Chapter 47: The New Management
The airstrip emptied in increments—first the family with their new cunt, then the sweating man with his, then the couple with theirs—until only Emma and the tarmac and the smell of jet fuel remained. The jets screamed down the runway one by one, metal birds swallowing human cargo, climbing into a sky so blue it looked painted.
She watched them go until they were specks, then nothing.
The sedan was still idling. The driver, that thin man with the flat eyes, stood by the open door, waiting. Emma walked toward him, her heels clicking a slow rhythm on the concrete. The sun was high now, and her black silk dress had gone warm against her skin. The pills were still working, smoothing everything into a soft blur, and she moved through the morning like she was underwater.
"Back to the penthouse," she said.
The driver nodded. Closed her door. Got behind the wheel.
The city rose up around them as they drove, all glass and steel and the Sunday-morning quiet of rich people sleeping off their Saturday sins. Emma watched the buildings slide past, her mind drifting. She thought about the family—the mother's approval, the boy's hunger, the girl's giggle. She thought about the woman on her knees, swallowing a stranger's cock while her own wedding ring caught the light. She thought about what it would feel like to own someone like that.
The thought stayed with her, warm and insistent, all the way back to the penthouse.
The lobby was empty. The elevator hummed. The doors opened onto the great room, and Emma stepped out into the sun-drenched sprawl of Moreau's kingdom—the cashmere throws, the crystal glasses, the piano waiting silent in the corner.
John Hiller was standing by the window.
He'd changed his clothes—the bloodstained shirt was gone, replaced by a plain black button-down and dark trousers. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms that were roped with muscle, and there was a fresh scratch on his left hand, long and thin, like someone had tried to claw him.
He turned when she entered. Those pale eyes found her, swept her from head to toe, and lingered on the neckline of her dress. Moreau's bedroom is clean," he said. "The carpet's been replaced. The body's gone."
"Where?"
"Disposed of."
Emma walked toward him, her heels sinking into the thick pile of the rug. The great room smelled like last night—whiskey and patchouli and the ghost of heroin—but underneath it, something else. Bleach. Soap. The clean, cold smell of a man who'd scrubbed blood from his hands.
"You work fast," she said.
"I work thoroughly."
She stopped a few feet from him. Close enough to see the scratch on his hand, the faint lines around his eyes, the way his jaw was set like he was waiting for something.
"The staff gave you no trouble?"
"They know better."
"And the clients?"
"Delivered. Paid. Gone." He tilted his head. "You watched."
"I did."
"The family. The children."
"The girl. Yes."
Something flickered in his expression—there and gone, like a fish surfacing in dark water. He didn't say anything. Just watched her with those flat, pale eyes.
Emma reached up and touched her throat. The bruises were still there—Moreau's fingerprints, faded now but still visible. She let her fingers trace the outline, slow and deliberate.
"She tried to kill me," she said. "At the end. She got her hands around my neck and squeezed."
John Hiller said nothing.
"I killed her first. The heroin. She was already gone by the time I finished. But she tried." Emma let her hand fall. "She was strong. Stronger than she looked."
"Is that why you watched me?"
The question hung in the air between them. Emma felt the heat rise in her chest, her stomach, her cunt. The pills had dulled everything, but not this. Not him.
"Yes," she said.
John Hiller didn't move. Didn't smile. Didn't reach for her. He just stood there, a man carved from stone, waiting.
"I want to see you work," Emma said. "Not from behind glass. Not from another room. Up close."
"There's nothing scheduled until tomorrow night."
"I know."
"Then what?"
Emma stepped closer. Close enough to smell him—soap and something underneath, something metallic, something that made her mouth water. She placed her hand flat on his chest, felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat through the cotton of his shirt.
"You," she said.
He looked down at her hand. Then back at her face.
"You're high," he said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"On what?"
"Heroin. Xanax. Oxy." She smiled, and it felt like someone else's smile on her face. "I wanted to feel good. I wanted to feel nothing. I wanted to feel everything."
"And what do you want now?"
She answered by kissing him.
His mouth was cold at first, then warm. He tasted like coffee and cigarettes and something sharper underneath—blood, maybe, or the memory of it. Emma pressed herself against him, her breasts flattening against his chest, her hips finding his. She kissed him hard, deep, her tongue sliding into his mouth like she owned it.
For a moment, he didn't respond.
Then his hand came up and closed around the back of her neck—the same place Moreau had squeezed, the same bruises, and the pressure made her gasp against his lips. He held her there, firm but not cruel, and kissed her back like he was testing something. Like he was deciding whether she was worth his time.
He pulled back first.
