The Mistress ✓

12

Onika
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Scar doesn't speak as he slips the hood over my head and picks me up again. Up, down, around and around.

Is it a spiral staircase?

I feel the cool breeze of outside air for only a moment before he settles me in the backseat of the car. Immediately, my hands to to my hood, but his thick fingers grab them and squeeze. It's a clear indication that I'm not to remove it.

"I have to leave it on for that ride home? Are you joking?"

The only response he gives is a grunt.

My fingers itch to rip the hood off,  it if keeping it on gets me home faster, then I'll leave the damn thing alone.

He backs out of the garage, and
The muted street noises barely breach the interior of the luxury car. Again, I lose track of which way we turn and instead stay silent, ready for this nightmare of an evening to be over. When the car finally stops again, I sit on my hands, expecting him to take the hood off, but he doesn't.

"Someone is going to see and think you're---"

Grunt.

I shut up and let him lift me out of the car and carry me up to my apartment.

Except something feels off. Keys jingle, but I swear they sound different from mine.

Scar hauls me up the stairs and stands me on my feet while he unlocks dead bolts. He gives me a small shove into the room, and the door shuts behind me before I can yank off the hood.

I rip it over my head and spin around, my brain racing to process something that makes absolutely no sense at all.

This isn't my apartment.

Where the hell am I?

Fenty. She did this.

She never intended to let me go.

"Where are you, you fucking bastard."

I jerk my head from side to side, taking in the walls papered in a sophisticated black-and-white brocade pattern, looking for the telltale globe in the corners of the thick crown molding that would give away the presence of a camera.

I don't see any evidence of a camera, but that doesn't mean there's not one here. But Rihanna's not here either.

That's something.
Barely.

All the relief I felt on my ride "home" drains from me as I investigate my new cage. I heard the locks. I know I'm not leaving until she lets me. My body trembles, and it has nothing to do with the fact that I'm naked underneath my coat.

I wrap my arms around myself and chafe them in an attempt to stop the shaking.

Don't think about it. Gather information. Be a general, not a prisoner.

I swallow the fear and focus on my surroundings. There must be something that will help me either figure out where I am or aid me in my escape. I turn, surveying what is probably the most beautiful sitting room I've ever seen. The phrase gilded cage has never been so fitting.