Worker Rahim saw her first. He arrived at the construction site at 4:47 am. Before the foreman, before the heat, before everyone else. 12 years in the Emirates taught him a simple truth: whoever picks up the shovel first is the last to get hit. An abandoned pit on the outskirts of Sharjah gaped in the pre-dawn darkness like an open wound.
The project was frozen 2 years ago. Another investor from Europe has fled from debt. Now stray dogs and equally stray people spent the night here. Rahim walked around the perimeter, checking if they had stolen any rebar during the night. He heard a sound. Not a groan, more like a breath. Wet, torn, like a wounded animal.
Concrete well of a technical shaft. The depth is about three meters. Rahim turned on the flashlight on his phone and shone it down. At first he thought: “A mannequin, a broken doll that was thrown out with the construction waste. The skin is too white, the angles of the bones underneath are too sharp.
” Then the doll blinked. She doesn’t speak. The ambulance doctor, a middle-aged Filipina, glared at the policeman with her tired eyes. He wrote something down on his tablet without raising his head. “At all? One word,” he repeats over and over again . “Which one? Amira.” The girl sat on a stretcher, wrapped in a thermal blanket.
It seemed too big for her body. 39 kg with a height of 174 cm. The doctor saw this in refugee camps. Never within 12 km from Burj Khalifa. The wrist is the worst. The handcuff marks were layered on top of each other. Pink, white, crimson, like annual rings, they have filled the tree. How many months, how many years.
Does she have the documents? Nothing. Naked when found, but there is something. The doctor carefully lifted the edge of the blanket on the girl’s back. Tattoo. A black QR code the size of a credit card, right between the shoulder blades. Professional work. Clear lines. No blur. The policeman pointed his phone camera. The scanner beeped.
A blank web page opened. Completely white screen. “What the hell?” – he muttered. The girl slowly turned her head. For the first time in an hour, she looked directly at a person, neither through nor past. There was a glimmer of recognition in [clears throat] her eyes . “Amira,” she whispered. Amira wants to go home.
Identification took 40 minutes. Fingerprints, Interpol database, red flag in the system. Kristina Andreevna Voronova. Date of birth: March 15, 2000. Place of birth: Voronezh, Russian Federation. The mother filed a report that he has been on the international wanted list since April 2022 . Last known location: Dubai, Jumeirah area.
23 months, almost 2 years between the last selfie on the yacht and the concrete well in the cartoon. The policeman looked at the photograph in the database. A radiant girl with honey-colored hair, perfect skin, and a smile with 32 whitened teeth. Professional portfolio of a modeling agency. Then he looked at the creature on the stretcher.
One and the same person. Impossible. Necessary. “Contact the Russian consulate,” he told his partner, “and keep this case completely out of the press.” Why? The policeman did not answer. He looked at the QR code. Blank page. But someone created it. Someone registered the domain, someone paid for hosting, someone tagged this girl. as a commodity.
To understand how Kristina Voronova ended up in this well, you need to go back four years to a small apartment in Voronezh, to a room with Naomi Campbell posters on the walls. That evening, when twenty-year-old Christina first heard the word yachting and believed that it was just beautiful photographs at sunset.
Voronezh smelled of poplar fluff and hot asphalt. June 2020. Christina had just turned 20 and was standing in front of the mirror in her tiny bathroom, sucking in her stomach until her ribs ached. Christine, are you coming soon? I’m on shift. Mother knocked on the door. Galina Voronova, 52 years old, nurse at City Hospital Number Three. Salary 28,000 rubles.
Varicose veins on legs from twelve hour shifts. Gray hair that she hasn’t dyed for 2 years . Nothing to say. Wait a second. Christina looked at her reflection for the last time. 174 cm, 53 kg. She has cheekbones like Bella’s, she walked around – she specifically compared them from photographs.
The eyes are grey-green, a rare shade. On the wall above the mirror is a magazine clipping of Naomi Camel on the Versace catwalk, 1991. “I’m more beautiful,” thought Christina, and immediately did n’t believe herself. Her father left when she was 14. Not for another woman, he just left. One morning I packed my gym bag and said, “I can’t do this anymore.
” Christina still didn’t understand what exactly he couldn’t do. To live with them, to live in general, to be an adult. He sent money for the first 3 months, then stopped, then changed his number. The mother didn’t cry, she just took a second shift at the hospital. “We can handle it,” she said. “We always cope.
