ASYA'S POV
I walk inside the office and come to a stop in the centre of the room.
Dolly, the woman in charge of the girls, sits behind her desk, her attention fixed on the small leather-bound notebook in front of her. She doesn't look up immediately.
"You'll be entertaining Mr. Miller tonight," she says, scribbling something in her ledger. "He prefers it slow. Start with a massage and go from there."
I nod. "Yes, Dolly."
"Oh, and no blow jobs. Mr. Miller doesn't like those." She closes the notebook with a soft snap and walks around the desk, her heels clicking sharply against the linoleum.
I bow my head, lowering my gaze to the floor so she won't see my eyes. Her pink, shiny heels come into view as she stops right in front of me.
"He's a very important client, so make sure you fulfill his every need. If he likes you, he may request you again." Her voice is calm, almost casual. "He's very mild-mannered. He doesn't hit girls often, which is rare, as you already know. And don't forget the condom. You know the rules."
I nod again and raise my hand, palm up. Dolly places a single white pill in it.
"What about the rest?" I ask quietly. "I need more. Please."
"Always the same tune with you girls," she snaps. "You get the rest when you're finished with the client. You know that already."
"Just one more," I beg, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I said after you are done!" she yells, and her hand lashes out, slapping me across the cheek. The sting blooms instantly. "Get back to your room and be ready in an hour. You've been out of commission for almost a week. We're losing money."
"Yes, Dolly," I say in a small voice, turning toward the door.
"Oh, and don't forget to take off the glasses. Mr. Miller doesn't like those."
"Of course."
After exiting Dolly's office, I turn left and hurry down the hallway, passing the closed doors of the other rooms. There are five of us here right now. There used to be six.
Two days ago, one of the girls disappeared.
Since I keep to myself, I didn't know her well, only glimpses in passing. Long blonde hair, always braided down her back. That's what I remember most. No one knows what happened, but I overheard the others whispering. Something about a client. One known for being rough.
I reach the last door at the end of the hallway and step inside. After a quick glance around to make sure my roommate isn't here, I hurry toward the small bathroom on the other side of the room. I lock the door behind me and turn toward the toilet.
Opening my right hand, I stare at the white pill resting in my palm.
Such a small thing. Harmless-looking.
Who would guess that something so tiny can keep a person wilfully enslaved… living in a prison without bars?
It would be so easy to put it in my mouth and just… let go.
It's always the same. One pill before the client. Three more after.
The first one keeps me high. Compliant. Obedient. It doesn't make it hurt less—but it makes me not care. And it hooks you. Deep. So, by the time it wears off, you're already craving the next three, desperate for the relief they bring.
And then it starts again.
Again. And again.
Keeping my mind wrapped in a haze, floating just enough not to feel, not to think, not to fight.
An addict.
That's what I've become. Just like the rest of the girls here.
My fingers curl around the pill. For a moment, I just stand there, holding it… feeling its weight.
Then I toss it into the toilet and flush.
The pill spins twice before disappearing down the drain, but I don't move. I just stand there, staring into the empty bowl.
It's been six days since I stopped taking them.
Six days.
It wasn't even intentional at first. I caught the stomach flu last week. For three days straight, I couldn't stop vomiting. Nothing stayed down—not even the pills Dolly kept forcing on me.
By the time I got better, something had changed.
My mind… cleared.
For the first time in two months.
That first day without the drugs was hell. I was freezing—so cold I thought my bones would crack—but at the same time, I was drenched in sweat. Everything hurt. My head, my arms, my legs. It felt like every bone in my body had been shattered and put back together wrong.
And the shaking…
God, the shaking.
I tried to control it, terrified my teeth would break from how hard they were chattering, but I couldn't. Dolly thought it was just the fever breaking.
It wasn't.
It was withdrawal.
The urge to swallow the pills she gave me was almost unbearable. It clawed at me, demanded I give in. But somehow… I didn't.
Stubbornness. That's all it was.
After that, it got easier. Not easy—but easier. The chills still came, but not as bad. The pain dulled. I started pretending to take the pills, making a show of it, begging for more just like before… then secretly throwing them away.
Somehow, it worked.
So far.
Now it's just a matter of how long I can keep pretending before someone notices.
I take off my glasses and leave them by the sink. They aren't even mine—just something Dolly gave me so I'd stop stumbling and squinting. My real ones were lost that night… my last night in New York.
I look away quickly.
Then I undress and step into the shower.
The water is scorching as it hits my skin, but I don't turn it down. I welcome it. I need it. Closing my eyes, I reach for the washcloth and start scrubbing—hard, over and over—until my skin turns red.
It doesn't help.
I still feel filthy.
I don't understand why I didn't fight harder. The drugs clouded my mind, yes—but I always knew what was happening. Always knew.
And still… I let it happen.
Night after night.
Letting them sell me to men who pay obscene amounts of money for something pretty, something polished.
A doll.
That's what we are.
They wax us. Do our nails. Style our hair. Dress us in expensive clothes. Paint our faces perfectly—makeup that smears just right when a girl cries after a session.
Because some of them like that.
They like to see us break.
I haven't cried once.
Maybe something in me shattered that first night. Maybe it stayed there—in the snow, mixed with blood.
Maybe I just stopped caring.
An hour later, the driver comes to pick me up.
During the ride, I stare blankly out the window, watching people move along unfamiliar sidewalks. When I was first taken, I thought I was still somewhere on the outskirts of New York.
Now I know better.
Chicago.
As I watch normal life pass me by, something shifts inside me. For the first time in two months, I find myself eyeing the door handle. Thinking.
What if I run?
The thought makes my stomach twist. It took me this long to even consider it.
But now… I can't stop thinking about it.
I want to feel clean again.
I don't know if that's even possible anymore. But I want to try.
I've heard the stories. What happens to girls who try to escape. As long as we behave, we get the pills—because clients don't like needle marks.
But the moment you become a problem…
They switch methods.
And then it's over.
Is that what happened to the girl who disappeared?
Leaning back against the seat, I close my eyes and let out a slow breath.
No. Not yet.
I'll keep pretending.
The obedient girl. The perfect little slut who doesn't fight, doesn't resist, doesn't think.
And I'll wait.
Because I'll only get one chance.
And when it comes, I'll make sure it counts.