December 15th
Chapter 15 — Breaking Point
Another day passed with no word of Tanya or Marta.
Kateryna had learned to school her face, to keep her gaze down and her features blank. But today, the mask cracked.
Clients came and went, loud, oblivious, some reeking of alcohol and cheap aftershave. Their laughter echoed down the corridors, jarring against the grim silence among the girls. Alina wouldn’t meet her eyes. Even Marta’s name was now spoken like a curse, if at all.
By early evening, Kateryna’s ribs ached from being gripped too hard. Her thighs stung from where nails had dug in. Her legs felt like concrete. When she saw him again—neck guy—something inside her snapped.
He always asked for her. Always wanted the same thing. He didn’t speak much. Just grabbed. Hard.
This time, he went further. He didn’t stop when she gasped. Didn’t ease up when she clawed at his arm. He squeezed harder, delighting in her panic.
When he left, her breath was still catching in ragged bursts and her throat throbbed where his fingers had pressed too tight. She didn’t need to look in the mirror to know there would be marks. Purple and ugly, blooming like violets.
There was no point telling Mace. Or Enzo. She already knew what they thought of girls like her.
Expendable. Replaceable. A product, not a person.
Her final client that night arrived close to midnight.
The judge.
He liked the quiet. Fewer witnesses. Fewer questions.
Tall, thin, with slicked-back grey hair and a voice like sanded marble, he smiled at her like a schoolmaster preparing to punish a disobedient child. And punish her, he did.
He bent her over his knee and spanked her until her skin burned and her pride crumbled. When she begged for mercy, he chuckled softly and said, “You should learn your place, girl.”
Afterwards, he pressed her face into the mattress and took his pleasure.
Silent. Compliant. That was what he wanted.
When he was done and fixing his cufflinks, he spoke to her as if he were delivering a sentence in court. “You’re not the victim, you know,” he said, adjusting his tie. “You sold yourself. Just like all the others. I’m not the criminal here. I’m the client.”
He left without another word.
Kateryna remained on the bed for a long time, curled in on herself, weeping into the pillow. Her tears soaked the sheets, but no one came. No one asked. The room stayed silent except for her quiet, broken sobs.
Eventually, she pulled herself up. Her knees shook. Her lip was bleeding.
She stumbled into the bathroom, her reflection a blur of bruises.
A commotion echoed from reception—Mace’s voice, angry, clipped. Someone shouted something back.
Kateryna’s hands trembled as she lifted the cistern lid. The burner phone was still there. Dry. Intact.
She wiped her hands on her robe and powered it on.
One new message might have changed everything.
But the screen was blank.
No word from Michael.
Her breath hitched. Her heart pounded against her chest like it wanted out.
She slid down the tile wall until she was on the cold floor. The ceramic bit into her back. Her hands clutched the phone like a lifeline.
What if he’d been caught?
What if Tanya or Marta had talked?
What if they were dead?
What if she was next?
Kateryna pressed the phone to her chest and let her head fall back against the wall. Her thoughts swarmed—fast, frantic, impossible to hold still.
Images of home rose unbidden. Her brother chasing chickens through the yard. Her mother singing to the radio while stirring soup. The hills beyond the orchard in late summer, glowing gold.
She pictured them still waiting. Still hoping.
She wondered if they would ever know what had become of her.
“I won’t die here,” she whispered, tears streaking her face.
But in that moment, she didn’t believe it.
Not really.
Because hell had a postcode.
And she lived in it.
***