Page 2 of Broken Doll (Dirty Doll Ops #1)

I wake up on an old cot with a thin mattress, the kind you see in movies involving human trafficking.

My mouth tastes like a gnome popped a squat and shit on my tongue.

My head is spinning, a consequence of the knock-out drug they jammed in my neck, which, by the way, still hurts.

I work my jaw, wincing as pain ricochets through my bones.

"I want to talk to the manager," I warble, my voice ragged and hoarse.

"Hello? The service here sucks. Zero stars. I'm gonna leave a helluva a scathing Yelp review."

Metal walls. A single overhead light buzzing faintly. No windows, no furniture except for the shitty prison bed. Not exactly the Hilton.

I exhale, slow.

I've been in some bad situations before. Fucked my way into more trouble than I can count. But this?

This is new.

I cross my arms, shifting my weight. My outfit—so perfect for the club, for playing—feels absurd here, all leather and lace in a room that looks like a goddamn meat locker.

I don't know how long I wait. Could be five minutes, could be an hour. Time feels slippery in this place, stretched thin and brittle.

Then the door opens.

And he walks in.

He doesn't belong here.

Not in the way the others do. Not like the man who dragged me out of the club or the one who dumped Derek in an alleyway with no interest in his safety.

This guy? He looks like he should be anywhere else—an office, a boardroom, maybe sitting across from my husband at some networking event, drinking overpriced scotch and pretending to give a fuck about stocks.

His suit is impeccable. Not a wrinkle, not a single thread out of place. His tie is straight, his watch gleams, and his face—handsome in a forgettable, almost corporate way—is calm. Measured.

He doesn't leer. Doesn't smile. Just tilts his head slightly as he looks me over, like he's assessing whether or not I'm worth his time.

"Ms. James," he says, his voice smooth, pleasant. "I appreciate you agreeing to this meeting."

"What time is it?" I asked, bypassing the fake pleasantries. I'm not about to pretend I wasn't plucked from the street and stuffed into a van like a Christmas turkey stolen from the yard. "Where the fuck am I?"

The man's lips twitch, the ghost of a smile. "Fair enough." He paused to look at his watch, answering, "It's 7 a.m. and where you are, is someplace safe for our negotiations."

7 a.m.?

Holy fuck, I'd just slept away hours of my life thanks to the little cocktail jabbed into my neck. "Negotiations? The fuck you talking about. I'm not negotiating shit with you unless it involves an Uber, an apology, and a fat wad of cash in my pocket for my trouble."

He leans casually against the hard steel wall. "I'd like to offer you a job."

I blink.

A laugh claws its way up my throat, sharp and bitter. "A job?"

"Yes."

"Does it come with benefits? Health insurance? A 401K?"

Another faint smile. "The compensation is generous."

I stare at him, searching for the catch. "And what exactly is the job? Because I'm guessing it's not in customer service."

He finally meets my eyes. Holds them. "You're correct."

I wait, but he doesn't elaborate.

I exhale sharply, shifting my stance. "Look, Suit, I don't know what kind of operation you're running here, but if you dragged me out of my club for a fucking recruitment meeting, you're gonna have to do better than cryptic one-liners and a smug smile like you're offering me a golden goose."

This time, the smile does reach his eyes. "I like you."

I roll mine. "Great. We besties now? You gonna braid my hair?"

He ignores that. "We've been watching you for some time, Ms. James. You have… a particular skill set. One we believe would be valuable to us."

I fold my arms. "And who exactly is 'us'?"

"That's not important right now."

I let out a slow, disbelieving laugh. "So let me get this straight. You abduct me, lock me in a glorified freezer with nothing more than a prison bed, and now you're giving me the mystery box treatment? No name, no details, just a vague-ass offer?"

His expression doesn't change. "You enjoy danger."

I go still.

"You seek it out," he continues, his voice steady, dissecting. "You take risks others wouldn't. You put yourself in situations where control is an illusion, where the wrong move could end badly. And yet—you always land on your feet. From what I can tell, you're a cat with nine lives. And that's useful to me."

I don't say anything.

Because fuck. He's right.

He pushes off the wall, squaring his shoulders as he fixes his stare on me. "What I'm offering is simple. A way to use that talent. A way to turn those impulses into something more."

"And what kind of job would that be?" I ask with suspicion.

A pause. Then, with the same calm precision, he says?—

"You'd be using your body, Ms. James. The way you already do. But instead of chasing meaningless pleasure—you'll be chasing intel."

A chill snakes down my spine.

He watches me, unreadable. "Sex is power. A tool. One that can open doors, loosen tongues, break down defenses. You've already proven you know how to use it."

I swallow. My pulse hammers against my ribs.

