On paper, she belongs to me.
“Pleasure doing business,” the man says, standing. “Your vehicle is waiting in Bay Three. She’ll be brought out shortly.”
I nod once and turn to leave, the contract folded in my pocket like a brand.
“This way, sir,” he says quietly. “We’ll take you to collect your purchase.”
I rise, following him through a side door tucked behind the stage, each second dragging longer than the last. The hallway beyond is colder, stripped of the opulence of the main rooms. Here, the walls are bare concrete, the lighting harsh and clinical. The illusion ends here. This is where the truth lives.
We pass a series of locked doors, each marked with a number. I count them all. Note the cameras. The guards. Every detail. Because even though Nell will be safe now, the op will carry on until all these cunts are charred crisps.
Finally, we stop at a reinforced door with a keypad. The man enters a code, and the lock clicks open.
“She’s sedated,” he says, as if that’s a selling point. “Makes transport easier. You’ll find she’s compliant, though we recommend keeping restraints on for the first few days. Just until she adjusts.”
He sounds like he’s selling a puppy not a human being.
The room is small, sterile. A cot in the corner. A metal chair. A drain in the floor.
And Nell.
She’s curled on the cot, wrists bound, a thin blanket draped over her like an afterthought. Her face is pale, lips cracked, a bruise blooming along her jaw. Her eyes are half-lidded and unfocused.
But she’s breathing.
“Please inspect your purchase, and once satisfied I ask you return to your vehicle and we will bring her up.”
I can’t show how much this moment means. Not here.
It’s not safe to break character until we’re safely home, and she’s tucked in my bed.
So I keep my face blank, even as my chest threatens to cave in. I hover near her, close enough to touch, but I don’t.
She’s barely conscious—adrift in some drugged half-state, her body twitching with each breath.
She moans softly, incoherent, her eyes rolling back into her head.
My Nell.
She’s here. She’s alive.
And soon, she’ll be safe.
“All happy,” I echo with a tight smile, forcing the words past the lump in my throat.
I tear my gaze away from her—because if I don’t, I’ll break—and follow the handler as he leads me toward the waiting SUV. It sits idle in one of the bays, engine humming, doors already unlocked.
They don’t bother with care.
The rear passenger door swings open, and they toss her in like luggage—limp and silent.
She crumples across the backseat, her body folding awkwardly, wrists still bound, a strip of black tape sealed over her mouth. Someone’s thrown a thin cloth over her like it’s enough to preserve her dignity. It isn’t.
My jaw tightens. Every instinct screams to lash out, to tear them apart for treating her like this.
But I can’t. Not yet.
We’re so close now.
