“You think I’m just a doll. A doll that’s pink and light.
A doll you can arrange any way you like.”
—Harley Quinn
Mama didn’t believe in television, so Frankie and I used to slip into a neighboring trailer where an elderly woman, known endearingly as ‘Batshit Crazy Betsy,’ let us borrow her cable to indulge in our addiction of reality television and the Home Network channel. I’ve seen my fair share of fancy properties from that little box TV sitting on her kitchen counter.
This place pales them all in comparison.
When Stella first led me outside through the back door, the quaint garden I’d glimpsed from within the living room greeted me. The same massive hedges lining the front driveway circled the garden’s border like a fence. Which is why I was so surprised when she revealed a thin opening hidden behind a cherry tree. We passed through it and continued beyond the wall of shrubbery.
I never expected to see the quarter-mile field of grass leading to another, larger mansion.
It’s a secret guesthouse—if a mansion this big could be called secret—with intricate moldings decorating its exterior and the kind of terraces that keep guests like me in awe. This building is narrow enough to hide behind its counterpart, yet twice the size of the front house in length.
We cross over a slim driveway, and Stella stops as we approach the mahogany front door. It automatically unlocks with a distinct click. My brows furrow, and I shift my head upward. Sure enough, there’s a small, black bowl protruding from the door’s archway, the kind that hides a camera so you can’t tell which way it’s pointing.
I’m not yet sure whether the knowledge that we’re being monitored so closely should make me feel safer or more uneasy. How closely were they watching Frankie?
I follow Stella into the foyer, and my movements slow as I look around with wide eyes. This building might match the front house on the exterior—all soft earth tones and elegant designs—but the interior is something else entirely. Our dresses blend right into the jet-black walls. Polished, white marble stretches beneath our heels, enhancing every click with an echo that bounces off the corners.
The constant click-clack grates on my ears, but the dark settles around me like a soft blanket. Shadows soothe the goose bumps on my bare arms. The pumping in my veins calms. At least, in this place, the deceptions are gone. No frills or frosting to dress up and distract from the truth.
Each massive room we pass looks identical to the next in style. The furniture is minimal, modern, and in only the purest shades of black or white. The few windows hide behind velvety black curtains, rendering the entire place dim and shadowed in a way that should probably send a shiver down my spine.
It doesn’t.
Three women casually stroll from one room to the next. Each of them is blond, stunning enough to make me do a double take, and wearing high-end dresses and heels similar to mine and Stella’s. They also wear thin scarves around their necks like Stella’s, except only one matches hers—gold. The others are blue and red.
The scarves seem to be the only splashes of color in the entire building, other than the occasional piece of abstract art hanging from the walls.
Something icy uncurls in my stomach as I watch the women come and go. The sensation hits me with a sting, deep in my gut, because at first glance any one of these young women could be mistaken for Frankie. Tall, blonde, tan, curves in all the right places. Beautiful enough to appear photoshopped.
I’m attractive, but it’s the kind of beautiful men only appreciate until a girl like them—like Frankie—enters a room and wipes any trace of me away.
Ordinarily that wouldn’t bother me, but with my thick, black hair falling straight down my back, ivory skin, and a petite frame that barely reaches 5’ 6” in these four-inch heels, I’m chillingly aware of how much I stand out next to the others. How much attention my mere presence here might draw. How long do I have before one of the girls—or worse, the Matthews—gets suspicious?
I nod toward a girl nearest us, who’s setting a fresh bouquet of roses on a glass table. “Will I be getting a scarf?”
Stella follows my gaze. “If all goes according to plan.”
We reach a pair of tinted glass doors. Once they open automatically for us, Stella leads me through a short hallway, and soon we’re in a sterile room with a wide desk before us. She steps forward and rings a silver call bell.
I can hear that click-clack of heels well before another stunning woman appears. With vibrant red locks spilling over one shoulder, she’s the first non-blonde I’ve seen. The left half of her head is closely shaven, accentuating her heart-shaped face and adding a distinct edge to features that would otherwise be considered soft and dainty.
When her gaze meets mine, she doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t greet me in the least. I watch in admiration at the way she moves with such natural, confident ease behind her desk to slide a sheet of paper into a drawer. Then she leans her hip against the oak wood and eyes Stella expectantly.
“She’s ready to begin phase two,” Stella says, gesturing to me. She peeks at her black wristwatch and adds, “Be sure to have her prepped by dinner. They’ll be expecting her.”
“What exactly will they—” I start, but Stella takes my hand in hers and squeezes.
“Relax, Emmy. Aubrey here is the best of the best. She’ll get you in tip-top shape for presentation and have the Matthews fighting over who gets to claim you.” Her proud smile makes me doubt whether she realizes how strange her words are.
Presentation. Claim. Am I really the only one here who thinks these are not normal terms to drop into casual conversation?
My gaze shifts to the redhead, Aubrey, whose lips quirk when she takes in my expression. Then her green eyes scan me up and down in a brisk assessment. “Consider it done.”
“Very well. I’ll leave you to it, then.” Stella nods and exits the room.
Aubrey reaches down, retrieving a wicker basket with a folded white towel and washcloth draped over other items I can’t make out. She holds it out to me. “For you.”
“Thanks.” I grab it and peek inside.
