She was lucky, people told her. Darius was no backstreet brothel-keeper. He had a stable of high-class call girls in Paris, and they got the crème de la crème of clientele. Government ministers. Visiting Hollywood celebrities. Leaders of industry. It was there that Zelda had learned to use her natural charms rather than simply lie back and open her legs. Some of the men were quite sophisticated and appreciated conversation and little sensual touches, like a massage. Not all wanted sex. Sometimes she felt like a geisha.

But she was still a whore. And she was still a prisoner.

Darius wore bespoke suits, drank the best champagne and had the best drugs—that was where Zelda picked up her coke habit. It helped get her through the day, and the downers at night helped her forget where and what she was.

Then came Emile, a very important client, she was told. A government minister tipped for even higher office. After two visits, during which he never laid a finger on her, Emile told her he was in love with her. She didn’t know what love was outside of the books she had read, so she didn’t really know if she felt the same way. But she said she did. It made him happy. And if he was happy, Darius was happy. And if Darius was happy, he wouldn’t beat her so often. For despite his fancy suits, champagne, drugs and cologne, he was a brute underneath, just like those brutes that had abducted her.

Emile started plotting her escape. He would leave his wife and they would live together in Paris, he said, and when he had time off, he had a beautiful villa in Provence where they could stay. It would be idyllic, a wonderful life. He couldn’t bear it that she had to see other men; he wanted her all to himself. She couldn’t imagine what that might be like, but he was kind and she enjoyed his company. As time went on, she began to trust him and love him in her way. So together, they formed a plan. Emile was an important figure in a department of the French government, and he said he could help her get a passport if she helped him bring down Darius. She said she would. What were a few months more if they meant freedom? But she remembered Darius’s threat, and she knew that he meant it. The only way she could ever be entirely free of him was to kill him.

“Is this seat taken?”

Zelda snapped back out of her memories. “Sorry?”

“This seat—is it taken?”

Zelda waved her hand. “Oh. No. Not at all.”

“I’m surprised to hear that.”

Zelda turned to face the stranger, an American by the sound of him. “Why would that be?” she asked.

“A beautiful woman like you.”