Mira stopped recognizing herself in mirrors.
The girl who used to smile at the smallest joys, like an iced coffee or a breeze through open windows, was gone. She was replaced by someone hollow-eyed and always watching shadows. The only thing keeping her together was the knowledge that her mother was still breathing, still fighting, because Mira had made a deal with the devil to keep her alive, but deals had consequences.
That morning, she had barely slept. The echo of Adrian's voice haunted her as she stood in her tiny kitchen, watching the kettle boil.
"You still think you can run."
He was right. She did. Even now, some stubborn corner of her heart believed she could wake up from this nightmare and just walk away. But reality clung to her like a second skin.
Her phone buzzed.
Amy: "Drinks tonight? You need a break."
She didn't want Amy's pity. Or her judgment.
At work, things were quiet. Too quiet.
Adrian hadn't summoned her to Room 41 in over a week, but he watched her. Every time she passed his office, she felt his gaze following her, dissecting her. She hated how it made her feel—small, exposed, and yet somehow seen. When her phone rang and the hospital's number flashed on screen, her hands shook as she picked up.
Miss Collins, your mother's condition has deteriorated. We must perform another procedure right away. The estimated cost is twelve thousand dollars.
Mira's vision blurred.
"Twelve thousand?"
"Yes, ma'am. Within 48 hours."
Her voice was a whisper. "I'll find it."
She ended the call, locked herself in an empty conference room, and screamed into her sleeve before storming into Adrian's office without knocking.
He didn't look up from his tablet. "Mira."
"She needs more surgery. Twelve thousand. Please. I..."
He raised a hand to silence her.
"You assume your emergency is mine. But what will you give me in return?"
Her fists clenched. "You said you'd take care of her."
"And I have," he said coolly. "But everything has a limit. You want more? Then I want everything."
Her breath hitched. "What does that mean?"
"I want full access. Your phone. Your schedule. Your movements. I want your complete transparency. If I find out you've hidden anything—one lie, one secret—I cut her off."
Her knees weakened. "That's insane."
"It's control," he said. "And you already gave it to me. I'm just formalizing it."
Mira felt tears burning behind her eyes. "Why are you doing this to me?". Adrian finally looked at her. For a brief moment, his gaze softened.
"Because I don't trust anyone. And because you need me more than you want to admit."
She wanted to scream, to throw something. But instead, she whispered, "Okay."
"Say it," he ordered.
"You have full access. I'm yours until she's well."
He nodded. "Good girl."
--
Later that night, she stood outside Liam's apartment, trembling. It had been too long since she'd seen him, really seen him. She knocked softly.
He opened the door, surprised. "Mira? You didn't text."
"I just needed…" She couldn't finish the sentence. Her voice broke.
He pulled her into a hug. "You can stay as long as you want."
She hadn't realized how cold she was until she felt his warmth.
They ate leftovers in silence. Liam didn't push. He never did. That's what she loved about him—he offered comfort, not questions.
After dinner, they lay in bed, facing each other.
"You're scaring me," he said gently. "You've changed."
"I'm tired," she whispered. "That's all."
He brushed her hair from her face. "You don't have to pretend with me."
And that's when she broke.
She kissed him. Desperate, hungry. She needed to feel like someone wanted her, not for control, but for love. Liam's arms slipped around her waist, his lips brushing her neck. It was soft, slow, the kind of intimacy that used to make her melt, but her mind wandered.
Adrian's voice, Adrian's stare. It haunted her like a phantom behind her eyelids.
He guided her towards the bed. Clothes peeled off piece by piece. Liam's touch was reverent and predictable, and that was the problem.
Her body responded out of memory, not hunger. Her sighs were habit, not desire.
As Liam moved above her, she arched and kissed and moaned, playing the part she used to live. But inside, her heart thudded in two separate rhymes. One for the man beside her, and the one for the man who wasn't. As if trying to erase all the bruises she didn't speak about. She cried silently when he held her afterward. He didn't notice.
As Liam drifted off, she lay staring at the ceiling, her skin warm but her chest hollow. She slipped out of bed without a sound, quickly dressed, and picked up a silver key.
It was almost midnight when a black car pulled up to the curb. She stepped in without a word. The driver didn't look at her.
The building they arrived at was unfamiliar—sleek, dark, and quiet. A private elevator took her to the 41st floor. Her heels clicked softly on the marble floor as she walked toward the single black door labelled ''Room 41 B''.
This version of Room 41 wasn't what she expected; it was quiet. Dim. A low hum filled the space, air-conditioning or maybe anticipation. Black walls swallowed the light. There were no windows. No clocks. Just shadows and restraint.
A leather chaise sat in the corner, beside it a cabinet of tools. Mira didn't dare study too closely. Adrian stood with his sleeves rolled, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. He was the image of control—cool, clean, precise.
"You came," he said without looking.
"I said I would."
"You still have a choice, Mira."
Her voice cracked, but didn't break. "No, I don't."
He turned then. His eyes swept over her body, not like a man admiring, but like a man assessing.
"Take off your blouse," he said.
Her fingers moved slowly, clumsily. When the fabric fell to the floor, the room got colder.
"Come here."
She walked to him, her chest rising and falling as if she'd just run a mile.
He touched her jaw lightly, carefully, and tilted her head up. "I don't do softness, Mira. Not in here."
"I'm not asking for soft."
Adrian kissed her like a man trying not to feel. It was hard, consuming, almost cruel in its precision. His hands moved over her, stripping away what little armor she had left. He didn't ask permission for every touch he took. And she let him. He pushed her against the leather chaise, and she gasped, not from fear, but from the shock of how much her body responded.
Clothes disappeared between shadows and breath. His mouth trailed down her collarbone, slow and sharp like the edge of a promise. He bound her wrists with a black silk tie—not tight, but enough to remind her she wasn't in control anymore.
And when he finally entered her, it wasn't violent or punishing; it was deliberate.
Every thrust said, You're mine.
Every moan she let slip said, I know. She didn't close her eyes. She stared up at the ceiling, counting the cracks in her heart, trying to decide if she still knew who she was.
He held her afterward. Not long. Not tenderly. Just enough.
"You're stronger than I thought," Adrian murmured into her hair.
"No," she whispered. "Just more broken."
--
The days that followed blurred. She avoided Liam, dodging his calls and messages. How could she face him after what she'd done? Even though she told herself it was a transaction, her body remembered the way Adrian held her.
She felt sick. Disoriented. Distant from herself. One morning, she threw up in the office restroom. Three times.
That evening, Liam showed up at her apartment. He held a bag of food, and that concerned look he always wore when she looked broken.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
She nodded, lying. They ate leftovers in silence. Liam didn't push. He never did. He just watched her with those warm eyes, waiting for her to come back to him.
Mira broke first. "I'm late," she whispered.
Liam blinked. "Late for what?"
She looked up. "My period."
His face shifted slowly. "You think you're pregnant?"
"I don't know."
She didn't say it. She didn't need to.
They both knew he wasn't the only possibility, and that destroyed something between them.
---
The next day, she took a test.
Positive. She stared at the stick in the work restroom, heart pounding so loudly she thought someone might hear it.
She texted Liam: We need to talk.
He responded: I already know. I saw your eyes last night. We'll figure it out.
But how could they? She had traded herself for money. For medicine. For control. And now she carried the result.
---
Adrian called her that afternoon. "Room 41. One hour."
Mira didn't reply. She shut her laptop, walked out of the building, and vanished into the city streets.
Not to escape, but to breathe. To decide who she was going to be, before the world decided for her.