Chapter 115

**Hadassah POV**

The convoy of vans move through the countryside like a shadow slipping through the night. The road is a winding serpent of cracked asphalt and gravel, flanked by endless fields of gold-tinged wheat and rolling hills shrouded in mist. In the distance, the jagged peaks of distant mountains loom ahead, their tops crowned with snow even in the fading warmth of westering light. The scent of earth and wildflowers drift in through the cracked windows as the vans rumble along, the silence within unavoidable and tense.
The landscape begins to change as we venture deeper into the countryside, leaving behind the rustic villages and sprawling farmlands. Dense forests with towering trees stretch their gnarled branches over the road, casting long, haunting shadows across the path. Occasionally, the convoy passes through narrow mountain passes, where the rocks jut out like the teeth of some great beast, creating an eerie tunnel of stone and shadow.
Acheson and I haven’t said a word to each other, not since her understandable request and her outrageous outburst. Nika and Vinea, the two girls I found Acheson with. I haven’t seen them and I don’t think they were on the aircraft with us, which means they were shuttled elsewhere. It’s terrifying, someone being there one moment and gone forever the next. After what feels like hours with the night upon us, the convoy reaches a large, wrought-iron gate nestled between two towering marble pillars. The entrance is unmarked, blending into the forest as though it doesn’t want to be found. The gate creaks open with a mechanical whine, and the convoy streaks through, entering a secluded, exclusive estate.
The estate is an opulent retreat hidden from the eyes of the world, rivaling the size of Torin’s current property, but I’m sure his primary estate is twice this size. Lush, manicured gardens stretch out before them, dotted with olive trees and winding stone paths that lead deeper into the grounds. The grand centerpiece of the estate is the Arabian architecture that resembles an old-world palace, its exterior a mixture of marble and sandstone, with intricate Ottoman designs carved into the walls. Tall, arched windows glimmer in the moonlight, and ivy climbs the walls, adding to the estate’s air of timeless elegance.
The vans come to a halt in a circular driveway lined with marble fountains, the soft trickle of water providing a rare moment of peace after the arduous journey. The women step out, blinking in awe at their surroundings before other enforcers begin hauling them out with harsh impatience. Their exhaustion momentarily forgotten as we are all ushered through a set of towering, ornately carved wooden doors.
Inside, the estate is a marvel of luxury and refinement. The grand foyer greets us with gleaming marble floors and columns, each one adorned with delicate carvings of floral patterns and geometric shapes. The room is bathed in the soft glow of hanging chandeliers, their crystal pendants casting shimmering patterns across the walls. And the air faintly smells of jasmine and incense, a calming contrast to the tension of the night.
Rising before us is a spiraling gallery, its railings made of dark polished wood that curled gracefully around the open space. The galleries stretched upward in three levels, each one connected by elegantly crafted stone staircases. The first landing is wide and spacious, with plush seating and ornate rugs spread beneath low, brass tables.
The host or co-ordinator, another woman, much older like the mother of the trade. A mistress. It’s translated in a myriad of languages that we have two hours to get ready before the men arrive and we ought to look our best. So they take us up one level higher.
The second landing features arched doorways leading into private chambers, their entrances framed by heavy velvet curtains in rich shades of burgundy and gold. The third and highest landing seemed to disappear into the vaulted ceiling, its high arches adorned with delicate mosaic tiles.
The staff, dressed in simple but elegant uniforms, moves with quiet efficiency, guiding us newcomers up the spiraling galleries to their private rooms. The soft murmurs of conversation echo through the vast space. At every level, the walls are lined with art—grand oil paintings interspersed with modern abstract pieces. Large windows along the galleries allow moonlight to pour in, casting long, silvery beams across the marbled floors, while intricate latticework above gives glimpses of the star-filled sky.
Their first objective is to get us bathed so most of us disperse to use the extravagant en suites, most of us bearing the luxury of privacy. And for a time it’s like we’re treasured guests, pampered and doted on, but it’s all a cruel illusion. Once we’re all washed and refreshed, staff members take us through an elaborate beauty regimen of hair and makeup. Whilst we occupy separate stations with mirror-lit vanities, like we’re all stars of the show. And of course the first thing they do to me is re-straighten my hair, burning out every coil into sleek straight sheets.
