believed it was delusional.

Still, I smoothed my robe, adjusted my hijab, and made my way down the marble halls toward the grand kitchen. My sandals whispered across the stone floors. My stomach was tightwith hunger, but I wouldn’t eat until hours later—when no one was watching.

Tonight’s menu? Stuffed branzino. Mediterranean style.

He liked it fresh. Gutted with lemon and garlic. Tomatoes, olives, capers, parsley. Everything arranged just right. A perfect little corpse on a porcelain plate.

I stepped into the kitchen—and paused.

Irina, Boaz’s daughter, was already there.

She stood barefoot at the island, peeling a mango with a gold knife like it was an accessory more than a utensil. Her wild dark curls were piled on top of her head, loose strands framing her freckled face. She wore high-waisted jeans that hugged her hips and a cropped white tee that readMANHATTAN MADEin bold lettering.

I stared a second longer than I meant to.

Her life and mine were made by the same man, and yet—hers looked like freedom.

She glanced up and smiled. “Hey, girlie.”

I walked over and hugged her. I missed seeing her here. There was a time we talked every day, laughing in hushed tones like we weren’t both trapped. But then she left for college. Started living her life. Started choosing.

“It’s good to see you,” I said. “How’s the big city?”

Irina popped a mango slice into her mouth and leaned on the counter. “Crazy. My 25th is coming up, and I’m throwing a massive party at The Gilded Cage. It’s this upscale bar with an old-school casino vibe.”

“Must be nice.” I said it with a smile, but the envy was loud in my blood. Felt like she was rubbing it in.

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