Day two…

The next morning I shower and put on a light, floaty cotton dress, white splashed with prints of pale blue Mandalas, and macramé sandals. Breakfast is brought to my room by a silent maid. I want to talk to her, to ask her about Sergei, but she’s avoiding my gaze.

She takes last night’s platter away, sets a tray down in front of me, and leaves quickly. Royal Copenhagen plates; the dishware on that tray is worth more than many people earn in a year. The cheese omelet is no doubt delicious, but it tastes like ashes in my mouth.

I eat a few bites and drink some coffee.

Nobody has told me what to do today. After a few hours of pacing around my room and staring at the pages of books without really seeing the words, I decide to explore, and pray I won’t be punished for it.

I grab the sketch pad and the tin of pastels, open the garden door and head out.

The sky overhead is an endless blue, strung with wispy strands of white cotton clouds. I walk through gardens of fragrant red roses. White pebble pathways wind through stone benches and statues and fountains.

I try to pull images of that beauty to me and wrap them around myself, as a shield against the ugliness of the world I live in now.

I come to a maze of hedges, and as I walk through them, trailing my fingers along the cool leaves, a little boy comes running around the corner.

“Majka! Majka!” he cries out. And other words I don’t understand. I speak decent Russian, but his accent sounds Czech.

He has mistaken me for someone else, someone named Majka. I kneel down and stroke his corn-silk hair. His blue eyes are huge, and his dark lashes are fringed with teardrops. He throws his arms around my leg and holds on tight.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I say to him in English. I say it again in Russian. He answers in another language.

I hear the thudding of footsteps, and an older couple come rushing around the hedgerow corner. They look exasperated. They gently chastise the boy and try to take him away. He clings to me, crying loudly.

Why is there a child in this place?

I feel worry knotting my insides, but he looks well-fed, clean, pink-cheeked. He’s wearing Burberry; he seems too well-dressed to be a servant’s child.

The older couple try to lead him away, but he won’t let go of my leg.

I sit down on the ground, cross-legged, and he plops down next to me. The older couple hover nearby, looking worried. I show him my pad of paper and pastels. I quickly start to sketch a picture of him. I try to capture his blue elfin eyes, his curly blond hair. When he sees that I’m drawing him, he smiles at me and chatters happily. I don’t understand a word of it.

Finally, the woman bends down and picks him up, and he is howling now, reaching back to me. The couple are trying to soothe him, and he doesn’t seem to be afraid of them at all; he just wants to be with me.

Shaken and angry, I return to my room. I wish I could ask who he is, but I’m afraid that would somehow get him in trouble. Or me.

I would offer to babysit him, talk to him... I love children. I spend as much time with other people’s children as I can, because I have resolved never to have any of my own. I would never curse a child with my blood.

I shake my head. Sergei has dark plans for me; it’s probably safest for the little boy if I stay away from him.

I barely touch my lunch, and I struggle to concentrate on the book I’ve selected. A romance novel. I could use a little love in my life right now, even if it’s fictional.

Throughout the day, I keep glancing at the giant clock on the wall. Right now, Yuri is arriving at his fencing lesson, Helenka is slipping into her toe shoes… I force myself to imagine them happy, smiling. I doubt that’s how they’re really feeling right now. Nobody’s really explained to them what’s happening, but they know it’s bad.

That evening, Galina bangs the door open and sweeps in without a word. She’s wearing a black silk pantsuit and low heels.

A knot of resentment twists inside my chest. Yes, yes, I get it already. I have no rights, no privacy; anyone can enter at any time and do whatever they want to me. Do they all need to be such drama queens about it? Apparently.

She is holding what looks like a couple of scraps of fabric, and a pair of ridiculously high heels.

She thrusts them at me.

One of the scraps is a G-string that’s literally nothing but strings, and the other scrap seems to be a dress. It’s tiny. Obscenely revealing.

“I’m already dressed,” I protest.

A flash of hatred flares in her eyes. She has a tiny headset curled around her ear, and she speaks into it.

“She refuses to put it on.”

“That’s not true!” I protested. “All I said was…” I trail off. She’s smirking in satisfaction.

I start to walk into the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” she demands.

“To get dressed. You want to watch?” I snap at her. A tiny rebellion which will probably cost me later.