” Christina hated that word. We’re coping. It meant pasta for dinner 5 days a week, it meant a jacket from the market instead of the one from the mall, it meant no to all the school trips. She swore to herself that when she grew up, she would never be able to cope. She will live. Kristina got her first photo shoot at 18.
A local women’s clothing store was looking for a model for their catalog. 5,000 rubles for 8 hours of work. She stood under the softboxes in polyester dresses and smiled so hard her cheeks hurt. The photographer, a sweaty man in his forties, said, “You’ve got something. The camera loves you.” Christina remembered these words forever.
After that shoot, she started Instagram, posted photos every day, and studied poses, lighting, and angles. I bought subscribers for 100 rubles. for 1,000 bots. Then living people came. By the age of 20, she had 12,000 subscribers and no chance of leaving Voronezh. She dropped out of college after her second year.
Are you crazy? Mother sat in the kitchen, clutching a cup of cold tea. Without a diploma. Where? Mom, I’m going to be a model. A model? Galina laughed, but the laughter was bitter. Christine, the models are Moscow. These are connections. This is money for the portfolio. We have nothing. I will earn money. How to pose in lingerie for online stores? Christina remained silent.
She was already filming for 15,000 per session. Bras, panties, bodysuits. They usually showed their faces, only their bodies. Mother didn’t know. Yana appeared in her life by chance. They met at a casting for a shampoo commercial. Both failed. Then we sat in a coffee shop and drank the cheapest lats. Yana was 3 years older.
Dyed blonde with eyelash extensions and a Louis Viton bag, real, not fake. “How much do you earn?” – she asked. “About 30 thousand a month when there is filming.” Yana smiled. Do you want 150 for the weekend? Christina almost choked on her coffee. Is this prostitution? God, no. Yana rolled her eyes. It’s called an escort.
Dinners with rich men. You’re beautiful, they pay for the company. You just sit, smile, listen to their stories about business and that’s it. And that’s all. I took out my phone and showed photos of restaurants with white tablecloths, bottles of champagne, men in expensive suits. If a man wants more, you can always refuse. It’s your choice.
My choice, thought Christina. She repeated these words like a mantra as she flew to Moscow a month later. First weekend. Dinner at Beluga. Number Writz Carlton. Envelope with cash. 150,000 rubles The man was an ordinary, balding businessman of 50 years old. He wanted a beautiful girl to listen to his complaints about his wife.
Christina listened, nodded, and laughed at his jokes. In the room he asked for a massage. She did, he fell asleep. In the morning there is an envelope on the nightstand. I’m in control of the situation, she thought on the plane home. It’s just a job. Everything has changed in a year. Instagram has grown to 50,000 followers. Photos from Moscow, Sochi, Turkey.
Designer dresses, client gifts, restaurants, sunsets, yachts. Mother stopped asking where the money came from. Christina almost stopped feeling ashamed. Sometimes at night she would wake up with the feeling that she was falling, something inside her knew. It’s not just dinners, it’s selling yourself.
in parts. But in the morning she looked at the card balance, and the feeling disappeared. February 2022 . Direct message from an unknown account. Avatar. Logo with gold letters. Elite Dubai Models. Hello, Christina. We have noticed your work. We are looking for models for exclusive events in Dubai.
Fee from $10,000 per evening. Interesting. Christina looked at the screen. 10,000 dollars. 750,000 rubles in one evening. She thought about her mother, who earns this money in 2 years. Thought of Naomi Kemble on the bathroom wall. I thought I was in control of the situation and clicked reply. In 3 months it will disappear.
After 23 years she will be found in a concrete well. But on that February evening, Kristina Voronova from Voronezh was sure this was her chance. her ticket to real life. She didn’t know that she had already become a commodity, just not yet delivered. Moscow greeted her with June heat. Christina got out of the taxi at the entrance to For Seasons and froze for a second . Glass doors.
Doorman in a left-hand drive. Woman with Yorkshire Terrier in Erms bag. “I’m here,” she wrote in a direct message to the account with the gold logo. I’m waiting for a table by the window at the lobby bar. Kristina recognized Lena Savchenko immediately, not from the photograph. There was no photograph because the woman was sitting.
