Chapter 17: Chapter Seventeen: No Mercy, No Shame

I don’t cry when the door slams and the blanket is torn from my hands. I don’t cry as the city glares in, cold and unblinking, turning my nakedness into a spectacle for a man with all the power and none of the mercy. I stand there, shivering, arms crossed over my chest, back pressed to the glass, and swear I will never let him see me broken.

But pride is cold, and the night is colder. The clothes he offered still lie scattered across the floor, soft shadows in the neon wash. I don’t touch them. I pace the room until my feet ache. I curl up on the hard edge of the bed, every muscle tensed against the hunger, the cold, the humiliation. I try to block out the knowledge that somewhere in the dark, he’s watching—waiting for me to give in.

My skin burns where his hands touched, where his breath brushed my ear. I replay every word, every taunt, every threat disguised as a choice. I tell myself I’d rather freeze than let him win. But when the night drags on and the city lights fade, my body betrays me. My teeth chatter. My hands shake so hard I can barely hold my knees.

I last as long as I can. I count the minutes, the hours, the waves of anger and despair. But I am only human. Shame eats at me, gnawing through my resolve. I stare at the pile of clothes, hating them, hating him, hating the choice I have to make.

Finally, with dawn bleeding into the sky, I break. I crawl to the clothes, drag them on with shaking hands—each sleeve, each pant leg a new defeat. The fabric is warm, soft, kind in a way nothing here should be. It feels like surrender and survival, all at once.

I stand in the center of the room, dressed and hollowed out, breathing in the silence Roman left behind. He’ll see the cameras, see the victory he’s been waiting for. But he’ll never know what it cost me.

I swear to myself—if he wants obedience, he’ll have to wring it from my bones. If he wants my gratitude, he’ll have to bleed for it. I will never let him own anything more than my skin.

Not my heart. Not my hope. Not the part of me that still believes I am worth saving.

At first, I brace for him to appear—ready to gloat, to twist the knife. I imagine his slow, smug entrance, his eyes sliding over my body, cataloguing my defeat. I expect the lecture, the taunt, the next set of impossible choices.

But the silence only thickens.

Minutes stretch into hours. The city turns from gray to gold and back to gray again, traffic crawling ant-like below, the world uncaring. The food on the nightstand grows stale, untouched. I refuse to touch it at first, telling myself I can win at least this battle.

But hunger comes back with a vengeance. My head throbs. My stomach knots. My mouth is dry and foul. I wait for him to come, to offer the next bargain, but he doesn’t. There’s nothing—no word, no voice, not even the sound of footsteps in the hall.

The loneliness becomes another kind of torture. The clothes feel tighter, heavier, wrapping me in a defeat that keeps growing every time I breathe. I wonder if he’s watching, cataloguing my suffering, or if he’s forgotten me entirely. I wonder which would hurt more.

When evening falls and still he doesn’t come, I give in again. I crawl to the nightstand and eat what’s left, washing it down with cold water, tears burning in my eyes—not from the humiliation, but from the gnawing, animal need. I feel each bite as a fresh submission, each swallow a new thread in the chain he’s wrapped around me.

I am dressed, fed, and alone. I have surrendered in every small way that matters. And still, he does not come.

It is worse than his presence, this silence. The waiting. The knowing I broke, and he wasn’t even there to see it.

And yet—I am still here. I am still angry. I am still searching for a way out.

But the silence is a weight pressing me flat, turning the world thin and colorless. I watch the sky bruise, watch the city slide through another cycle of dusk and neon and dawn, each minute another tick of surrender. The penthouse is so quiet I can hear my own heart, every beat frantic, raw. I lose track of time. The ache in my limbs is sharp, relentless; my mouth is cracked and bitter; my stomach twists with hunger and shame.

I tell myself he’s still watching, even if he won’t come. I stare straight into the lens of the camera, daring him to flinch. I imagine him with his glass of bourbon, eyes cold, waiting for me to perform. I want to scream—let him see how empty I am, how much of me is gone, how what’s left is only the ugly, animal core of willpower and want.

When my own reflection catches in the glass, I hardly recognize myself. Hollow eyes, wild hair, lips chewed bloody. I look like every woman I ever pitied in the stories I used to read—caught in the cage, stripped of dignity, still whispering I will not break even when no one is listening.

The day drags. My anger dries up, replaced by numbness. I talk to myself just to hear a human voice, muttering curses, old memories, prayers I don’t believe in. Sometimes I laugh—ragged, bitter, the kind of sound that would have scared me, once. I make bargains with the air: If he comes back, I won’t cry. If he comes back, I’ll fight. If he comes back, I’ll ask for nothing.

But he doesn’t come. Not a word. Not a whisper. I start to wonder if I exist for anyone but him—if I ever did.

At my lowest, I almost wish he would walk in, just to end the waiting, to remind me I’m real. But when I hear footsteps, my body coils, braced for violence or mercy, I don’t know which. When they fade away, I want to tear the clothes from my body, to be naked again, just to feel something he hasn’t touched.

Night falls again. I curl up on the bed, fists tangled in the sheets, and let the anger come back—hot and wild, sharp enough to keep me alive. I whisper my own name, a spell against oblivion.

He can have my body, my shame, my hunger. But he will never have the last word. I will not let him write the ending.

