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Ten. Twenty. Fifty photos. I become desensitized to compromised positions, eventually.

Then I close it.

For no apparent reason, my fingers shake as I open the second folder.

Oh, there is a reason. There are a bunch of them.

At the sight of the photo sitting on top, I stagger back.

My throat, I can’t breathe. I put two hands on my chest, forcing my lungs to work.

Me. This is me. It’s my picture on top.

Topher sits across the table from me in one of the restaurants we’ve been to. I’m wearing a black dress, and he’s in a dark suit. My face is bare of emotions. His is empty as well.

Whoever took this photo, they captured it less than a month ago. When I was so over Topher, but insisted that maybe we could make it work.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that the Hawthorne men had someone stalking us on our dates. Photos to prove to his cult that I’m…

What?

Worthy? Hot?

A good enough piece of flesh to offer to their buyers?

Blood rushes between my ears. My chest is tight.

This is what a heart attack must be like. Pressure and anger and shock.

My heart is literally beating me from the inside.

I hate Topher for this. Can’t hate James for holding on to them.

The first man used me. The latter, he likes me. Has liked me for a while.

Fucking your forbidden, virgin cunt was all I could think about since the moment I saw you.

That’s right. He said that.

Staring at the photo, I realize both things happened around the same time.

He met me for the first time a month before he kidnapped me.

Oh my God.

That happened just around the time this photo was taken.

That’s actually comforting in a sick way.

My fingers are shaky as I lift the photo, placing it to the side. The second one is also recent. Not from one of my dates with Topher. Oh, no.

I’m in my bedroom. Alone. In a new black bra and panties set that I bought last month, since my last nice ones were old and had to be replaced.

Checking myself out in the mirror.

Me.

In my room.