The back is straight, the chin is slightly raised, the look is appraising, but warm. Professionally warm. 41 years old. Her chestnut hair is styled as if she just came from the stylist. The Chanel suit is not a replica. On the table is a Birkin bag in ivory. Christina, a smile revealing perfectly white teeth. Have a seat, dear.
I’m Elena. You can just call me Lena. Christina sat opposite. The waiter appeared instantly. Champagne. Lena raised an eyebrow. Or are you driving? Champagne, said Christina. The voice did not waver. She was rehearsing. Lena nodded to the waiter. Two glasses. Ruinar. When he walked away, Lena leaned a little closer.
You know, 20 years ago I was sitting in your place, literally in this same hotel. Only then it was called differently. Were you a model? Was. Lena leaned back in her chair. Milan, Paris, a little bit of Tokyo, and then I realized that agencies make money on the catwalk . The models are simply beautiful products with a short shelf life.
She said the word product as easily as coffee or weather. I decided to cross to the other side. Lena smiled. Now I help girls like you. For smart girls. who understand that beauty is capital and must be invested wisely. They brought champagne, the bubbles rose to the surface, burst, and disappeared. “Tell me about the agency,” said Christina.
“Elite Dubai Models is not a modeling agency in the traditional sense.” Lena sipped her champagne. We work with VIP clients. closed events, private fashion shows, yacht parties, and sometimes accompanying at business dinners. Escort. Lena laughed quietly, melodically. Honey, an escort is when you are ordered on a website for $300 an hour.
What we offer is on a different level, in a different league. She took a folder out of her bag: black leather, gold embossing. Contract for 6 months. Dubai base. Guaranteed $15,000 per month. Plus bonuses for events. Accommodation in apartments on Palm Jumeirah at our expense. Visas, flights, medical insurance. Us too.
Kristina looked at the figures: $15,000, more than a million rubles a month. “What needs to be done?” – she asked. “Be beautiful, be young, smile at the right people.” – Lena shrugged. Sometimes spend an evening in the company of a wealthy man. dinner, small talk, maybe a dance. What if he wants more? Lena looked into her eyes.
The gaze became sharper. It’s always your choice, Christina. We do not force. But she paused. Girls who understand the rules of the game earn more, significantly more. They talked for 2 hours. Lena told success stories. A girl from Samara married a Saudi prince. A Ukrainian woman opened her boutique in Dubai.
A model from Kazakhstan received a golden visa. Residence permit for investors. “A golden visa,” Lena repeated. “It’s freedom, it’s status, it’s the future.” Christina nodded. She didn’t ask why the contract was in Arabic. She didn’t ask why the agency needed her passport to apply for a visa. didn’t ask why she couldn’t tell the family the details.
These were all red flags. She saw them, but she also saw the numbers in the contract, and Burkin’s bag, and the confidence in Lena’s eyes. The confidence of a woman who is in control of her life. “I want that too,” thought Christina. “When is the flight?” – she asked. Lena smiled. In a week you will have time to say goodbye to your loved ones.
The last call to my mother the day before departure. Mom, I’m flying to Dubai to work as a model . Silence on the line. Then Galina’s voice was tired after the night shift. For how long? Half a year, maybe longer. There’s good money there. Christine. The mother fell silent. I wanted to say something, but didn’t.
Just call, okay? At least sometimes. Of course, mom, everything will be fine. Everything will be fine. Christina repeated these words like a spell, like a prayer. Domodedovo Airport, flight EK134, Moscow, Dubai. Christina sat by the window, looking at the shrinking Moscow. Somewhere down there, her old life remained: rented apartments, castings, envelopes of cash from sweaty businessmen.
“It’s in the past,” she thought. Now everything will be different. The plane was gaining altitude. There was a contract in Arabic in her purse, which she had not read. Lena kept her passport for visa processing. The phone showed the last message from my mother. Take care, daughter. Christina smiled at Tiordessa and took a glass of champagne.
There are 40,000 feet of empty space outside. This was the last time Kristina Voronova crossed the border as a free person. She will land in Dubai in 6 hours. In 3 weeks it will be up for private auction. 23 months later she will be found in a concrete well. 40 kg of bones and skin with a QR code between the shoulder blades and a single word on the lips.
But now, at an altitude of 12,000 m, Christina looked at the clouds and thought about the golden visa, about freedom, about the future. She did n’t know that her future had already been sold. Dubai greeted her with a wall of humid heat. Christina stepped out of the air-conditioned terminal, the air hitting her face like a hot towel. 42°. June.
