Page 19 of Riot

She looked off to the side. “I wish you could come.”

“Then break me out of here.” I laughed when I said it, but deep down, I meant that shit.

“If I could, I would. You know that.”

“Yeah... So, does your father know about this party?”

“Hell no,” she said with a grin. “It’s small—like 25, 30 people tops. Daddy doesn’t know a thing, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“What’s he getting you for your birthday?”

She shrugged. “He said I could have anything. But what does a girl ask for when she already has everything?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Ask for my freedom.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” I said, locking eyes with her. “Ask him to let me go. I’ve been here ten years. I’m not even his type, so it’s not like he’s going to sleep with me. My scars are too ugly for that.”

“I’ll ask him,” she said softly, glancing down. We both knew it was a long shot.

Boaz regarded me as his good luck charm. He swore up and down that he made more money in the last ten years with me here than he ever had before. Called me his blessing.I called him insane.

We had a strange relationship, Irina and I. Not sisters. Not strangers. Somewhere in between. She said I was her only real friend in this place, and she was the only friend I had. But with me being captive, we could never have a real friendship.

She grew up in this compound too, but her version of captivity was prettier. Softer. Nannies. Tutors. Private jets. Platinum cards. Enough daddy issues to keep a therapist booked for life.

Her mother had been a supermodel—Black, stunning, wild from what I heard. Died at an A-list party from a heroin overdose. People tend to spiral in Boaz’s orbit. Something about him makes people reach for their vices just to remember what living feels like.

Irina was half-Israeli, half-Black, and fully out of place wherever she went. She could float between bat mitzvahs andthe cookouts, and still never quite land. But every Sunday, she came back here.

Boaz’s rule.

It was how she earned her allowance. Compliance in exchange for control.

Still, I envied her. The freedom in her clothes. The sway in her hips. The fact that she could choose her own perfume.

I caught myself staring again.

“I love that top,” I said, nodding toward her tee.

Irina looked down and tugged it. “Oh, this? Twenty bucks on sale. I’ll bring you one.”

I smiled, but it felt like swallowing glass. I didn’t need a shirt I couldn’t wear. She would bring me things to wear and I could only do so in my room. I was only allowed to be seen in white. Always draped. Always hidden. Modest. Controlled.

My body wasn’t even mine.

Meanwhile, Irina’s frame looked like it belonged on a runway—tall, slim, effortless. I knew she envied my curves sometimes. My hips. My breasts. But envy doesn’t matter when one of us gets to choose and the other doesn't.

“What’s for dinner?” she asked, hopping up on the counter. I could tell she was trying to lighten the mood.

I reached into the fridge for the branzino. “Stuffed with lemon, garlic, capers, tomatoes, olives, and parsley.”

She groaned. “You should open a restaurant. If he gives you your freedom.”

I smirked, slicing into the fish. “You volunteering to fund it?” I said, but the thought made my skin itch. I didn’t want a restaurant.

If I got my freedom, I was going to my father and having him burn Boaz’s empire to the ground.

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