I wake up to someone shaking my shoulder.

“I’m tired,” I mumble, but they don’t stop. Lazily, I open one eye.

Then I remember where I am. I shot up.

A woman in her late thirties, dressed in a maid’s uniform, stares at me expectantly, holding out a pad of paper.

I squint.

I cannot speak.She points to . I need to help you get ready.

I nod, feeling sorry for her. I don’t push any further. “Okay,” I reply slowly and she nods in return.

I finally notice the cart in the room. It has two layers. The top lays a mouth-watering breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast, and the bottom holds a basket of cosmetics and hair styling products. I see a dress thrown over the chair.

She writes something down. Go take a bath first.

I look down and blush. I realize I’m still in my tattered hospital gown, my hair is a mess, and I’m scared to smell myself.

I go and take my shower, and I when I walk out, I’m feeling a lot more relaxed. The maid hands me a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. To wear temporarily. I read. I go to the bathroom, change, and come back out.

As much as I hate the men that are keeping me here, I know I have to eat the food or else I’ll die of starvation. Maybe that would be better, I think dryly. But the thought of not seeing Baekhyun again…I wouldn’t be able to stand that.

As I eat, settled on the chair, I feel the woman comb my hair gently, working out the tangles and leaving it straight and soft. I feel heat and I realize she’s curling my hair into pretty ringlets.

She hands my mirror. I glance at my reflection in surprise. My hair looks great.

The woman pulls the basket from the cart and sets it on the bed. She pulls out handfuls of cosmetics and applies it to my face. Concealer to hide my bruises, blemishes, and undereye circles, blush for colour, a highlighter to brighten up my face, a glossy pink lipstick, and she finishes everything off with a daytime smoky eye look.

She hands me the dress. As much as I hate to say it, it’s beautiful. A black, strapless sweetheart top, cinched with a black band. It flows into a red-pink skirt obscured by a sheer layer of lace. At the bottom, is pretty black flower-vine detailing.

I head to the bathroom once more and slip it over my head. It’s a perfect fit. I look in the mirror, and see a totally different person. I walk out.

The woman holds up the notepad once more. We’re almost done.

She hands me a pair of black, two-inch pumps and I slip into them. She looks at me with a soft smile, but suddenly cringes.

“What is it?” I frown, noticing her expression.

She points towards my arms.

I look. The water has washed away the dried blood, but there’s still numerous scars running down my arms and bruises stamped in numerous spots.

They did it, didn’t they?

I nod, looking down.

When I look up, I see the sympathy in her eyes.

They cut off my tongue.

I gasp in shock. “Oh my-“ I choke, I can’t even finish my sentence.

She nods grimly. My father made a mistake, they couldn’t find him. I was punished instead. I was here since I was only 16.

My eyes fill with tears. “They’re horrible.”

The woman sits beside me, holding the concealer again. Carefully, almost motherly, she applies it on the scars and bruises.

“Thank you,” I whisper. After she’s done, I give her a hug.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

Calla, she wrote.

“Calla,” I say. “That’s a beautiful name. I’m _________.”

She gives me a soft smile and hugs me.

God bless you, says her scrawl. I hope He protects you.

“You stupid maid!” I hear pounding on my door. “Hurry up! She’s due any minute now!”

sets into a thin, hard line. She writes one last thing. Rip this, burn this. I don’t care how you do it but destroy this. They can’t know I told you.

I nod.

She gestures towards the door, and I know what she means.

Am I ready?

No way.