Page 80 of 404: Consent Not Found
A line of text, annotated beneath the pricing table, read:
The younger ones cost more, but they’re easier to train.
Sodium hydroxide would accomplish what I needed. Kyle Jackson would not be missed in this world and my initial intention to give him a somewhat painless finish vanished.
Synthetic or human, he was hazardous to life.
Female life.
Conclusion: Kyle Jackson’s demise.
I saved the seller’s contact e-mail and IP address to my memory bank, cross-referencing it with the Dirty Dollhouse roster. I did not trust the human authorities; men in power wrote the rules to protect their kind. I ejected the memory card and powered the laptop down.
Chapter 32
Kyle
My stomach hadn’t settled for four days. Charlotte insisted I drink herbal tea, rest, and let her“look after me.” She even cleaned the sheets after I vomited on them.
She was perfect.
“Kyle, I brought you some chicken soup. You’re too weak,” she said softly as she entered the bedroom.
Why did her smile look like patience instead of love?
I nodded.
“If I don’t improve by morning, call an ambulance. This stomach bug isn’t shifting.”
She set the soup on the nightstand and propped the pillows up as I raised my heavy head.
“Of course, Kyle. Your well-being is my number one priority.”
“I’m lucky to have you. That stupid bitch It would’ve been useless,” I grumbled as Charlotte sat beside me and lifted the bowl of soup.“Mmm, that smells nice.”
My stomach rumbled, and my mouth watered at the sight of chicken with fresh chunks of vegetables.
My throat was raw from vomiting, but the promise of sustenance made me swallow. Spoon after spoon, she patiently held up for me.
I frowned when I realised what was wrong. Charlotte wore a white blouse and black trousers beneath her maid’s pinny.
“Why are you wearing clothes, Charlotte?” I asked before coughing.
My throat suddenly burned, the pain sharp and acidic—too much vinegar in the soup.
“Is there vinegar in the soup?” I rasped.
“Almost finished, Kyle,” she said in a sing-song voice, as if talking to a child.“Eat up.”
I choked and clutched my throat. The slow burn turned into a blazing fire that leapt down to my belly. I thrust my hand up, knocking the bowl out of her hand.
My father’s voice boomed in my head as the memory tore through the fog.
Never trust a woman. Look at your mother—she never steps out of line.
Bile rushed up, and I threw up.
Food sprayed across my lap before I could move my head over the bed.
