The Sinner of Mute

The Los Angeles sun bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Lucien’s duplex, casting sharp geometric shadows over Sorina’s shivering form.

She lay curled on the bed, the platinum shackle glinting cruelly around her ankle, its chain coiled like a dormant serpent.

The infection in her foot had been subdued by antibiotics given by Lucien’s personal doctor, but the wound still pulsed a dull, relentless reminder of the cellar, the dogs, the teeth snapping inches from her face. 

Her mind drifted in fragments. Liora’s laughter. The desert wind. The clink of chains

Sometimes, she’d jerk awake, convinced the Dobermans were in the room, their hot breath on her neck. Other times, she’d stare at the ceiling thinking about her life.

The silk gown Lucien had dressed her in pooled around her like a funeral shroud.

Her hair, washed and combed by his indifferent hands, felt foreign a mockery of care.

She traced the bruises on her wrists, yellowing now, and wondered if the girl who once danced with coins in her hair still existed. 

Three thousand miles away, Lucien stood in the penthouse suite of The Opal, a newly acquired hotel in Manhattan. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a skyline glittering with ambition.

A dozen men in bespoke suits sat around a mahogany table, their eyes darting nervously as Lucien paced behind them, a glass of Macallan M in hand. 

“The Dubai project is stalled,” said a developer, his voice tight. “The regulators are asking about the offshore funds.” 

Lucien paused, his reflection looming in the glass like a specter. “Bribe them. Or bury them.” 

Silence. 
He set his glass down with a click. “The casino in Monaco opens next week. Ensure the VIP guests receive their usual amenities.” 

A coded order the “amenities” were girls, drugs, blackmail footage.

His hotels and resorts, pristine on the surface, thrived on the rot beneath. 

As the meeting adjourned, Lucien’s phone buzzed. A text from Alejandro: “Shipment secured. Customs paid.” He smirked. “Always a step ahead”

Lucien returned to LA at midnight, the city’s neon glow staining the duplex in hues of cyan and gold.

He found Sorina as he’d left her on the bed, knees to chest, her gaze fixed on the shackle. 

“Sit up,” he commanded. 
She didn’t move. 
He gripped her jaw, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I said sit up.” 

Her body obeyed, muscle memory overriding will. He traced the line of her throat, his thumb resting over her pulse. “You’ll join me for dinner and act normal when you recover.” 

Her eyes widened. “No. Not again.”

He smiled, reading her terror. “You’ll smile. You’ll nod. You’ll be grateful.” 

From his pocket, he withdrew a velvet box. Inside lay a collar thin, elegant, set with a diamond clasp. “A gift. To match your shackle.” 

Sorina recoiled, but he fastened it around her neck, the metal cold against her skin. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “A pet in gilded chains.” 

That night, fever dreams gripped her. The dogs. The cellar. Lucien’s laugh.

She woke gasping, her hand clawing beneath the mattress for the glass shard. 

Footsteps. Lucien stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light.

He crossed the room in three strides, flipping the mattress with a single heave. The glass clattered to the floor. 

For a heartbeat, silence. 

She scrambled backward, the chain wrenching her ankle.
“Time to bath,” he said, dragging her to the bathroom. 

He shoved her into the marble shower, turning the water ice-cold. “Wash the defiance away.” 

She collapsed under the spray, trembling, as he watched. 

“Remember your place,” he said, turning off the water. “Or next time, I’ll use the dogs here and let them bite you!” 

Sorina lay on the bathroom floor, water pooling around her, the collar choking her breath.

“Soon”, she thought, staring at the dawn breaking over LA. “I’ll find another way.”

In the other room, Lucien poured a drink, his phone buzzing with deals and deaths.