1.

Pamela

Sitting cross legged on my bed, I hum to my favorite heavy metal song. I'm painting my nails a bright, defiant red, the brush gliding smoothly, leaving a glossy trail behind. I blow on them, grimacing at the smell of acetone in the air and immediately take whiffs of my strawberry-champagne hand cream to offset the stank.

For once I'm content. Lost in the simple, girly ritual when I hear the front door creak open, and it's as if a dark cloud just passed over the sky. My heart jumps into my throat.

"Honey, I'm home." The voice is unmistakable and the smooth, oily undertone makes my skin crawl.

I scramble to my feet, nearly knocking over the nail polish bottle. With my hands splayed awkwardly, trying not to smudge my still-wet nails, I hurry to the mirror. There's disgust in my eyes, a fearful streak across my mouth. He can't notice that. He'll ask questions, start probing and then I'll be in trouble.

The hallway feels longer than usual as I make my way to the kitchen, my pulse racing. The kitchen gleams under recessed lighting, everything's painted bright white and a tacky blue I never liked. The smart fridge displays the weather forecast and a digital grocery list. We're well off. On the outside, I seem to have everything anyone could want.

But it couldn't be further from the truth.

I put on a pleasant-happy to see you-mask right when he appears. Raymond. My stepbrother. Older by a decade, and always wrapped in an authoritarian air of sleaze. He's in his usual suit, the jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, his tie loosened as if he's just had a long day at the office. He smiles that predatory smile.

"Pammie," he breathes, his eyes raking over me in a way that makes me itch. He steps closer, planting a kiss as close as possible to the corner of my lips. His hands find my waist, lingering far too long, squeezing just enough to remind me that he thinks I'm his. "I got us takeaway."

"Great. I'm starving." My voice is as neutral as I can make it, but it takes all my effort not to recoil from his touch. I force a smile, hoping it looks genuine.

He releases me but stays close, the scent of his sharp cologne invading my nose like an army full of rotting corpses. I swallow hard, my mind racing with thoughts of escape and strategy. He's dangerous, I know that much. Powerful and like all powerful men I've known in my life he wants something from me. Just like my step-dad wanted something, like my tutor wanted something. They're all the same, all abuse their power but I've never given them what they want. And I never will.

He moves to the kitchen island, setting down the bags of food. "I thought we'd eat together," he says, his tone dripping with false warmth.

"Sure," I reply, though my stomach churns at the thought. I hate sitting across from him, pretending to listen to his maniacal monologues.

"Good answer," he murmurs, his eyes glinting as he pulls out containers of gourmet food.

I stand there, heart pounding, wishing for a way out. But there isn't one. I found that out a long time ago.

My hands tremble as I set the table, trying to ignore Raymond's eyes burning into my back. I can feel his gaze inspecting every movement, every gesture, waiting for a misstep. The fine china clinks as I place it on the table, my fingers barely able to keep steady. The utensils are aligned perfectly, the wine glasses shining, but I know it will never be perfect enough for him.

We sit down, and I force myself to breathe evenly. I eat but can't really taste anything other than bitterness on my tongue. Raymond starts talking about his day—meetings, deals, people I don't know and care even less about. I nod and make polite hums, pretending to listen while my mind drifts elsewhere.

"…and then I said to him you're one ugly motherfucker," Raymond laughs, cutting through my thoughts. I blink and try to focus, but his words fade into the background. Suddenly, his tone changes, becoming sharper. "Are you even listening to me?"

I snap back to attention, my heart racing. "Of course. You were talking about one of your clients."

He smirks, and it sends a shiver down my spine. "I was talking about my boss."

My face flushes with heat. "Your boss," I repeat, staring at my plate. "That's what I meant to say."

He leans closer, his eyes darkening with filthy lust."You know before I left for work, I noticed your little razor on the bathtub."

I squirm in my seat, desperate to pull away from him. "I shaved my legs this morning," I reply, my voice thin.

"Did you shave down there too?" His smile tightens. "For me?"

The words hit me like a slap. "Stop it," I whisper, wishing I was strong enough to fight him.