"You'd be trained, of course," he continues. "Taught how to read people. How to extract information without them ever realizing. How to control a room with a look, a word, a touch."

I lick my lips, my mouth dry. A forbidden tingle starts at the base of my spine. The allure of such an offer is hard to shut down.

"And in return?" I ask, boldly lifting my chin.

His smile is slow. Icy.

"In return, you'll be given more money than you know what to do with." A pause. "And a life that will never, ever be boring again."

The room feels smaller. The cold biting deeper.

"But you also can't tell anyone what you're doing."

I rub my arms, but it doesn't help. It's not just the temperature. It's the walls pressing in, the silence wrapping around me like a weighted shroud. Like the moment before a freefall—the second your stomach drops, but your feet haven't left the edge yet.

"What if…it slips?" I ask.

He doesn't answer, just stares. The answer is pretty plain — if I spill the beans, he'll spill my blood.

Talk about high stakes for keeping your mouth shut.

It's absurd. Unbelievable. Insane.

"And how exactly am I supposed to pull this off without anyone noticing? Obviously, you know I'm married. Don't you think my husband will notice if I'm off being a secret sex spy?"

"Let's be honest, Landry…you're a shitty wife. I doubt he'll notice but I think you've gotten pretty good at telling a lie. However, if it would be easier, we could arrange for your husband to have an accident, freeing you up entirely."

I stared. Such a casual offer of murder. I should be horrified. But I'm not. If anything, I'm thrilled at the power. Who the fuck are these people?

But I don't want to be responsible for Isaac's death. I cast a bored look the man's way. "Don't be dramatic. I can handle Isaac. I was just curious as to what you would say."

He inclined his head. "Good."

A job offer wrapped in steel walls and veiled threats. A career change that comes with blood money and no way out.

"So, am I supposed to just take your word for this job offer or do I get something in writing? A girl's gotta protect herself."

"Of course," he said, pulling a folded piece of paper from his interior jacket pocket. He hands me the paper. It's a short and simple contract with space for my signature.

Then, with perfect timing, the door scrapes open again.

And I'm introduced to the devil himself.

He doesn't look like Satan. No horns, no pitchfork, no sulfur stench. But the way the air changes when he walks in—like every molecule suddenly stands at attention—tells me everything I need to know.

This is the man they were talking about in the car. Killion .

The first thing I notice is that he's older than Suit Guy—late forties maybe—with silver-flecked stubble and eyes so cold they could freeze vodka.

The second thing I notice is how he carries himself. Not like a soldier, not like a spy, but like a man who's seen the darkest corners of the world and decided to make himself at home there.

"This her?" His voice is unexpected. Smooth, with a slight accent I can't place. European, maybe.

Suit Guy nods. "Landry James. As discussed."

Killion circles me like I'm livestock at auction. No leering, no appreciation—just clinical assessment. I hate how it makes me feel. Like I'm nothing. Like I'm everything.

"You think you're special, don't you?" His words slice through the air.

I curl my lip, defiant. "I think I'm in a fucking black site talking to Men in Black rejects. Does that count as special?"

He doesn't smile. Doesn't react at all. Just keeps circling. "Nine months. We've been watching you for nine months. Do you know what we saw?"

My heart skips. Nine months? Jesus.

"I'm guessing not my sparkling personality."

"We saw a woman with no boundaries. No morals. No loyalty except to her own pleasure."

I should feel insulted. But there's something in the way he says it—like these are qualifications, not criticisms.

"Most people would call that an unapologetic slut." I shrug, feigning indifference.

Now he stops. Looks directly at me. "Most people are small-minded and unimaginative. I call it potential."

Something shifts inside me. Heat pools low in my belly, not from arousal but from a darker, more primitive emotion. Recognition.

"So what? You're gonna train me to be some kind of honey trap? Fuck state secrets out of diplomats?" My voice drips with sarcasm, but there's a tremor underneath. That actually sounds like a good time.

He doesn't rise to the bait. "More or less."

The simplicity of his answer knocks the wind out of me.

"The men you're used to—they're soft. Weak. Predictable." Killion's eyes drill into mine. "The men I'll send you after—they're monsters wearing custom suits. Men who traffic girls barely half your age. Men who plot wars over breakfast. Men who hold the kind of power that turns everything it touches to ash."

My throat tightens. The room suddenly feels ten degrees colder.

"Your job will be to make them want you. Need you. Trust you. And when they do—" He makes a small gesture, like plucking something invisible from the air. "You take what we need."

I swallow hard. "And if I say no?"

For the first time, Killion's expression changes. A smile so fleeting it's almost a hallucination crosses his face. “We both know it’s too late for that.”

Yes, I did know that but I want him to say it. Like he said, I crave bad things.

