The pair walked through the corridors restricted to workers of the house. At first glance, one might mistake them for ordinary women rather than slaves—their flawless cream gowns and clean skin concealed the truth. Though they appeared to know where they were headed, their minds had wandered far beyond these walls.
Along the way, heads turned as people stole second glances at the striking figures who passed them. In every organization, there was always room for rules to be bent, and those who knew how to get what they wanted found themselves on the advantageous side.
Aside from Janette and Theresa, a few other slaves moved through the restricted corridors. Unlike the weary, defeated souls Theresa had seen in her short time here, these ones carried the same glint in their eyes as Janette—the glint of confidence and contentment. It was something Theresa couldn't yet relate to.
Though everyone here was well aware of Janette—who, like them, had worked hard to be treated as more than just a mere slave—their curious eyes landed on the red-haired young woman beside her. Theresa, unknowingly thrust into the spotlight just by walking with Janette, didn't notice the lingering stares and whispers that followed them like shadows. Lost in thought, she simply followed her cellmate, the only person she could cling to for now.
They stopped in front of a door guarded by two men. While one smirked at Janette, the other fixed his gaze on the unfamiliar woman beside her.
Janette saw this and retorted, "Wipe that smirk off your face unless you want me to tell your boss."
But the guard's grin only widened, and his gaze shifted to the woman beside her. "And who's this..."
His words trailed off when his colleague stepped forward, gently reaching out a hand toward Theresa. She hesitated, caught off guard by the unexpected gesture, but before she could fully think it through, her hand was already halfway in his.
The man took it with ease, lifting it to his lips and pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the back of her palm. "May I know your name?" he asked, his gaze never leaving hers.
Theresa's eyes darted to Janette, startled by his boldness and sudden actions. Before her cellmate could speak up and give out that ridiculous nickname, she quickly uttered, "It's Theresa."
The man's gaze lingered on her longer than it should. "And I'm Timothy."
"Someone here knows how to greet a woman," Janette remarked, earning a glare from the other guard. "I'll give you points for that, Timothy. And you have my blessings."
Now it was Theresa's turn to glare.
"Whose is she?" the other man asked, his tone sharp.
"Thompson's," Janette replied. "He left her in my care, and I took it upon myself to show her around." She smiled like a proud mother showing off her child.
"That's the last thing Thompson would do," the man laughed, his voice laced with disbelief.
Janette rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to Timothy, who seemed thoroughly captivated by her cellmate.
"If you need anything, don't hesitate to find me," Timothy said to Theresa, his tone almost too eager.
She nodded.
"Alright then, we should go,"
Janette said, moving toward the double doors, with her cellmate following behind.
Another hallway stretched out beyond the doors. With nothing else to focus on, Theresa stayed quiet, her thoughts wandering off on their own.
The once-feared slave establishment wasn't as terrifying as she had imagined. It was filled with people who bent the rules to suit themselves, and slaves who willingly played along. But more than anything, it was the thought of branding that still made her skin crawl and her heart shrink in fear. Was there really no way around it? If someone like Janette hadn't found a loophole, what were the odds that she would?
Still, she shouldn't jump to conclusions. It hadn't even been a day yet. Maybe—just maybe—whoever was watching her misery had decided to show her pity, and that was why she hadn't yet tasted the hard way.
The hard way...?
She hadn't experienced what made slavery the most degrading, cruel existence of all. She hadn't learned why every guard carried a whip like they were training animals. She hadn't understood why escape meant death instead of freedom.
Even so, if given a choice, would she prefer to be treated like the slave she was—or do whatever her cellmate, along with the others she'd seen, had done to be treated differently?
Without anyone spelling it out, the truth already lurked behind these painted walls and polished marble floors. Unlike the cemented cell, which only got colder at night, this place was warmer.
But warmth came at a price.
A price she would pay...?