Page 6

ALLURE

Apparently, when some women get held captive long enough, they start to sympathize with the devil.

They develop an attachment to their captor—start seeing them as human, even worthy of love.

They forget who they were, forget their families, their favorite color, their favorite song.

They let go of freedom and adapt to hell.

They call it survival.

But let’s be clear.

That is not me.

I will never acclimate. I will never adapt. I will never love Boaz Haim.

I hate him with every ragged, breathing, blood-pumping piece of me.

Every time he walks past me, I pray he chokes on the air he sucks into his lungs.

I pray for his death like it’s my religion.

Morning, noon, and night. May his liver rot.

May his tongue swell and his heart rupture mid-sentence.

I pray every single person loyal to him drops dead before he can even blink.

And then, I pray I’m the one who gets to light the match.

I’ve imagined it a thousand times—drenching this godforsaken compound in gasoline and striking one, perfect flame. Watching those glass cages explode. Watching the women run free. Watching Boaz’s silk pajamas melt onto his skin as he screams for mercy that will never come.

He’s held me here since I was sixteen.

I still don’t know how he knew I was a virgin, but he did. Picked me like fruit. Sent his men to pluck me off the street like I wasn’t someone’s daughter. Someone’s world.

I’ll never forget it.

I was walking home from school. Backpack on.

Headphones in. Thinking about what I was going to eat for dinner and if I had time to sneak in a nap before homework.

Then a blue van pulled up and two men jumped out like I was a prize on a damn game show.

They grabbed me so fast, so hard, I didn’t even have time to scream until the doors slammed shut.

I kicked. Scratched. Bit one of them hard enough to taste blood.

Didn’t matter.

They were stronger. And they were on a mission.

Back then, I thought my father would come for me.

I thought he’d burn cities to the ground to find me. I thought my disappearance would be headline news, that his connections would stretch across borders, that my face would be on every phone and billboard until I was home.

But I never got found.

And it hurts. I won’t lie. That part still slices deeper than anything Boaz has ever done to me.

Because my father?

He wasn’t some broke, useless nigga. He was a boss. Ran his own operation. Had money, soldiers, power. Maybe he wasn’t international like Boaz, but he had enough to shake something. To make noise. And yet…

Silence.

Ten years. Not a word. Not a whisper. Not a damn sign.

I don’t know if Boaz has me hidden that well or if... maybe he just stopped looking.

Maybe I wasn’t worth the war.

Still, I won’t die here.

I refuse.

One day, I’m getting out of this place. And before I do, I’m going to wrap my hands around Boaz Haim’s neck and feel his pulse fade under my fingers. I want to watch the light leave his eyes and know that I did that. All this anger I’ve been holding? It’s not for nothing.

It’s fuel.

And one day soon, I’m going to burn this whole bitch to the ground. My thoughts were still wrapped around blood and fire when his voice tore through the halls.

“Virgin!”

Loud. Sharp. Like he was calling for a damn dog.

I closed my eyes and clenched my jaw. I hated that name. Hated that I answered to it. Hated how he reduced me to a label he could fetishize. In this house, I wasn’t Allure. I was a role. A function. A sick fantasy wrapped in white fabric and servitude.

His pure maid.

If only he knew what these so-called clean hands prayed for every night. How they curled into fists behind closed doors. How they itched to wrap around his throat while he slept.

But it was dinner time. And dinner was ritual.

Boaz liked his meals made with “holy hands,” as he once put it. Said it brought him peace to be served by someone untouched. Someone untainted. He believed it was divine.

I believed it was delusional.

Still, I smoothed my robe, adjusted my hijab, and made my way down the marble halls toward the grand kitchen. My sandals whispered across the stone floors. My stomach was tight with hunger, but I wouldn’t eat until hours later—when no one was watching.

Tonight’s menu? Stuffed branzino. Mediterranean style.