Lena was waiting near the black Mercedes with sanitized windows. Welcome home, baby. The apartments in Dubai Marina exceeded expectations. Twenty-eighth floor. Panoramic windows from floor to ceiling. Rooftop swimming pool. View of the Persian Gulf. Turquoise water, white yachts, skyscrapers that look like needles stuck in the sand.
There were seven more girls living in the apartment. Nastya from Kyiv, 23 years old, brown hair, laugh like a bell. Karina from Minsk, thin, nervous, smoked a pack a day on the balcony . Diana from St. Petersburg, a silent blonde with empty eyes. And four more. Christina didn’t remember the names right away.
“We’re like sisters here,” Nastya said on the first evening. The main thing is, don’t ask unnecessary questions, and everything will be fine. Everything will be fine. Kristina had already heard this phrase from herself. The first weeks were euphoric: parties on yachts, dinners in restaurants where the bill for the table exceeded her mother’s annual salary.
Men in white condoms, smelling of oud and money. Sometimes continuation in hotels. $3,000 per evening. 5 7. Kristina sent her mother the first transfer of 100,000 rubles. From where? – Galina asked on the phone. Bonus for filming. Mom, everything is different here. They value beauty here. She almost didn’t lie. Almost.
She learned the rules quickly. Phones were handed over before each event for the confidentiality of clients, – Lena explained. Communication with clients only through her. Exit from the apartment only with security. Two Pakistanis with stone faces. Ahmed and Yusuf. This is for your safety, – she repeated Lena. Dubai isn’t Moscow, they kidnap girls here.
Kristina nodded. She didn’t ask why security was standing outside the doors, not inside, protecting them, locking them from the outside. In August, Nastya disappeared, she simply didn’t return from a party. Her bed was left made. Cosmetics on the shelf, a suitcase in the closet. “She went home,” Lena said.
“Family circumstances urgently without things?” Karina asked. Lena looked at her for a long time, silently. Karina didn’t ask any more questions. In September. Kristina tried to call her mother. Phone? Lena raised an eyebrow. Baby, you know the rules. I just need 5 minutes to say I’m alive. Will you call after the event? The event dragged on for 3 days.
A yacht, the open sea, six men. Kristina returned with bruises on her thighs and seven thousand dollars. They never returned her phone. “Temporarily,” Lena said, “for your safety.” October, November Kristina stopped counting the days, stopped asking about Nastya, stopped looking at the guards at the door.
The money was dripping into an account she couldn’t verify. The agency would transfer it all at once when the contract ended. The passport was lying somewhere for all of Filena to apply for a visa. A golden cage. Kristina realized this too late. December 2022. Lena gathered everyone in the living room. Six girls, two new ones instead of Nastya and Diana.
Diana had also gone home. “A special event,” Lena said. Her voice was soft as silk. A closed auction. Very important people, members of royal families. She paused. A bonus of $50,000 each. The girls exchanged glances. 50,000 is a year of work. This is freedom. What do you have to do? Karina asked. Lena smiled.
Just be beautiful and obey. They were driven for two hours. Black SUVs with tinted windows, the air conditioning on full blast. Outside the windows, first Skyscrapers, then suburbs, then endless sand, red, dead. Kristina sat between Karina and the new girl, Olya. Everyone was silent. Then the gates. Tall, wrought-iron chambers on each pillar.
Beyond the gates, a palace, white marble, fountains, palm trees, lawns of unnaturally green grass in the middle of the desert. ” Welcome,” said Lena. Her voice sounded different, tense. They were led into a room. White walls, mirrors, hangers with dresses, gold, silver, red silk. Change, touch up your makeup. We leave in an hour.
Lena turned to the door. “Lena,” Kristina called. “What does the auction mean?” Lena stopped, without turning around. “It means, baby, that today your future will be decided .” The door closed. The lock clicked from outside. The hall was enormous. Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, sofas upholstered in white leather, and men. 12, maybe 15.
White condos, gold watches. Faces Kristina had seen on the news. The girls were brought to the center. Kristina stood under the floodlights in a gold dress and heels that made her feet hurt. Nearby were Karina, Olya, and three other girls from other agencies. Six products in the display case.