I don’t wait for her answer. I hurry into the bathroom, shuck my clothing, and get dressed. I hear her shrill voice rising high in complaint. She’s speaking Russian, tattle-taling to Sergei or whoever she’s talking to.

The sparkly blue scrap of halter-dress is so short that I have to tug it down to cover my crotch. If I turn to the side, my breasts are in danger of sliding out. The G-string rubs uncomfortably between my pussy lips.

The shoes are ridiculous. I’m now about six inches taller, and I look like a streetwalker.

She follows me, smirking, as I totter out of the room and down the hallway.

A dull knot of sorrow twists my stomach.

Second night. Twenty-eight days. You can do this.

I am led to an enormous dining room, where Sergei sits at the head of a table that could easily seat two dozen.

Karl, Mikhail, and yet another of my uncle’s men, Vito, sit near him. Feodyr is there as well. The food has already been served. Several servants hover discreetly in the background.

There is an empty seat right next to Sergei. He gestures at it, and I sit. My skirt has ridden up and my butt is pressed against the wooden seat.

He’s dressed casually, in khaki slacks and a button-down shirt. I notice he’s wearing a heavy silver and gold Cartier watch and, oddly, a bracelet made of braided leather straps. It looks like something that Helenka would make in summer camp arts-and-crafts class.

I stare at my plate, waiting for Sergei to say something, but he ignores me, talking to Karl instead, asking him about some shipment.

Indifference? I can do that. I have a feeling that as the days go by, I’ll be grateful for his indifference, and eager for more of it.

The table is beautifully set. There is a lace table runner down the center of the table, and sterling silver serving dishes and gilt-edged dinnerware. A crystal chandelier glitters overhead. A maid quickly serves me a slice of prime rib and a pile of tiny potatoes glistening with butter.

I force myself to take a bite and swallow.

As I do, I realize that even though Sergei is ignoring me, his men are staring at me, their eyes roving greedily over me.

A sudden panic seizes me. Is he going to share me with them? Now fear trickles into my belly. Please, not that.

I’ll do anything for Helenka and Yuri. But please. Not that.

As their greedy gazes rove over my body like probing fingers, I see a flash of anger cross his face. I feel a tiny flare of hope.

Sergei glances at me, and I quickly look away, face flushed.

Then he knocks his fork off the table, flinging it with his hand so it lands halfway across the room.

“Pussy Willow.” His voice is thick with scorn. “Get that for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

I stumble in my heels as I walk. I kneel as carefully as I can, but it doesn’t help. The dress rides up, exposing my bare ass and my clean, waxed lips. The men cat-call and whistle.

“Nice cunt!”

“Show us some more!”

My face heats up. They are disgusting. And this is just the beginning. What’s coming next?

I pick up the fork.

Sergei’s voice is a low growl. “Hand it to the butler, then come back.”

I hand the fork to the butler. My pussy is completely exposed, and perfectly framed by the black G-string. I tug my dress down.

I walk over to the table, and as I’m about to sit down again, Vito knocks his fork onto the floor right next to his chair.

“Pick that up for me, Pussy Willow,” Vito gloats. “And I’ve got something else for you to do while you’re down there.”

He reaches for the zipper of his jeans. He’s fat and red-faced and sweaty. He has BO, and when he worked for my uncle, he always looked at me in a way that instinctively made me want to cover my private parts with my hands.

God, no. I can’t. I can’t.

He opens his mouth, puts his fingers around his lips, and thrusts his tongue through them, wiggling it obscenely like a pink worm. His pale, wrinkled dick is hanging out now.

“Never!” I spit out before I can stop myself, then I freeze.

Stupid, stupid Willow. Please. Don’t punish my family for my insolence, I pray. Punish me.

Before I can do anything else, Sergei leaps to his feet, hauls Vito up by his collar, and slams his massive fist into Vito’s nose. There is a sickening crunch of bone and cartilage. Blood spurts out, and Vito screams in pain.

Sergei looks around at the other men. “She is my property. Anyone touches my property or tells it what to do, they’ll pay for it.” He glares at Vito. “Leave my home. You’re fired. If I see you again, you’re a dead man.”

Vito staggers off, clutching his broken nose, wailing. The men around the table are suddenly fascinated by their food and drink.

Then Sergei turns on me with a snarl. “And you. Do you know what happens to people who insult my guests?”

“No…sir.” I whisper.

“You’re about to find out.”