"Not here," he said.
"Where?"
He didn't answer. Just took her by the wrist and led her through the penthouse, past the velvet curtain, past the dark hallway, past the door to the observation chamber. She'd expected him to take her there—to the bed, to the one-way mirror, to the room where she'd come while a woman died—but he kept walking, down a corridor she'd never seen, to a door at the end.
The room beyond was small. Spartan. A cot against one wall, a metal chair, a sink, a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. No windows. No art. No cashmere throws or crystal glasses or pianos.
His room.
"Close the door," he said.
She did.
When she turned back, he was unbuttoning his shirt. Slow, methodical, the same precision he brought to everything else. He shrugged it off, folded it, laid it on the chair. His torso was lean and hard, marked with scars—thin white lines, puckered circles, the kind of marks that came from blades and burns and a lifetime of pain.
Emma's mouth went dry.
He reached for her. Not rough, not gentle—just certain. His hands found the straps of her dress and slid them down her shoulders. The silk pooled at her feet. She stood before him naked, her nipples hard, her cunt slick with heat.
He looked at her the way he'd looked at the women in the chamber. Assessing. Patient. Deciding.
Then he picked her up.
She didn't expect it—didn't expect the ease with which he lifted her, one arm under her thighs, the other around her back. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, and let him carry her to the cot. It creaked when he laid her down, the springs groaning underneath her, but he didn't seem to care.
He undressed the rest of the way. Shoes, socks, trousers. His cock was hard, thick, rising from a thatch of dark hair. She stared at it, hungry, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.
He noticed.
"You want it?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I want your cock."
"Where?"
"In my mouth. In my cunt. Anywhere you want."
He didn't smile. But something shifted in his eyes—a cold, quiet satisfaction, like a cat watching a mouse decide it wants to be caught.
He climbed onto the cot, his knees on either side of her hips, and guided his cock to her mouth. She opened for him, took him deep, and he fucked her throat with the same steady rhythm he'd used on the redhead—slow, deliberate, controlled.
She gagged. She didn't stop.
His hand found her hair, twisted it, pulled. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to let her know who was in charge.
She sucked him until her jaw ached, until her eyes watered, until the taste of him filled her mouth. Then he pulled out, slid down her body, and buried his face between her legs.
Emma cried out. His tongue was relentless—flat, wet, probing, finding her clit and working it with a precision that was almost clinical. He ate her like he was studying her, cataloging every twitch and gasp, filing it away for later.
"You like that," he said against her cunt. "You like being watched. You like watching. You like knowing what it feels like to die."
She couldn't answer. Couldn't speak. Just ground her hips against his face and moaned.
He pushed two fingers inside her. Then three. She was so wet they slid in easy, and he curled them upward, finding the spot that made her see white, and pressed.
She came like that—his tongue on her clit, his fingers inside her, his breath hot on her skin. The orgasm ripped through her, sharp and sudden, and she clenched around him, her whole body shaking.
He didn't stop. He kept going, kept licking, kept pressing, until she came again—harder, longer, a second wave that left her gasping and limp.
Then he pulled his fingers out, wiped them on the sheets, and climbed up her body.
"Condom," he said.
"What?"
"Do you have one?"
"No."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he shrugged.
"Pull out, then."
He didn't wait for her answer. Just pushed inside her in one slow, deep thrust.
Emma gasped. He was thick—thicker than she'd expected—and the stretch of him made her eyes roll back. He didn't move at first. Just held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead resting against hers.
"Look at me," he said.
She opened her eyes.
"Stay."
He pulled back and slammed into her.
From there, it was brutal. He fucked her like he was punishing her—each thrust deep and hard, each stroke deliberate, each snap of his hips making the cot creak and shift beneath them. Emma grabbed the edges of the mattress and held on, her tits bouncing, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"You wanted this," he said. "You wanted to see me work. This is what it looks like."
She came again—a third orgasm, unexpected, violent—and screamed. He didn't slow down. Didn't stop. Just kept fucking her through it, his eyes locked on her face, watching every shudder, every grimace, every moment of pleasure-pain.
"You're close," she managed.
"Yes."
"Come on me."
He pulled out. Two strokes with his fist, and then he was spilling across her stomach—hot ropes of come that painted her skin like something sacred.
He didn't make a sound. Just breathed. Just watched.
Then he got up, walked to the sink, and cleaned himself off with a hand towel.
Emma lay there, panting, her cunt still throbbing, her stomach sticky with his come. The room smelled like sex and sweat and the faint metallic tang of blood.
"Tomorrow night," he said, turning back to her, "there's an auction. New merchandise. Five women, all from different countries."
