From Prison Cell To Billionaire's Target

The bus ride into Manhattan cost her fifteen dollars. She sat in the back row, her knees pressed tightly together, staring out the smeared window. The city skyline rose in the distance, a glittering forest of glass and steel. It was the city she grew up in, but it felt like an alien planet. None of those lights belonged to her anymore. A small TV screen behind the driver's seat played the local financial news. "Hendrix Enterprises announces a hostile takeover of..." the anchor's voice droned. The screen flashed to a segment on New York's most powerful CEOs. A file photo of Alfredo Hendrix appeared on the screen. He wore a custom Tom Ford suit. His jaw was sharp, his dark hair perfectly styled. He looked powerful, untouchable, and completely unaffected by the fact that he had spent the last three years torturing a woman in a cage. Dorothea looked at his face. Her heart didn't race. Her hands didn't shake. She just felt a heavy, cold exhaustion. Hate required energy, and she didn't have any left. She turned her head and looked back out the window. She got off at Times Square. The sheer volume of people, the blinding neon lights, and the deafening roar of traffic hit her like a physical blow. She stumbled, her head spinning. She hadn't been around this many people in three years. Her stomach let out a loud, painful cramp. She hadn't eaten since the watery oatmeal at 5:00 AM. She walked into a corner bodega. She stared at the pre-made sandwiches in the cooler, doing the math in her head. She couldn't afford them. She walked to the heated rollers and bought a single, shriveled hotdog for two dollars. She sat on a dirty concrete bench near an alleyway, taking tiny, slow bites to make it last. A shadow fell over her. A large, unwashed homeless man stepped up, his eyes locked on her food. He reached his hand out, stepping into her space. Instinct took over. Dorothea didn't shrink back. She snapped her head up. Her eyes went dead, locking onto his with the feral, violent intensity she had learned in Cell Block D. She didn't say a word, but her body tensed, ready to strike the throat. The man froze. He recognized the look of someone who had nothing left to lose. He backed away and shuffled down the street. Dorothea relaxed her shoulders. The old Dorothea would have cried and handed over her purse. That girl was dead. Night fell. The temperature dropped. She needed a place to sleep, but a cheap motel would wipe out her remaining twenty-five dollars. She started walking, looking at the windows of restaurants and stores. Waitress Wanted. Must have experience and presentable appearance. She looked down at her stained shirt and scarred arms. No. Sales Associate. College degree required. Her degree had likely been scrubbed from the system when she was convicted. No. She walked for hours, her bad leg dragging slightly, the dull ache in her lower back throbbing with every step. She turned down a quiet, upscale street in the Meatpacking District. A sleek, black awning caught her eye. The Velvet Room. Dorothea stopped dead in her tracks. Her breath caught in her ruined throat. This was the private club. The place where Emery died. The place where her life ended. It was a sick, twisted joke of the universe to lead her back here. She turned to run away. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. The very air around the building felt toxic, suffocating her with phantom scents of blood and panic. She made it half a block before her bad leg gave out. She leaned against a brick wall, shivering violently, the hollow ache of starvation twisting her empty stomach. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the memories, but Jada's voice echoed in her scarred mind. Live, Dottie. Live like a cockroach. Don't let them win. Hell's entrance, she realized with a sickening wave of resignation, was sometimes the only way to survive. She forced her eyes open and limped back toward the alleyway. That was when a small, white piece of paper taped to the heavy metal service door in the alley stopped her. URGENT: Night Shift Cleaner. Must be willing to do heavy lifting. No background check required. Inquire within. Cleaner. She stared at the word. It was the bottom of the barrel. But it was cash. It was survival. She remembered Jada, coughing up blood in the infirmary, grabbing Dorothea's hand. Dorothea dug her fingernails into her palms. She walked up to the heavy metal door and pushed it open. The air inside was thick with the smell of stale beer and industrial floor wax. A tired-looking man with a mop bucket looked up at her. "What do you want?" he grunted. "I'm here for the cleaner job," Dorothea rasped.