I watch the reflection as others roll in racks of dresses that the other staff members flurry towards to rifle through them, deliberating on which one would fit and look best on their girl. The woman doing my makeup gives me a feline fierce look with a cat-eye like mascara, black-rimmed and sharp that intensifies my eyes with a dark burgundy lipstick. She instructs me to stand when her colleague comes over with an outfit and I gawk at the salacious monstrosity.
I glance around and the other women strip as they are told to change into their given attire—if you can even call it that. I undo the white robe and I allow it to drop on the floor dramatically. I snatch the outfit before I twist and scramble into it. A lace black lingerie, one piece with a plunging neckline that’s easily breakable at the couchie area with a floor-length lace skirt with thigh high leg slits. Lastly, they hand me a pair of black heels before they scurry off to attend to another array of women. And that’s when I spot her.
The little girl I saw in the underground room—so far the youngest here. They are all young, from teenagers to young adults like me, but she’s only a child. Even with hair and makeup done meant to diminish her childish features, it can’t because she’s in fact a child. I look around furtively, slipping on the heels before walking towards her. And the entire staff is too busy trying to get the women ready before the start of the party. If you can even call it that. The moment she spots me approaching, she seals the distance between us and collides into me, wrapping her arms around my waist and I hug her back tightly. She says something foreign to me but she’s Balkan that alone, I’m sure of.
I keep her close to me in a bent over embrace as I scan the room, searching desperately for a decent hiding spot. And when I do, I take her by her shoulders before I cautiously steer her towards the end of the room where there’s a row of rather tall cabinets and I instruct her to vault over them quickly. From my hand gestures, she climbs over them and I keep watch as she does, the pounding of my heart pulsing even in my fingertips. She manages to get over and huddles into a ball like a centipede curling over.
Someone sidles my flank and my hands are already balled in ready fists. It’s one of the staff members who holds a random blanket before she drapes it over to completely conceal the girl. I look back at the woman and she brings her finger to her lips in a silencing gesture and I smile back at her gratefully. A remarkable action that transcends that limit of language, but the deed of kindness is universal. I back away and even from a short distance—you can’t even see so much as her head, so long as she stays low and still. No one will find her whilst I’m away—at least I hope so.
Acheson appears, her dyed black hair, loose and slicked back like it’s wet with editorial makeup and a silver shimmery eyeshadow that matches her steel-style dress with shimmering sequins. She doesn’t say anything. All she does is stand in range with me. And eventually, a faceless enforcer beckons us to come out. And we do. I sneak a look behind me at the cabinets and all is clear. It’s like there’s no one else left in the room despite us departing in throngs.
“How long has it been?” I ask.
Acheson’s face creases slightly from concentration. “An approximate calculation could be performed based solely on the time of my insertion. Even in the absence of the specific end time, the duration could still be determined. However, after my… I was passed out for a long time. And we were kept underground, unable to mark the movement of the sun to determine how much time had passed. I’m sure we have already hit the forty-eight interval. And I’m sure our location has been delivered and the CIA are coordinating a hit team right now. I give it no more than five hours tops before black opps forces burst through.”
“The whole point of this is when they do a background check on all the girls is that they uncover my identity,” I point out. “What about you?”
“My handlers already scrubbed my identity before my insertion,” she informs me quietly. “All they will see is my alias, Allison Price, unemployed with a meager criminal record of petty crimes, bounced between rehab facilities. A troubled girl.”
We are all herded down the corridor toward the staircase like bedazzled cattle. The high, vaulted ceilings are adorned with detailed geometric patterns, swirling into an artistic maze that speaks of ancient craftsmanship. Rich tapestries, embroidered in deep reds and golds, hang along the sandstone walls, complementing the ornate arched windows draped in silks. Out of nowhere, Acheson grabs my hand and her hold makes my own tremble—shaking that hard. My eyes dart to her before I give her a reassuring squeeze and when we come to the open staircase. She let’s go and we all flow down the steep flight where we all pool in the foyer were Armend himself awaits.