A man in white, gray-haired, heavyset, with a ring the size of a quail egg, raised his hand. Number three. Russian, how much? Kristina was number three. 120, a voice came from the corner. 150. 200. The numbers grew. Kristina stood motionless, smiling, as she had been taught. Something inside was screaming, something was beating against her ribs, bursting out.
Run, run, run! But there was nowhere to run. 350,000,” the voice said. Silence. Christina turned her head. There was a man sitting in the shadows in the corner . The face is not visible, only a silhouette, only the shine of the watch. “Sold,” said the presenter. She was taken to a separate room. White walls, white bed.
White door without a handle from the inside. Christina sat on the edge of the bed, her hands shaking. 350,000. She didn’t know whether that was her price in dollars or the rent for the night. The door opened. A man entered, the same one from the shadows. Now she saw the face. About 50 years old, neat beard, black eyes, cold as oil.
“My name is Nasser,” he said in English. “You are mine.” Christina opened her mouth, wanted to say something, anything, but the words stuck in her throat. Sheikh Nasser smiled. “Don’t be afraid, I will take care of my things.” The door closed behind him , the lock clicked, and Christina Voronova understood that she was no longer a person.
She was an object, a sold object. For the first week, Christina counted the days, scratching the plaster behind the headboard with her nails. Little vertical lines, like in prison movies. 1 2 triche fifth crossed out. On the eighth day, a Filipina woman in black with empty eyes came and silently painted over the scratches with white paint.
Christina understood that they don’t count the days here. Days don’t exist here. The room was perfect. A bed with Egyptian cotton, a bathroom with Italian marble, a walk-in closet with dresses that she never chose. They were simply hung up while she slept. The windows didn’t open, the air conditioner worked silently, the temperature was always 22°.
Food was brought three times a day. Always the same: protein, vegetables, water. No sugar, no bread. I take care of my things. Sheikh Nasser came at night. Not every night. Sometimes he disappeared for three days, sometimes for a week. Christina never knew in advance. The door opened without knocking. He entered. She did what was required.
“You are beautiful,” he said once, running his finger along her collarbone. “But you think too much, I can see it in your eyes.” Christina was silent, looking at the ceiling. “The previous one thought a lot too,” Nasser continued. The first year, then I stopped. previous. Christina turned her head.
What happened to her? Nasser smiled and stroked her cheek almost tenderly. She understood the rules and became happy. He stood up and fastened his watch. Philip flowed, she had already learned white gold. You will understand too. Everyone understands. The door closed. The lock clicked. In the third or fourth week, Christina heard a quiet, female voice coming from the ventilation grill above the bathtub.
At first I thought it was a hallucination, from the silence, from the white walls, from the endless waiting, but the voice repeated itself. Hey, can you hear me? Christina froze, her heart pounding. “I hear,” she whispered. A pause, then a quiet laugh. Thank God, I thought I was going crazy. Who are you? Amira.
My name is Amira. Christina pressed her ear to the bars. Cold metal. The smell of air conditioning. I’m Christina. Russian? Yes. Have you been here long? Christina closed her eyes and swallowed. I don’t know, a week, a month. Again a quiet laugh, but not cheerful, dry as sand. “I’ve been here for 3 years,” Amira said.
“Three years, 4 months, 11 days.” Christina felt the floor shift from under her feet. “3 years. “What, what do you think?” “The moon,” Amira replied. “From my room I can see a piece of the sky. Small, but enough.” Silence. Christina slid down the wall and sat on the cold marble. “I want to go home,” she whispered. Amira’s voice became softer.
“I know, I want it too.” They talked every night after 2 a.m., when the palace fell asleep, when the guards watched football in the guardroom, when even the cameras seemed to blink less often. Amira said she is 22 and from Morocco. I arrived at a modeling agency casting in Dubai. I woke up here.
“How many of us are there?” – asked Christina. “I don’t know exactly. I heard voices. Sometimes crying, sometimes screaming, then silence.” “What does silence mean?” Amira didn’t answer. A month or two later, Christina was taken out of the room for the first time. The guard, a silent Pakistani, led her down the corridor.
White walls, white marble, cameras on every corner. The room at the end of the corridor. medical office. The doctor, an Indian wearing glasses, examined her silently, took blood, checked her teeth, and wrote something down on a tablet. “Take off your clothes,” he said. Christina obeyed.
