Page 28 of All The Pretty Little Lies

"It's all over now, Vesper," he says, stepping closer to my bedside.

I blink rapidly, trying to clear the fog from my mind. Is this real? Or just another drug-induced hallucination? I've dreamed of this moment so many times, only to wake up still trapped in this nightmare. My heart leaps into my throat, a surge of hope so powerful it's almost painful. Could it be true? Am I finally free of this nightmare? Or is this the merciful death I've been praying for on my darkest days?

I struggle to focus on him through the haze of drugs, willing my eyes to stay open. "What...what do you mean?" I manage to croak, my voice rough from disuse.

The Shadow Man’s eyes crinkle at the corners as if he's smiling beneath his mask. "You've been quite the golden goose, Vesper. More profitable than we ever dreamed possible." His voice drips with satisfaction, making my stomach churn. "And you didn't even have to spread those pretty legs of yours for our clients. Quite the accomplishment."

I feel bile rising in my throat, choking on the implications of his words. How many of my eggs have they sold? How many children might be out there, pieces of me scattered to the wind? The room spins, and I struggle to stay conscious.

"But all good things must come to an end," he continues, his tone almost regretful. "You've served your purpose here. It's time for you to move on."

My heart pounds erratically hope and terror warring within me. Freedom? Or just a different kind of hell?

"Your new owners," he pauses, savoring the words, "well, let's just say they won't be as...accommodating as we've been."

The room tilts sideways, and I fight to keep my eyes open. New owners. The words echo in my mind, each repetition hammering another nail into the coffin of my hopes. I'm not being freed. I'm being sold.

"What..." I lick my dry lips, struggling to form words through the fog of drugs and fear. "What do you mean, 'new owners'?"

The Shadow Man leans in close, his breath hot against my ear. "Oh, sweet Vesper. Did you think this was the worst it could get? That we were the bottom of the barrel?" He chuckles, the sound sending icy fingers of dread crawling up my spine. "There are always darker depths to plummet, my dear. Always someone willing to push the boundaries further."

Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. "Why?" I whisper, the single word encompassing a universe of pain and confusion.

He straightens, adjusting his cuffs with clinical precision. "Business, of course. You've outlived your usefulness here, but there's still profit to be made from that pretty body of yours." His eyes rake over me, and I feel stripped bare despite the thin hospital gown. "Your new owners have...shall we say, more diverse tastes. They'll put you to good use, I'm sure."

The implication hits me like a physical blow. No more sterile harvesting. No more clinical detachment. I'll be used in every way imaginable, my body nothing more than a plaything for the wealthy and depraved. The nightmare I've feared all along is about to become my reality.

"Please," I hear myself beg, hating the weakness in my voice but unable to stop. "Don't do this. Just let me go. I won't tell anyone, I swear."

The Shadow Man’s laugh is cold and mirthless. "Oh, Vesper," he purrs, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "You still don'tunderstand, do you? This isn't about what you want. It never was."

His hand falls to my leg, and I flinch at the contact. His touch is light, almost gentle, but it makes my skin crawl. Slowly, deliberately, he begins to move his hand up my thigh. My muscles tense, every fiber of my being screaming at me to fight, to run, but the drugs have left me weak and sluggish.

"We've treated you so well here, haven't we?" he continues, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin. "Fed you, kept you clean, made sure you were comfortable. Never forced us on you. Never violated you in that way." His hand slides higher, slipping under the thin fabric of my hospital gown. "I've wanted to, though. Oh, how I've wanted to."

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing this to be another drug-induced nightmare. But his touch is too real, too present. "Stop," I whisper, my voice barely audible.

He ignores me, his hand inching ever higher. "Do you know how much you're worth, Vesper? How many men would pay a fortune just to touch you like this?" His fingers brush against my inner thigh, and I bite back a sob. "You're still pure, untouched. A virgin. Do you have any idea how rare that is in our line of work?"

I feel his breath on my face as he leans in close. "I could take you right now," he murmurs. "No one would stop me. No one would care." His hand stills, resting intimately against me. "But I won't. Do you know why?"

I shake my head mutely, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.

"Because you're merchandise," he says, his voice hardening. "And I don't damage the goods before delivery." He withdraws his hand abruptly, leaving me feeling dirty and violated despite the lack of further touch.

"Your new owners, though?" He chuckles darkly. "They won't be so restrained. They'll use every inch of you, Vesper. They'll break you in ways you can't even imagine."

A sob escapes me, the sound raw and broken in the sterile room. The Shadow Man steps back, straightening his suit as if nothing had happened.

"Enjoy your last night of peace," he says, moving towards the door. "Tomorrow, your real nightmare begins."

OSCAR

I adjustmy tie for the hundredth time as our sleek black SUV pulls up to the nondescript warehouse on the outskirts of Boston. The industrial complex looms before us, its corrugated metal exterior a stark contrast to the luxurious vehicles lining the makeshift parking lot. Zaire catches my eye, a silent conversation passing between us. We're here. It's showtime.

"Remember," I mutter under my breath as we step out onto the gravel, "we're the Blackwood brothers tonight. Talon, you're our cousin, Charles, visiting from London.”

Talon nods, his usually carefree demeanor replaced by a focused intensity. "Got it, Oz. Or should I say, Oliver Blackwood? Can I pick out Alex’s name?”

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