"I know."
"You'll be watching."p
"Yes."
"From behind the glass."
"I want to be in the room."
He paused. Studied her. That flat, pale gaze moving over her like a hand.
"That can be arranged," he said.
Emma smiled. Closed her eyes.
The heroin was still humming in her veins, warm and soft and perfect. The pills had blurred everything else. And now, with John Hiller's come drying on her stomach and his taste still on her tongue, she felt something she hadn't felt in years.
Home.
The word sat in her chest like a warm stone, and she didn't want to move, didn't want to break the spell of it.
John Hiller was still standing at the sink, his back to her, the hand towel draped over one shoulder. The bare bulb above them cast harsh shadows across his spine, illuminating the scars she'd traced with her fingers—the puckered burn marks, the thin white lines of old blade work.
She watched him breathe. In, out. Steady. Unbothered.
"You should go," he said.
Emma didn't move.
"Back to your room. Clean up. Sleep." He turned, and those pale eyes found her again. "You've got a long day tomorrow."
"So do you."
"I'm used to it."
She sat up slowly, the come on her stomach cooling, tacky against her skin. The cot creaked beneath her. She found her dress on the floor, the silk wrinkled and smelling of sex, and pulled it over her head without bothering with underwear.
"There's a bathroom down the hall," John said. "If you want to wash up."
"I don't."
He shrugged. Pulled his shirt back on. Buttoned it with the same methodical precision he brought to everything else.
Emma stood. Her legs were unsteady, her cunt still tender, her whole body humming with the afterglow of three orgasms and a heroin high that was just beginning to fade. She walked to the door, then stopped with her hand on the knob.
"The syringe," she said.
"What?"
"There's a syringe in my room. On the nightstand. A bag of heroin, too." She met his eyes. "I took them from Moreau's bedroom before you got there. Before you cleaned up."
John Hiller didn't blink.
"I just thought you should know," she said.
"Why?"
She smiled. It felt like someone else's mouth, someone else's teeth. "Because you're thorough. And I want you to know everything."
She left before he could answer.
The corridor was dim, the same service hallway she'd walked last night, and she followed it back to the guest room with her heels in her hand and her feet bare on the cold marble. The door was still locked. She let herself in, closed it behind her, and stood in the dark for a moment, breathing.
The bed was exactly as she'd left it. The sheets tangled, the pillows scattered, the ghost of her body still pressed into the mattress.
The syringe was on the floor where it had rolled. The bag of heroin was on the nightstand. The spoon and lighter were beside it, along with the second syringe she hadn't used.
She should have hidden them. Should have cleaned up, tucked everything into the lining of her purse, erased every trace of what she'd done. Instead, she'd told him. She'd walked into his room with her bruises and her wet cunt and she'd told him exactly where to find her weakness.
Why?
She didn't have an answer. Not a good one, anyway.
She picked up the syringe. The needle was still attached, still stained with her blood. She stared at it for a long time, feeling the weight of it in her hand.
Then she put it back on the nightstand and walked to the bathroom.
The shower was hot. She stood under it for a long time, letting the water beat against her shoulders, her back, the sore spot between her legs where John had fucked her. His come washed away in slow rivulets, disappearing down the drain.
She scrubbed her skin until it was pink. Washed her hair twice. Brushed her teeth with her finger because she didn't have a toothbrush.
When she got out, she wrapped herself in a towel and walked back to the bedroom.
The bag was still on the nightstand.
She stared at it.
The high had faded. The pills were wearing off. And underneath everything—underneath the sex and the drugs and the cold, quiet satisfaction of watching women die—there was something else. Something hollow. Something hungry.
She reached for the bag.
Then she stopped.
John Hiller's words echoed in her head. You should go. Clean up. Sleep. You've got a long day tomorrow.
She pulled her hand back.
Instead, she went to the closet. Found a simple black dress—not the silk one, something plainer, something that wouldn't make a statement. Found underwear. Found a pair of flats.
She dressed slowly, methodically, the way John did everything.
Then she sat on the edge of the bed and waited.
She didn't know what she was waiting for. Not exactly. But the feeling was there, low in her gut, a quiet certainty that something was coming. Something she couldn't see yet.
The hours passed.
She dozed, off and on, never quite falling asleep. The sun moved across the sky, the light in the room shifting from gold to amber to grey. She didn't eat. Didn't drink. Just sat there, the bag of heroin on the nightstand beside her, the syringe catching the light.
At some point, her phone buzzed.
A text from Caron. "Hector wants to meet. Tonight. Before the auction."
Emma stared at the message for a long moment. Then she typed back.