The doctor examined her body professionally, indifferently, like a veterinarian examines Scott. “Great,” he said to the guard. “Can be used.” “Use”. Christina was returned to the room. An hour later Nasser arrived, but this time he was not alone. There were three of them: Nasser and two others. Christina didn’t remember the face, she didn’t want to remember it.
This lasted all night. When they left, Christina was lying on the bathroom floor, not crying. The tears ended somewhere around the third hour. “Amira,” she whispered through the bars. Amira. Silence. Amira, please. The voice is quiet, broken. I’m here. How? How do you survive? Long pause.
I pretend that I don’t exist , that this isn’t my body, that the real me is somewhere far away, at home, in Kosoblank, on the roof of our house, where my mother dries laundry. Christina closed her eyes. Voronezh, courtyard. Bench at the entrance. Mom comes home from work, tired, in a white coat with a bag from Pyaterochka. Take care, daughter. Amira.
Yes, we will get out of here. Silence. Christina, I’m serious. We will get out. Amira didn’t answer, but Christina heard, or at least thought she did. A quiet sob. The next day, Filipina brought breakfast and a few other things. A small black case with a needle and ink inside. The master ordered, – said the woman, – don’t move. Christina was placed on her stomach.
The needle entered the skin between the shoulder blades. The pain is sharp and burning. Christina bit the pillow. QR code. She didn’t know what it was, didn’t know where it was leading, but she understood that now she was inventory. Marked, accounted for, property. That night Amira asked, “Did they do it to you too ?” Yes, between the shoulder blades? Yes.
Pause. This means he decided to leave you for a long time. Christina clenched her fists. I won’t stay. Christina, I won’t stay. Amir’s voice is quiet, almost inaudible. Then you need Fatima. Who? Maid, old. Has been working here for 20 years and hates Nasser. Her daughter? Amira fell silent.
What about her daughter? was one of us 5 years ago. There was silence. Fatima comes on Thursdays to clean the rooms downstairs, if you can talk to her. Footsteps in the corridor. Amira fell silent. Christina held her breath. The steps passed by. But the conversation was over. Christina lay in the darkness. My back was burning.
The tattoo hasn’t healed yet. There is only one word in my head: “Fatima”. Thursday. She didn’t know what day it was, but she would find out if she got out or died trying. She stopped counting after that day. Not because she got lost, but Mira taught her the system. Moon, phases, 29 days in a cycle.
Christina could see the edge of the sky through the bathroom ventilation grill if she stood on tiptoe and craned her neck. She stopped counting because the numbers no longer mattered. Who cares? 300 days or 400, 500 or 600. She’s still here. Amira. Shop ventilation. Ritual. The only thing that kept her afloat. I’m here. What time is it now? Pause.
Amira always counted. Amira never gave up. 847. Christina closed her eyes. 847 days. 2 years. 3 months, 17 days, if Amira is not mistaken. How are you? – Amira asked. Christina didn’t answer. How could she answer? The body was changing. She saw it in the bathroom mirror, the only mirror they left her. The ribs showed through the skin.
The collarbones stuck out like broken wings. The hips are sharp and angular. 42 kg, maybe 41. There were no scales, but she knew. Hair is dull and brittle. She would pull them out in strands when Nasser left, just to feel something. More than emptiness. Nasser came less often. Previously two or three times a week, now once every 10 days, sometimes less often.
Christina didn’t know whether to be happy or afraid. He’s losing interest, Amira said one day. This is bad. Why? When they lose interest, we are passed on. Or she didn’t finish, there was no need. Christina heard screams from other rooms, heard crying. I heard the silence that followed. The silence was the worst thing. Fatima came on Thursdays.
Christina learned to tell the days. Not by the moon, but by the sounds. Monday. Washing, the hum of machines below. Wednesday – gardener, roar of lawn mower Thursday Fatima. Shuffling steps, clanging, buckets, the smell of bleach. Christina waited. Two or three months. Fatima did not go up to her floor.
She’s scared,” Amira explained. After her daughter, what is she afraid of? The same thing that happened to her. Christina shook her fist. I will find a way. On the 612th day, Nasser brought guests. Two men. Christina didn’t see their faces. She was blindfolded. She heard voices, laughter, the clinking of glasses.
Then hands, many hands. She went inside herself, to where it was dark and quiet, to where her mother read her bedtime stories, to where her father had not yet left, to where she was still human. In the morning she couldn’t get up. The Filipina brought breakfast, looked at her, and left. The doctor arrived after 3 hours.