He liked it fresh. Gutted with lemon and garlic. Tomatoes, olives, capers, parsley. Everything arranged just right. A perfect little corpse on a porcelain plate.

I stepped into the kitchen—and paused.

Irina, Boaz’s daughter, was already there.

She stood barefoot at the island, peeling a mango with a gold knife like it was an accessory more than a utensil.

Her wild dark curls were piled on top of her head, loose strands framing her freckled face.

She wore high-waisted jeans that hugged her hips and a cropped white tee that read MANHATTAN MADE in bold lettering.

I stared a second longer than I meant to.

Her life and mine were made by the same man, and yet—hers looked like freedom.

She glanced up and smiled. “Hey, girlie.”

I walked over and hugged her. I missed seeing her here. There was a time we talked every day, laughing in hushed tones like we weren’t both trapped. But then she left for college. Started living her life. Started choosing.

“It’s good to see you,” I said. “How’s the big city?”

Irina popped a mango slice into her mouth and leaned on the counter. “Crazy. My 25th is coming up, and I’m throwing a massive party at The Gilded Cage. It’s this upscale bar with an old-school casino vibe.”

“Must be nice.” I said it with a smile, but the envy was loud in my blood. Felt like she was rubbing it in.

She looked off to the side. “I wish you could come.”

“Then break me out of here.” I laughed when I said it, but deep down, I meant that shit.

“If I could, I would. You know that.”

“Yeah... So, does your father know about this party?”

“Hell no,” she said with a grin. “It’s small—like 25, 30 people tops. Daddy doesn’t know a thing, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“What’s he getting you for your birthday?”

She shrugged. “He said I could have anything. But what does a girl ask for when she already has everything?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Ask for my freedom.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” I said, locking eyes with her. “Ask him to let me go. I’ve been here ten years. I’m not even his type, so it’s not like he’s going to sleep with me. My scars are too ugly for that.”

“I’ll ask him,” she said softly, glancing down. We both knew it was a long shot.

Boaz regarded me as his good luck charm. He swore up and down that he made more money in the last ten years with me here than he ever had before. Called me his blessing . I called him insane.

We had a strange relationship, Irina and I. Not sisters. Not strangers. Somewhere in between. She said I was her only real friend in this place, and she was the only friend I had. But with me being captive, we could never have a real friendship.

She grew up in this compound too, but her version of captivity was prettier. Softer. Nannies. Tutors. Private jets. Platinum cards. Enough daddy issues to keep a therapist booked for life.

Her mother had been a supermodel—Black, stunning, wild from what I heard. Died at an A-list party from a heroin overdose. People tend to spiral in Boaz’s orbit. Something about him makes people reach for their vices just to remember what living feels like.

Irina was half-Israeli, half-Black, and fully out of place wherever she went. She could float between bat mitzvahs and the cookouts, and still never quite land. But every Sunday, she came back here.

Boaz’s rule.

It was how she earned her allowance. Compliance in exchange for control.

Still, I envied her. The freedom in her clothes. The sway in her hips. The fact that she could choose her own perfume.

I caught myself staring again.

“I love that top,” I said, nodding toward her tee.

Irina looked down and tugged it. “Oh, this? Twenty bucks on sale. I’ll bring you one.”

I smiled, but it felt like swallowing glass. I didn’t need a shirt I couldn’t wear. She would bring me things to wear and I could only do so in my room. I was only allowed to be seen in white. Always draped. Always hidden. Modest. Controlled.

My body wasn’t even mine.

Meanwhile, Irina’s frame looked like it belonged on a runway—tall, slim, effortless. I knew she envied my curves sometimes. My hips. My breasts. But envy doesn’t matter when one of us gets to choose and the other doesn't.

“What’s for dinner?” she asked, hopping up on the counter. I could tell she was trying to lighten the mood.

I reached into the fridge for the branzino. “Stuffed with lemon, garlic, capers, tomatoes, olives, and parsley.”

She groaned. “You should open a restaurant. If he gives you your freedom.”