"Where?"
"His suite. The Peninsula. 8 PM."
"Understood."
She put the phone down. Stood. Walked to the bathroom to check her reflection—the dark eyes, the red lips she'd painted that morning now faded to a dull rose. She looked tired. She looked older. She looked like a woman who had killed someone and fucked a stranger and was about to meet the man who would decide her future.
She looked exactly like what she was.
When she came back into the bedroom, John Hiller was standing in the doorway.
She hadn't heard him come in. Hadn't heard the door open. He was just there, silent as a shadow, his pale eyes moving from her face to the nightstand to the bag of heroin and back again.
"You didn't clean up," he said.
"No."
He stepped into the room. Closed the door behind him. The click of the latch was loud in the quiet.
"I found the syringe," he said.
"I told you where it was."
"You did." He walked to the nightstand. Picked up the bag, weighed it in his palm, set it down again. "Why?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know."
"No."
He turned to face her. The light from the window caught the side of his face, illuminating the faint lines around his eyes, the thin scar that ran from his temple to his jaw.
"You wanted me to see it," he said. "You wanted me to know."
"Yes."
"Why?"
She met his gaze. Held it. "Because I trust you."
The words hung in the air between them. John Hiller didn't move. Didn't blink. Just watched her with that flat, pale stare.
"That's a mistake," he said.
"I know."
"You don't trust anyone."
"I know."
"Then why?"
She stepped closer. Close enough to smell the soap on his skin, the faint trace of blood under his fingernails. Close enough to feel the heat coming off his body.
"Because you're the only person in this world who's ever watched me the way I watch you," she said. "And I want to know what that means."
He didn't answer.
But he didn't leave, either.
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, and Emma felt something shift—not in him, but in herself. The hollow place inside her, the hungry place, the place that heroin and sex and violence had only ever numbed, never filled.
She reached out. Touched his hand.
His skin was cold.
"Do you want to know what it means?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Then stay."
He stayed.
She led him to the bed. Pushed him down onto the tangled sheets. Climbed on top of him, her dress still on, her hair falling around her face. She could feel his cock hardening beneath her, could feel the tension in his body, the coiled restraint.
"I'm going to fuck you," she said. "And then you're going to tell me what you see when you look at me."
He didn't argue.
She pulled up her dress. Pulled down her underwear. His cock was already hard, already waiting, and she sank onto it with a slow, deliberate moan. He filled her completely, the stretch of him sending a shiver up her spine.
She rode him. Slow at first, then faster. Her hands on his chest, her nails digging into his skin, her cunt clenching around him with every stroke. He watched her—always watching—his pale eyes never leaving her face.
"You want to know what I see?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I see a woman who's already dead."
She stopped. Her hips stilled. Her breath caught in her throat.
"You're not afraid of dying," he continued. "You're afraid of living. Of feeling. Of being seen."
His hands found her hips. Gripped them. Held her there, impaled on his cock, unable to move.
"I see a woman who's been running her whole life. From something. Someone. Maybe herself." He thrust up into her, hard, and she gasped. "I see a woman who kills because it's the only thing that makes her feel real."
She came. Hard. Unexpected. The orgasm ripping through her like a blade, sharp and sudden, leaving her shaking and breathless.
John Hiller didn't stop. He flipped her onto her back, pinned her wrists above her head, and fucked her like he was trying to prove a point. Each thrust was deep and brutal, each stroke designed to shatter her, and she took it—all of it—her body arching beneath him, her mouth open in a silent scream.
"You wanted to be seen," he said. "So I'm seeing you. All of it. The blood. The drugs. The hunger."
She came again. And again. Until she couldn't tell where one ended and the next began.
When he finally finished—pulling out, spilling across her thighs, his breath ragged for the first time—she lay there, shattered, staring at the ceiling.
He got up. Walked to the sink. Cleaned himself off.
"You asked what I see," he said, his back to her. "That's what I see. A woman who's already dead, trying to remember what it felt like to be alive."
He turned. Looked at her.
"I can help you remember," he said. "If you want."
She didn't answer.
He left.
The room was quiet. The sun had set while they fucked, and the city beyond the window was a sprawl of neon and shadow. Emma lay on the bed, her dress bunched around her waist, her thighs sticky with his come, and felt the weight of his words pressing down on her.
A woman who's already dead.
She reached for the nightstand. Found the bag. Found the syringe.
But she didn't use them.
Not yet.
Because for the first time in longer than she could remember, she wanted to feel something that wasn't the high.
She wanted to feel alive.
And she had a feeling John Hiller was the only person in the world who could show her how.