The same Indian, the same cold hands. “It will heal,” he said to someone outside the door. A week of rest. Can be used. Can be used. Christina looked at the ceiling. I am a thing. I am inventory. I am nobody. Christina. Amira’s voice. Night. Ventilation. Christina. Answer silence, please. Christina opened her mouth. Closed.
What to say? I heard it, Amira whispered. I heard what they did. I’m sorry. No need, Christina. I said no. Silence. Then quietly, almost inaudibly. Are you still here? Christina didn’t understand the question. What do you mean inside? Are you still You? Christina wondered who she was.
Kristina Voronova, 22 years old, Voronezh. No, that girl is no longer there. That girl died at the auction. Died when Nasser said mine. She died when the needle entered the skin between her shoulder blades. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. Then hold on to me, Amira said. Hold on to my voice. I am your anchor. You are mine. Amira, we will get out.
You promised. Christina closed her eyes. I promised. A word from a past life. On day 802, Christina heard a new voice. Female, young, Russian. Crying, screaming, pleading. Please, please let me go, I won’t tell anyone. Christina pressed herself against the wall. “New girl Amira,” she whispered at night.
Did you hear? Yes, Russian. Yes. How old is she? Pause. The voice is young. Maybe 20. Christina gritted her teeth. 20. How was she at the beginning? She’s been screaming for three days now, Amira said. It will stop soon. Why? Because he will understand. Shouting doesn’t help. Christina remembered her first days.
How she beat on the door, how she broke her voice, how she scratched the walls, how she stopped. I want to talk to her . It is forbidden. Her room is far away. Ventilation does not connect. Then, Christina, don’t. What? Don’t get attached, they disappear. Amira’s voice is flat, dead. I heard of seven before you.
Voices in the walls, crying, screaming, then silence. Always silence. Christina remained silent. “Don’t get attached,” Amira repeated. “It hurts.” On the 847th day today, Fatima went up to the second floor. Christina heard footsteps, recognized them, her heart started beating. Thursday, Fatima. Second floor.
She pressed herself against the door. The steps came closer and stopped. The sound of a bucket just outside the door. Christina dropped to her knees and pressed her lips to the crack under the door. “Fatima!” – she whispered. Silence. Fatima, please, I know about your daughter. The steps stopped. Please help me. Silence. Then a whisper.
An old, cracked voice. Do you want to die like her? Christina closed her eyes. I want to get out. It’s the same thing . No. Pause. “No,” Christina repeated. I will get out with or without your help , but with yours I have a chance. Silence. The steps are leaving. Christina shook her fists. No, no, no, no.
And then quietly, almost inaudibly from behind the door. Next Thursday. Be prepared. The steps faded away. Christina pressed her forehead to the cold floor the following Thursday. She didn’t know what it meant. But for the first time in 847 days, she had what she thought was lost forever. Hope.
That night she whispered into the ventilation: “Amira, right? Next Thursday. Silence! Are you sure?” Fatima said, “Be prepared.” Long pause. Christina, if this is a trap, then I will die. Christina, but if not, we will get out. Both . Silence. Both. Amira. I won’t leave without you. Amira’s voice is trembling and breaking. You don’t know where my room is. I recognize it.
You do n’t know how to get out of the palace. I recognize it. You, Amira, what do you want to do, go home? A sob, quiet, almost inaudible. Yes. Then trust me. Silence then. 854. What? Next Thursday. 854 days. Christina closed her eyes. 854 days. 7 days. 7 days until freedom or death. She was prepared for both options. 7 days.
Christina lived through them as if they were 7 years old. Every sound, steps in the corridor, the creak of the door, the voices of the guards. made my heart stop. Every night she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and repeated to herself. Thursday, Thursday, Thursday. On the third day Nasser came.
She didn’t resist, didn’t cry, lay motionless, as Amir had taught her, and thought about Voronezh, about her mother’s hands smelling of hospital soap, and the poplars outside the window of their apartment. When he left, she whispered to the ventilation. 4 days. “I think so,” Amira replied. Thursday.
Christina woke up before dawn. The heart was beating so loudly that it seemed the guard at the door should hear it. She forced herself to breathe slowly, evenly. If Fatima doesn’t come, it’s a trap. If it comes, then there is a chance. In any case, it will all end today. Breakfast. Protein, vegetables, water. She forced herself to eat everything.
