Page 37 of Riot

“It’s time.”

My whole body stiffened.

“This is it?” I whispered.

“This is it.”

I didn’t ask if she was sure. I didn’t ask if she had the guards handled. I didn’t ask if she was scared. She was. I could see it in her eyes. But she was still doing it. Still helping me.

She grabbed my wrist and pulled me through the back hallway, past the staff staircase and the old wine cellar no one used anymore. The halls were mostly quiet. The guards had gathered around the media room, distracted by some foreign sports broadcast and a tray of whatever catered junk Avi had ordered for the night.

Irina walked fast but didn’t run. Running drew attention. Walking with confidence—head high, steps smooth—that was how you moved when you didn’t want to be seen.

My legs felt like they weighed bricks. Every step I took closer to the garage felt like I was pulling away from gravity. From Boaz. From the hell that had swallowed me whole for the last ten years.

The garage doors loomed ahead. One of them was already open—her red G-Wagon backed into the shadows like a getaway car in a heist film.

“This is it,” she said again, this time quieter. Her voice trembled. “Trunk’s already cleared out. It’s lined with a blanket. I only need you to stay hidden until I get through the gate. Once we hit the highway, I’ll pull over, and you can ride up front.”

I nodded, throat dry. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

Irina blinked hard, her mascara smudging slightly beneath her eyes. “Just have fun tonight and don’t fuck me over. I’m getting you back here, Allure. That’s thanks enough.”

She popped the trunk.

I stared into the darkness of it, heart beating out a war drum rhythm.

This wasn’t just a ride to a party.

This was a jailbreak.

And I wasn’t coming back.

I climbed in slowly, folding myself into the trunk’s narrow space, pulling the blanket over my body and tucking in the sides. Irina lowered the door with careful fingers, her eyes locked on mine until the very last second.

Click.

Darkness.

Silence.

And then—movement.

The soft rumble of the engine. The subtle turn of wheels. I heard voices in the distance—guards laughing. A gate groaning open. The tires shifting against gravel, then pavement.

Then… freedom.

Real freedom.

And this time, it had my name on it.

Allure.

Not Virgin.

Never again.

By the time we crossed the bridge into Manhattan, my hands were still trembling. The robe wrapped tightly around me like a second skin, and my hijab itched against my scalp—not from the fabric, but from the memory of what it represented. For ten years, that uniform of purity was all I was allowed tobe. Untouched. Controlled. Covered. The embodiment of Boaz Haim’s twisted fantasy.

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