The black limo came to a slow halt in the dimly lit underground parking lot of a towering penthouse building nestled in the heart of an unfamiliar city. The humming engine ceased, and silence fell heavy like the weight in Rose's chest.
"We are here," Leon said flatly.
The driver exited and rounded the vehicle. A moment later, the rear door opened smoothly, letting in the low gleam of fluorescent lighting that flickered above. Leon stepped out first, his polished shoes clicking against the cold concrete floor. He stood tall, adjusting the cuffs of his designer suit while he waited beside the open door.
Rose didn't move. Her hands were trembling in her lap, clutching the hem of the thin dress she had been forced to wear. No underwear, no dignity. Her breathing was shallow, her heart pounding in her ears as her eyes darted around the dark interior of the limo.
Leon sighed with theatrical annoyance, his face twisted into a smirk as he bent slightly to peer inside.
"Do you prefer being dragged out in that short dress with no underwear?" he asked, his voice smooth and laced with mockery. "Because that can be arranged."
His words were a slap across the face. A cruel reminder of the helplessness she was drowning in. Her jaw tightened, and her fingers clenched into fists.
No better options.
Gritting her teeth, Rose slowly scooted across the seat and stepped out of the limo. The cold of the concrete bit into her bare feet, and she wobbled slightly, catching herself on the car door. Leon watched her with lazy amusement before gesturing toward the elevator.
They ascended in silence. Rose tried not to look at the mirror walls of the lift, tried not to see the girl staring back at her with haunted eyes, bruises blooming on her wrists and a fire of fear barely restrained in her gaze.
When the elevator doors opened with a soft ding, they stepped into the lavish interior of Leon's penthouse. The lighting here was warmer, golden, casting a deceptive glow over the cold reality of the situation. Leather couches, expensive rugs, marble floors. But none of it mattered. Because inside the room, seated and standing with drinks in hand, were men.
Three of them.
They turned when they heard Leon's voice.
"Gentlemen," Leon called, spreading his arms with a smile. "I brought a surprise."
The men raised their brows, their gazes falling on Rose. One of them gave a low whistle, the other two exchanged looks and smirks. Rose's stomach twisted violently.
Leon continued. "She's very beautiful, isn't she? I thought you might enjoy her company for the night. Or longer. Depends on how cooperative she is."
Rose's breath hitched. Her skin crawled as she tried to inch backward, but Leon's bodyguard was already behind her.
Just then, Leon's phone rang. A loud, shrill sound that pierced the tense air. He groaned, pulling it out of his pocket.
"For fuck's sake," he muttered, reading the caller ID. Then he looked at the guard. "Take her to the guest room. Lock the door. I'll deal with her later."
The guard gave a sharp nod, and without a word, grabbed Rose's arm. His grip was tight but not rough, just firm enough to tell her resistance would be a mistake. Rose didn't struggle. Not now. Not yet.
They walked past the men, who leered at her with open interest. Her skin burned under their gazes. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor.
The hallway was long and quiet, and at the end of it, the guard opened a door. It was a guest room, yes. Just a queen-sized bed, a chair, a vanity table, and a small bathroom attached.
He shoved her inside and locked the door behind her.
Click.
Alone.
Rose stumbled to the center of the room, her breath heaving. The door was solid. No way out that way.
Her mind buzzed.
She couldn't wait here.
She knew exactly what they wanted. What Leon meant. What the men in the living room expected.
No.
No. She wouldn't let them touch her.
Her eyes darted around the room, searching. Scanning. Calculating. There had to be something. Anything. A weapon. A distraction. An escape.
She moved to the bathroom first. Small, clean. No window. No ventilation vent she could fit through. She opened the cabinets. Towels. Soap. Nothing useful.
She opened the vanity drawers. Empty. She sat on the bed, bouncing slightly as she tried to think.
Her gaze locked on the chair.
She got up, moved to it. Wood. Sturdy.
Maybe...
Her heart pounded. Maybe she could...
The door was locked. But maybe she could hide. Or strike. Or...
Something.
She couldn't just wait.
She had to fight.
Because they weren't going to break her.
Not tonight.
And not ever.
------
Rose bit her nails, pacing in tight, frantic circles. Her eyes scanned the room again and again. No windows. No way to scream without alerting the wrong people. She was trapped — caged like an animal, breathing the same recycled air in a room that felt like it was closing in on her.
She couldn't stay here. Not another second.
Think, Rose. Think.
Her eyes darted to the drawers near the small desk in the corner. She rushed toward them, yanking each one open, shuffling through papers, broken pens, a bent fork—useless junk. Then her fingers brushed something cold and metallic.
A lighter.
Her breath caught in her throat. She lifted it slowly, as if afraid it might vanish if she moved too quickly. Her thumb clicked the flint. A flicker of flame sparked to life, small and angry.
"Yes," she whispered, heart pounding.
She turned toward the bed, eyes locking on the plain white sheet. It wasn't much. But maybe—just maybe—it was enough.
Working quickly, Rose stripped the sheet off and dragged it toward the door. Her hands trembled slightly as she folded it into a tighter bundle and placed it right in front of the door. She paused, listening for footsteps outside.
Silence.
She turned back to the room, glancing once more for anything else that might help her—something she could use to break out, fight back, survive. There was nothing. Just her and her plan.
She crouched beside the sheet, gripping the lighter tightly.
"Come on," she whispered to herself. "You can do this. You have to do this."
Her hand hovered above the fabric.
A thousand thoughts swirled in her mind — What if they don't open the door? What if the fire spreads too fast? What if this gets me killed instead of saving me?
But she had no other choice.
With a sharp inhale, she flicked the lighter and pressed the flame to the edge of the sheet.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—whoosh—the fire caught. The dry fabric darkened and curled, glowing orange before igniting in a sudden burst of heat. The flames danced, crackling and spreading across the sheet, smoke already rising in thick, black curls.
She jumped back, heart slamming against her ribs. The smell of burning cotton filled her nose, acrid and choking.
She didn't have long.
The smoke alarm might trigger. The heat would be felt. They'd come rushing to check.
She positioned herself against the wall beside the door, lighter clutched in one hand, her body coiled like a spring.
Any moment now.