JESSYCA TOOK SEVERAL DEEP BREATHS, trying to calm the frantic rhythm of her heart. The air inside the apartment felt oppressively thin, and the heavy silence contrasted with the distant sound of rain striking the glass windows. Her slender, elegant hands trembled so violently that the letter quivered like a leaf about to break free from its branch. Beneath the yellow glow of the table lamp, the handwriting was almost illegible, forcing her to lay the paper on the small table beside the armchair.
She switched on the crystal lamp, brightening the room, and the paper revealed its age. It was made of thick linen, carrying the faint scent of ink and smoke, as though it had spent years forgotten inside an old safe. It had been written with a genuine quill in sepia ink, and its graceful, meticulous penmanship betrayed the hand of an educated—almost aristocratic—writer, though every stroke was infused with irony.
"My dear Jessyca, I have never taken my eyes off you."
The opening line made her stomach tighten.
"The last six years have been very kind to you. You look beautiful, but unfortunately you're not my type. I prefer a little more curve."
The model bit her lower lip. The sarcasm in those words cut deeper than any direct insult.
"Congratulations. You've become the greatest supermodel in the world. Of course, without my little push, you would have been nobody..."
Jessyca let out a nervous laugh and lowered the letter for a few moments.
— What do you want from me? — she murmured into the empty room, as though the sender could hear her through the walls.
The answer came in the very next line, blunt and threatening, like a sentence being pronounced.
"The time has come to settle our debt..."
The color drained from her face. Those words reopened a chapter of her past she had spent years trying to bury. She closed her eyes, and for a brief instant she saw the face of the man who had written them—the very same man who, six years earlier, had smiled at her and said:
"You will not repay me with money... nor with your body."
Back then, she had believed it was merely a power game, a cruel joke from a bored man. Now she realized how mistaken she had been.
A chill ran up her spine as she resumed reading, her hands still trembling.
"I hope you like the clothes and jewelry you'll be wearing tomorrow. I designed them myself. Keep them on after your meeting with the press. At eleven-thirty that night, you'll receive a visitor in your suite. My collector's name is LaVey. Be a gracious hostess and do whatever he asks of you. I promise it will be an unforgettable night.
With love,
Sammy."
Jessyca let the paper slip from her fingers onto the rug. The dull sound echoed through the apartment like a gunshot.
— So the price is... sleeping with this... LaVey? — she whispered in disbelief.
The idea seemed absurd—almost trivial—compared to the magnitude of the fear that man had always inspired in her. It was too little... too simple... to settle what she owed him. Even so, the thought of surrendering herself to a complete stranger made her feel dirty, manipulated, like a pawn in a game whose rules she had never understood.
LaVey... she repeated silently, as though the name itself tasted like poison.
She tried to picture his face.
Would he be young? Old? A businessman? An assassin? Or simply someone trained to serve as the instrument of another man's punishment?
With an abrupt movement, she switched on her cellphone and paired it with the apartment's speakers via Bluetooth. Music flooded the room, drowning out the sound of her own breathing. She took a long drag from her cigarette, and the bitter taste of tobacco pulled her back to the present.
Jessyca rose to her feet, the silk robe slipping from her bare shoulders, and walked to the center of the living room. Then she began to dance slowly, allowing her body to channel pain and fear into movements that resembled a silent choreography. The music blended with the pounding of her heart, and for a fleeting moment she imagined that perhaps she might—at last—experience a romantic evening, even if it were born of illusion... even if it turned out to be the last night of her life.