"So shy." Raymond laughs, a low, menacing sound. "And such a sweet, virgin blush," he murmurs, reaching out to stroke my cheek. Instinctively, I flinch, and his hand freezes in midair. His eyes narrow dangerously. "Am I not allowed to touch you?" he asks, his voice soft and deadly.

I swallow hard, my throat dry. "Of course you are," I say quickly, trying to placate him. "I'm just a little a jumpy today. Think I drank too much caffeine."

"Then you should probably cut down." He holds out his hand, and I reluctantly place mine in his. His fingers close around mine, deceptively gentle. He studies my nails, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "By the way, who did you paint these for?"

"For myself," I murmur, my voice shaking and Raymond's jaw tightens.

"See, I have a hard time believing that." His expression changes, the smile turning into a sneer. "Only whores paint their nails red to lure men. Are you a whore?"

"You know I'm not," I say, trying to pull my hand away. The pain shoots up my arm as his grip tightens. Suddenly, the pressure increases to an unbearable point. I gasp, tears springing to my eyes. "Raymond, please," I beg, but it's too late.

There's a sickening snap of bones, and I cry out in pain.

Raymond abruptly releases my hand, watching me with cold detachment as I cradle it against my chest, tears streaming down my face.

"Look what you made me do," he says softly while I struggle not to sob. "You just forced me to punish you."

The pain in my hand throbs in tune with my racing heart. The room spins, the surroundings blurring into a haze.

Raymond's expression shifts as he sees the tears streaming down my face and the way I hold my now limp hand. His cold demeanor softens, replaced by a feigned concern that only makes me feel sicker.

"Let me have a look," he murmurs, reaching out to take my injured hand. I flinch again, but force myself to stay still. He gently turns my fingers over, examining the damage. "We need to get you to the hospital."

I nod weakly.

He stands, pulling me up with him, and guides me toward the door. His touch is suddenly tender, as if he's trying to make amends, but it makes me hate him even more.

"I'm going to have you fixed. Can't have you defective," he says. "Not my beautiful Pamela."

We reach the front door, and he pauses, turning me to face him. His hand clasps my chin, tilting my face up so I have no choice but to look into his eyes. They're pale and menacing.

"Remember," he says softly, "that you can't put the blame on me for this. If anyone asks what happened, you'll tell them it was an accident. Understood?"

His fingers dig into my jaw. I nod, unable to speak, my heart pounding in my chest. He releases me. "Do you love me?" he whispers.

"Yes," I choke, and the words make my throat burn. "Always."

***

The hospital doors slide open, and Raymond guides me to a chair, lowering me gently into it. I wonder what people would think if they knew he was the one responsible for this.

"Stay here," he instructs, his voice devoid of the earlier venom, replaced by a facade of concern. I watch him stride over to the nurse's station, his posture commanding and confident. He leans over the counter, speaking in a rushed tone. The quicker I'm fixed the better.

I look around the waiting room, my gaze landing on a few other patients. They're impeccably dressed, but their faces are hard, with sharp features and ruthless expressions. They look like criminals, or worse, like Raymond. I shiver, feeling out of place and exposed.

The room spins slightly, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to steady myself. The pain in my hand is unbearable, and I cradle it in my lap, biting my lip to keep from crying out. I feel a sudden pressure on my shoulder and look up to see Raymond standing over me.

"The surgeon will be here soon," he says, his hand heavy and possessive on my shoulder. I nod, unable to speak, the pain and fear choking me.

But then, I see him. The surgeon walks down the corridor, and the lights overhead seem to flicker, casting him in a fluorescent glow. He's tall, with wheat blond hair that catches the light, and a strong, chiseled face that reminds me of action movie heroes. His presence is commanding, enough to make my knees go soft.

My heart flutters, a strange mix of panic and something else—something I haven't felt in a long time. His petrol eyes meet mine, and for a moment, everything fades away. The waiting room, the pain, Raymond—all of it dissolves as I focus on the surgeon's penetrative gaze.

Raymond's hand tightens on my shoulder, grounding me back in reality, but my eyes stay locked on the surgeon. As he approaches, I feel a glimmer of hope. And somewhere in my mind I get the bizarre idea, that this stranger…might be the answer to everything I've hoped for.