“Private baths are down the hall and to your left. You’ll use our provided hygiene products for now, but tonight you can make a list of any specific items you want, and I’ll pick them up for you tomorrow.” She flicks her gaze up and down the length of me once more and shakes her head. Something about the look prompts me to tuck my chewed fingernails into the wicker until they’re hidden from view. “Not sure how you wound up here, Emma—”
“Emmy.”
“—but I’ll have you shinier than Stella’s lip gloss by the time I’m done with you.”
The private baths look nothing like any I’d seen back home. Large and round, the whirlpool tub makes me feel pampered. Too pampered, like it’s trying to convince me I’m something special, and I find myself hurrying through the motions to get the whole thing over with.
After slipping out of the tub, I pat myself dry and spot a white, silk robe hanging on a wall hook. I slip it on just as a knock strikes the door.
Aubrey’s standing there when I open it. She turns and gestures for me to follow. “Spa time.”
Turns out ‘spa time’ is code for excruciating pain. She soon has me stretched out on a massage table, my legs spread as she yanks the final strip of muslin from the area between my thighs. I don’t make a sound, but my fingers dig into the vinyl leather. I’ve never waxed anything but my eyebrows until now.
“I know. Hurts like a bitch the first time,” Aubrey says.
I suppress a grimace. “Just the first time?”
“And the second. And third. And—you know what, I should’ve left it at ‘hurts like a bitch.’”
I snort out a bitter laugh, the sting finally cooling as she spreads a thin layer of cream over the area. When she straightens my legs and applies the soothing balm to my freshly waxed calves, I open my eyes. She stands to the left of the table, the shaved side of her head facing me, and, for the first time, I notice her bare neckline.
“You don’t wear a scarf?”
She smirks but doesn’t look up from my legs. “Nope.”
“Are you not one of the secretaries then? I figured it was, like, a part of the uniform or something.”
“Oh no—I am. I just haven’t been claimed.”
I swallow, one of the contract clauses floating into mind: I understand if none of the Matthews claim me as their loyal servant, I will make it my primary duty to serve all four of them at their individual requests.
My throat is dry when I respond, “Oh.”
Aubrey lets out a chuckle as she gently helps me into a sitting position and closes the robe around my front. “I like it this way, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“You like it?”
We stand, and she leads me to another room then guides me into a chair surrounded by mirrors. I’m hardly paying attention. How could she like serving four men to ‘full satisfaction’?
I’m no saint when it comes to sex. I lost my virginity at fifteen and never looked back. I like sex, or, more accurately, I need it, despite knowing I don’t enjoy it the way most women do. For me, the act serves a specific purpose.
I don’t have a place at home, a mama who wants me, or a clue who my daddy is. I definitely don’t have any control over the secret, forbidden places my mind sometimes goes. But art and sex? Those are the two things I can count on. My sole releases in this world. The only things within my control powerful enough to drown out the rest of the world.
This place—signing a contract, acting as a servant, accepting payment for my body—this is entirely new territory. Territory that threatens to rip away any sense of control.
Aubrey tilts my chin up. She inspects my face, then skims the display of makeup topping the vanity. I’ve never seen so many beauty products in one spot.
“Yeah,” she eventually murmurs, “I do. That’s not to say none of them want to claim me . . .” Her lips lift, and she uses a brush to blend concealer over my skin. “But I made a choice. And it’s liberating. Isn’t that why you’re here? Searching for something? The kind of freedom you can’t find anywhere else?”
Freedom? I don’t know what I’d call identical dolls sharing a mansion to do the bidding of men, but freedom isn’t exactly the first word that comes to mind.
My thoughts must be written in my expression because Aubrey pulls back, her eyes narrowing. “Or maybe what you’re looking for is different. Maybe the reason you’re here is different.”
My stomach clenches as her words hit too close to home. I keep my expression blank, but my voice falters. “Wh-what do you mean? They found me, contacted me. Just like everyone else here.”
It’s a truth blended with a lie. The faded phone number I found scrawled on the bottom of Frankie’s nightstand might not have been left there for me, but, as I learned, this place is invite-only in the most exclusive sense. You don’t seek out the Matthews House; they seek out you.
When I picked up the phone with trembling fingers the day I realized Frankie wasn’t just gone—she was missing—the woman who answered my call had assumed I’d been selected like everyone else.
Aubrey shrugs, then leans forward again and starts working on my eye makeup. “What I mean is that sometimes the things we’re drawn to tell us more about ourselves than we realize. There’s a reason you decided to get on the plane, Emma—”
“Emmy.”
“—and it’s not just the money. It’s never just the money for something like this.”
Her words sink into my brain, clear and heavy. Could that be true? Was Frankie here for something else? But what could she have been searching for? She’s never the one looking for answers; she’s the one people get answers from. Never a follower, always the leader.
“Then what?” I ask, my voice small, fearful of the response I might get. “What for, if not the money?”
Another shrug as she glances around, eyes flicking from one black wall to the next. “There’s something raw about the darkness here, don’t you think? Something honest. Real. In a place like this, you can’t help but let yourself go to your deepest secrets and desires. Your darkest corners.” Her fingers wrap around my chin as she tilts my head once more, this time so I’m staring straight into her sharp, green eyes. “And everyone has dark corners, Emma. Even the angel who never sins just wants to be set free.”