She hated the caked on makeup. She hated the scratchy, sequined clothing that was pinching in all the worst places. She hated the heels. She hated the woman who told all the girls what to do. She hated every bit of it, but she hated it less than she hated starving.
And when she saw what happened to another girl who tried to escape, Zhanna firmly decided to suffer through this and try to find a way to make it work for her.
“Ugh, shoes,” she groaned, her Ukrainian accent still too thick to be masked for long with a feigned American accent. What she was trying to express was that her shoes were far too small, but she didn’t have enough of a grasp on the English language to fully convey that. Frustrated, she flopped onto a bed where some of the other girls had their clothes laid out. She tore off the shoes and and flung them at the wall, very nearly missing a young woman’s face as she entered the room.
Instinctively, Zhanna jumped back up again to fight back if the woman came for her. She looked a little older, but with the makeup and clothes and Zhanna’s height, dim enough lighting would’ve made them appear to be the same age. “Who are you?!” she demanded.