He steps closer. Close enough that I can smell him—expensive cologne over something earthier, more primal.

“It would be a tragedy to waste all of that potential.” His voice drops lower. “You’re a weapon waiting to be honed. All you need is the right training and you’ll be a force to reckon with.”

Something electric passes between us. Not attraction—something more dangerous. The recognition of kindred darkness.

“And how do you propose to do that?” I ask.

“That’s the fun part. I’ll break you,” he continues matter-of-factly. “Strip away everything soft, everything useless. And rebuild you into something lethal.”

I want to look away. Can't. Because, I’m kinda into it. Like something about the taboo danger is doing it for me.

"You'll hate me. You'll fear me." He tilts his head slightly. "And at some point, you'll realize I've given you the only thing you've ever truly wanted."

"Which is what?" My voice comes out as a whisper.

"Purpose."

The word hangs in the air, simple and devastating.

I just split my life in two. Forever after this moment will be “before” and “after” I signed on the dotted line.

Wasn't this what I really wanted every time I tested the boundaries, seeking the ultimate thrill with risky situations?

Let’s be real —I’m the poster child for this kind of clandestine recruitment. If anyone was made for this kind of lifestyle, it was me.

But that's the problem, isn't it?

I think about Isaac. And I feel nothing.

Not even fear for what this means. Not even loyalty. Just the dull certainty that I could walk away, right now, and go back to that life untouched, unchanged—and it would kill me.

Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually, the slow, creeping death of mediocrity would sink its teeth in, and I'd wake up one day old and brittle, choking on regret.

God save me but I need this.

The danger. The unknown. The adrenaline humming beneath my skin, electric and sharp.

And yet?—

The room is silent, but it hums with something heavier than sound.

A trap disguised as an opportunity. A contract disguised as a life sentence.

My pulse is loud in my ears, a steady, insistent drum. I glance at the contract in my hand again. Like it's waiting for me. Like it knows I'll sign.

I wet my lips. Swallow. My throat is too dry.

This is fucking crazy.

I should walk out of this frozen steel box and pretend none of this happened. I should go home, slip back into my dull, easy life, let Isaac's oblivious arms wrap around me, let my body mold back into the shape of the woman I was before tonight.

Maybe I’ll pump out a kid. Or get a dog. Slip into the monotony of a suburban life bleached and sanitized of anything resembling fun, excitement, and spontaneity.

I should.

But I won't.

Because that woman? She's already gone.

She disappeared somewhere between the moment I was thrown into that SUV and the moment I realized I liked the feel of the door locking behind me.

Somewhere between the whispered threats in the dark and the offer that doesn't sound like a threat at all.

I want this.

Not just the money, the power, the thrill. The transformation. The idea that I can be something—someone—other than the bored wife, the woman who settled, the reckless slut chasing cheap highs in dimly lit clubs.

A new purpose. A new life. A new way to burn the world down.

But still.

Still, there's a tiny, fraying thread inside me—something fragile, something weak, something whispering.

You can't take this back. You can't undo this. You can't unmake yourself once you start.

My fingers twitch.

I flex them. Curl them. Try to steady my pulse, but my heart is a fucking riot in my chest, pounding against my ribs like it wants out.

I take one last breath.

Deep. Slow.

Then, as if he read my thoughts, Suit Guy produces a pen and hands it to me.

It's cold. Smooth. Heavy in my grip. The weight of a choice I can never unchoose.

I hold the contract against the steel wall, put the tip to the page, hover over the signature line—Landry James, in neat, unbroken print.

My fingers tighten.

One more second. One last hesitation. One last chance to drop the pen, walk away, let my old life swallow me whole.

Then I sign.

The ink dries fast.

Just like that, I disappear.

I return the pen and the contract, my pulse finally slowing to something steadier.

I lift my chin. Meet Killion's eyes—not Suit Guy's—because I already know who's really in charge here. And then, voice even, I ask?—

"When do we start?"

Killion's smile is all teeth and no mercy.

"We already have."

He turns to leave, but pauses at the door. "Get some rest, Ms. James. Tomorrow, the real pain begins."

“What about Isaac?” I ask quickly.

“You’ll be provided your cell. You’ll tell him you’re going to be gone for a few weeks —an impromptu girls trip that you can’t miss. Make it believable. This is your first test.”

And somehow, I know he's not exaggerating. That what's coming will test every limit I've ever pushed, break every boundary I've ever crossed.

“Easy-peasy,” I shoot back but as the door slams shut behind him, locking me once more in this steel coffin, I feel something I haven't felt in years.

Alive.

Truly, viciously, terrifyingly alive.

I lie back on the prison cot, staring at the ceiling, a smile playing at the corners of my lips.

Landry James is dead.

Long live whatever the fuck I'm about to become.