I smirked, slicing into the fish. “You volunteering to fund it?” I said, but the thought made my skin itch. I didn’t want a restaurant.

If I got my freedom, I was going to my father and having him burn Boaz’s empire to the ground.

“I’ll put it on my daddy’s card,” she teased.

I chuckled, shaking my head as I prepped the meal, but inside... all I could think about was choice. What it would feel like to cook for myself. To wear jeans. To step outside without permission. To wake up and not hear him call me Virgin.

One day.

Maybe soon.

Because this? This wasn’t living.

And I didn’t come this far just to stay caged.

“Can I ask you a question?” I asked her while she was mid chew.

“Sure,” her voice was muffled.

“Do you know the Kings? Riot King?” I asked.

“I know of him but I never met him. But… I am dating his cousin Rollo. It’s new so I’m sure I’ll meet Riot. Daddy used to do a lot of business with their father way back.”

“Oh. Well, he came here the other day. Sold your father a tiger.”

“You like him?” She smirked.

“No, I was just curious.”

“Well, Daddy, says the Kings are crazy. That Silas was insane and had several insane kids. He would have a heart attack if he knew I was dating one of their cousins. I’m living for the excitement.”

I wished I could too. I’d love to live for the excitement. And Something about hearing that Riot was crazy, turned me on but it shouldn’t have. If he’s doing business with Boaz, he’s a bad man.

I had just finished stuffing the branzino, hands deep in citrus and herbs, when I heard the sound of loafers against the tile.

Boaz entered the kitchen with the same self-important air he always carried, like the marble floor should kiss his feet just for holding his weight. Irina perked up instantly.

“Daddy!” she said brightly, hopping off the counter and wrapping her arms around him.

He barely looked at her. No affection. No warmth. Just a single pat on the back and a grunt. His eyes moved past her and landed on me—and they immediately narrowed.

He took a slow, disgusted step forward.

“What is that ?”

His voice sliced through the room like a whip.

I froze, blinking. “What?”

He pointed, his lip curling like he’d just caught a stench. “ That. On the back of your dress.”

I turned slightly, pulling the hem of my robe around, and then my stomach dropped.

A dark crimson stain had bloomed across the back of the white fabric.

Blood.

My heart skipped, then pounded in my ears. Shit. My cycle. PCOS made it unpredictable. Sometimes it came late. Sometimes it didn’t come for months. Sometimes it came like this—unannounced, aggressive, humiliating.

Irina stepped back, muttering under her breath. “Uh oh.”

Boaz’s face twisted like I’d personally offended God.

“You’re filthy,” he spat. “Unsightly. You think I want to see this? You think this is acceptable in my home?”

“I—I didn’t know,” I stammered, voice small, eyes darting around for a towel or something—anything.

He raised his hand before I could move.

Crack.

The slap came fast and hard, spinning my head slightly with the force. My cheek burned instantly, my eyes stinging with hot tears I refused to let fall.

“Get out of my kitchen,” he growled. “Go clean yourself and don’t come back until you know how to carry yourself with dignity.”

I didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just turned and walked as fast as I could out of the room, my face on fire, the blood between my legs now a source of shame instead of biology.

Behind me, I heard Irina’s voice rise.

“You didn’t have to hit her!”

Her heels tapped quickly against the floor, following after me.

“Allure!” she called, catching up, her voice tight with something like panic.

By the time I reached my room, my hands were shaking. I slammed the door behind me and collapsed onto the bed, cradling my stinging face, too numb to cry.

A second later, the door opened and Irina slipped inside, slamming it behind her.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, rushing to my side. “He’s disgusting. He’s such a fucking monster sometimes.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I just stared at the floor, humiliated and exhausted.

She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a hug. For a second, I let myself lean into her. Just for a second.

“I swear to God, Allure,” she whispered against my shoulder. “I’m going to figure out a way to get you out of here.”

And for the first time in a long time…

I almost believed her.