Page 108 of Unmask
The dull throbbing beating against the sides of my head didn’t subside, but eventually my vision cleared, and I got a clearer look at my surroundings.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
Ornate crown molding trimmed the blush and gold walls. The bed I lay in was massive, layered in silk sheets with thick, fluffy pillows that smelled like a luxury hotel. Plush rugs muffled the sound of my bare feet when I swung my legs over the side and stood.
It was beautiful.
And terrifying.
Nothing about this place screamed prison, but I felt the bars all the same.
The windows were tall and curtained but sealed. No way to open them. No sound came from beyond them, no movement, no air. When I reached for the glass doorknob, I wasn’t surprised to find it locked from the outside.
Of course, it was.
A gilded cage was still a cage.
I turned slowly, taking it all in. The vanity lined with untouched perfume bottles. The corner chaise stacked with plush blankets. A walk-in closet full of expensive dresses, most with tags still on them, designer brands, hand-beaded gowns, and lingerie that made my stomach pitch. It didn’t look like the same space that Kenny had been held, but I couldn’t be sure. Not really.
Not that it mattered. It was a mask. A fantasy. A beautiful lie to convince me I wasn’t in hell, but I knew better.
A silk noose still tightened.
When I spotted the camera mounted discreetly in the corner of the ceiling, I knew this wasn’t comfort. It was control.
I strolled through the space carefully, my fingers shaking as I opened the vanity drawers. Lipsticks. Hairbrushes. But no hidden weapons unless I planned to kill my kidnapper with a mascara wand. The closet had shoes in every size. I pulled open one of the drawers, hoping maybe, just maybe, they had been careless.
Inside were stockings. A drawer of jewelry. Diamonds and pearls and gold, probably real, probably worth enough to buy my freedom if that was how this world worked.
But it didn’t.
This wasn’t about value.
It was about ownership.
And that scared me the most.
Not the chains I didn’t see but the fantasy they expected me to accept. And they were watching my every move. The door to my room finally opened, and I saw him.
Fucking Rusty.
He stepped inside, and his presence immediately sucked the oxygen out of the room. He looked so out of place in his oil-stained boots on the shiny tile, echoing far louder than it should have, and yet, he was a king entering his castle.
The bottom of my stomach dropped.
I didn’t know why I expected him to look different. More sinister, maybe. More bloodstained. But he looked the same. Maybe a little grayer at the temples. Maybe his face had softened with the price of living well while the rest of us grieved and survived.
But it was him.
The man who called me kiddo and ruffled my hair. The man who showed up to family barbecues, who slipped me twenty bucks when my mom wasn’t looking, and taught me how to patch a tire when I was thirteen. Who had unveiled Donovan’s deception but carefully kept his own hidden. The man who used to call my dad his brother. How could he be him and also be someone who heartlessly stole people and sold them as if they were meaningless dolls?
His gaze swept over the room, indifferent. Not even stopping on me. “Nice to see you awake,” he said lightly, like we’d bumped into each other in a grocery store aisle and not in a fucking nightmare of his own making.
My throat burned. “How could you?”
His eyes flicked toward me, quick and impersonal. “It’s not so bad, right?” He gestured vaguely toward the silk sheets, the opulent walls, and the mirrored vanity. “They’ll take care of youhere, and soon you’ll be living a life of luxury just like you’re used to.”
I almost laughed. Almost. The sound got stuck somewhere between fury and disbelief. “How fucking cliché,” I spat. “My father’s best friend killed him. The one person he trusted the most. Or maybe he didn’t trust you. Maybe he figured you out too late, uncovered what you were doing behind his back, and instead of owning your shit, you decided to silence him. You betrayed him. The crew. You sold out the people who would’ve bled for you. For what? A fatter paycheck? A bigger cut of the fucking pie?”