✧ ✧ ✧

I drift in and out of sleep, time unraveling, hunger and exhaustion tangling into something feverish and strange. My dreams are fractured—Roman’s shadow on the wall, Alex’s voice on the other side of the glass, the city lights flickering like warning signs. Sometimes I wake and think I hear his footsteps, but it’s only the wind, or the elevator humming down the hall.

It’s nearly morning—again—when the silence finally cracks. The lock turns. The door opens.

He enters quietly, as if he’s stepping into a room with a sleeping animal, not a person. I sit up, every muscle tense, the anger and fear back in full force.

Roman stands in the doorway, face unreadable, eyes sweeping the wreckage of the last day—rumpled bed, empty tray, me in his clothes, hair tangled, eyes wild. For a long, suffocating moment, neither of us speaks.

Then he closes the door, the sound impossibly gentle. He doesn’t come closer. He just watches me, head tipped, the silence pressing in around us.

“Well?” My voice is ragged, defiant. “You got what you wanted. You don’t have to pretend to care now.”

He just looks at me—really looks, like he’s searching for proof that there’s anything left worth breaking. I feel myself flush under that stare, hate it, hate him, hate this endless, lonely war.

His lips twitch. “If you think I wanted to see you like this, you don’t know me at all.”

“I know enough,” I shoot back, voice sharp with exhaustion. “You break things just to see how long it takes them to crawl back.”

Roman takes a few slow steps forward. His presence fills the room, thick as smoke. “You survived. That’s more than most manage.”

I shake my head, jaw clenched. “Survival isn’t living.”

He crouches, eye-level with me, and studies my face, the defiance, the cracks.

“Are you ready to stop pretending you don’t need me?” he asks, voice soft—almost intimate.

I laugh—a harsh, splintered sound. “Need isn’t the same as want. And I will never want you, Roman. Not the way you want.”

For a moment, something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or something sharper, more dangerous. “You’re wrong, kotyonok. Everyone needs something. Even you.”

I glare at him, forcing my chin higher. “Then what is it you need? To see me beg? To hear me say thank you for your scraps?”

He holds my gaze, unblinking. “I don’t want your gratitude. I want your honesty. Your surrender. I want you to stop lying to yourself about what it takes to survive in my world.”

“I will never give you that,” I spit, voice trembling.

He stands, towering over me in the half-light. “This isn’t the end,” he murmurs. “It’s just the first lesson.”

He turns to leave, then pauses, hand on the door. “Rest. Eat. Think. Tomorrow, the rules change.”

And with that, he leaves me in the dawn—knowing I’ve survived the night, but that morning will bring a new game, a new way to bleed.

The door clicks shut and I am alone again, Roman’s shadow lingering in the shape of every question he left behind. I am trembling—anger, exhaustion, or the last shreds of fear, I can’t tell anymore. His words repeat in my skull:

Tomorrow, the rules change.

I sit there, knees drawn up, arms wound tight around myself, listening to the silence. My thoughts spiral: How many lessons will there be? How many games can I lose before I’m nothing but what he’s made? The world outside is waking—honking cars, the distant thrum of a city alive. None of it is for me. I am trapped in a palace of glass, every kindness barbed, every choice a knife.

But there’s something in the way he watched me—hungry, expectant, like he’s daring me to be more than his victim. Maybe it’s delusion, maybe it’s the last weapon I have, but I find a ragged kind of hope in it. If he wants a war, I will give him one. If the rules change, I will change faster.

I whisper the promise into the hush, voice raw and certain: “You’ll regret teaching me how to survive you, Roman.”

The city spins on, uncaring. But inside, a new part of me is waking—sharp, hungry, unbroken.

Tomorrow, he can bring whatever lesson he wants.

Tonight, I swear I will be ready.

I stay where he left me, curled up, shivering—not just from cold, but from everything that’s been stripped away. The clothes cling damp against my skin. My hands are numb. I don’t bother moving, not yet. There is no comfort to find. The world outside keeps moving, a city full of people who have no idea I exist. In here, the silence pulses, filling up the space where I used to be.

I let my head rest against the wall and close my eyes, counting my breaths. I try to remember the sound of laughter, the scent of fresh coffee, the way Alex’s arms felt around me. Every memory feels far away, edges dulled by hunger and humiliation. I wish I could cry, but I’m too empty. The tears won’t come.

After a while, I talk to the ceiling—soft, hoarse confessions, secrets meant for no one. I tell the darkness everything I can’t say to Roman:

I hate you.

I wish I was braver.

I’m not done fighting.

I don’t know if I can win.

The words float up, vanishing in the hush, but it helps. It helps to remind myself that I am still here, still thinking, still me. That there is a piece of myself Roman can’t see and can’t touch, no matter how hard he tries.

My body aches for sleep, but my mind won’t quiet. I make a promise, again and again, until it’s the only thing that feels true:

I will not be remade by his hands. I will not let this place become my home. I will endure, even if all I am at the end is a flicker of spite.

The city outside glows and fades, glows and fades. The first birds begin to sing, far below. A thousand new days begin, and for the first time, I don’t dread the sun.

I open my eyes and stare into the lens of the nearest camera.

“Watch me survive you,” I whisper.

The night doesn’t answer. But in the silence, I feel the tiniest ember of hope—hot and bright and stubborn—refusing to die.