It will take strength. The morning hours dragged on endlessly. Then familiar steps, heavy, shuffling, like trolleys with cleaning products. Fatima. The door opened. Christina sat on the bed with her hands folded in her lap. As usual, like every Thursday. Fatima entered. Behind her is a silent Pakistani security guard.
He stood by the door, crossing his arms over his chest. Fatima began to wipe the dust silently and slowly. Her wrinkled face was impassive. Trap. It was a trap. She turned me in. “And now the toilet,” Fatima told the guard. Plumbing. Check. The guard frowned. What kind of plumbing? The water doesn’t go away. I’m saying this for the third time.
Do you want to explain to the owner why it stinks? The guard winced and looked at Christina, thin, motionless, safe. 5 minutes. He went out. Fatima continued to wipe the dust. Christina wasn’t breathing. What’s happening? What should I do? ” Under the mattress,” Fatima whispered without turning around.
“Quickly!” Christina slid her hand under the mattress. Her fingers felt the fabric. She pulled out a black face covering, long, covering her entire body. And not a mouth guard, just a slit for the eyes. Put it on for 30 seconds. Her hands were shaking so badly that Christina dropped the fabric twice, pulled the face covering over her hospital gown, and the mouth guard over her face.
The servants’ door. Fatima still did not look at it. Ground floor – east wing. Code 4721. Repeat. 4721. Behind the door is the truck yard. A food van arrives at 6:00 pm. The driver is my nephew. He will take you to Sharjah. And Amira? Fatima froze. Which Amira? Mine. Christina hesitated. Another girl on the floor above. Moroccan.
Fatima turned. Her eyes are dark, tired, full something that Christina couldn’t read. I only know about you. I won’t leave without her. Then you’ll die. Where is her room? Footsteps in the hallway. Fatima grabbed Christina by the hand. Her grip was unexpectedly strong for an old woman. Third floor. Room with a blue door.
The same cat . But even if you get caught, I don’t know you. Got it? The door opened. The guard came in. Fatima was standing by the window, wiping the glass. Christina was in the corner, in a black robe, her head down. Who is this? The guard frowned. The new cleaning lady. Fatima didn’t even turn around. From the agency.
Third day here, and no use. She pointed her finger at Christina. Bucket, hallway, wash. Come on. Christina took the bucket. Her hands were shaking. He sees, he understands. Now he is. The guard looked at her through her, the way people look at furniture. Finish quickly. He turned away to phone. Christina went out into the corridor. Third floor.
She climbed the service stairs, pressing herself against the wall. A bucket in her hands – an alibi. Abaya – a disguise. Heart in her throat. Blue door, code 4721. Amira. The corridor of the third floor was empty. Three doors. White, white, blue. Christina approached, dialed the code. Click. The door opened.
The room was an exact copy of her own. White walls, a white bed, a window that opened, and a girl on the bed. Thin, dark hair, huge eyes. Amira. For the first time in 854 days, Christina saw her face. Christina Amir’s voice trembled. Are you real? Get up quickly. Amira did not move, looked at her like a ghost. I thought, I thought you wouldn’t come. I thought, Amira.
Christina came up, took her hands. We have 5 minutes, maybe less. Are you coming with me now. Tears flowed on Amira’s cheeks. I can’t. My legs. I can hardly walk. I have n’t gotten out of bed for a month. Christina looked down. Amira’s little palms, swollen, covered in sores. No, no, no, no. I’ll carry you. You can’t.
You do it yourself. I’ll carry you. Christina pulled off her robe , threw it over Amira, and helped her stand up. Amira cried out in pain quietly, through her teeth. Hug my neck. Hold on. They went out into the corridor. Amira hung on Christina, light as a child. How much did she weigh? 35 kilograms.
Less? Service stairs. Second floor, first floor. East wing. Servants’ door. 4721. Cheek. The door opened. Sun. Christina closed her eyes. After 2 years in a white room, the light cut her eyes like a knife. “The yard,” she whispered. “We need van.” They took three steps, and then a voice came from behind them: “One hundred! Christina turned around.
The guard was not the one who was at her door, but a different one, young, with a walkie-talkie in his hand. He looked at them, at the two figures in black, at Amir’s legs, bass, swollen, clearly not the legs of a cleaning lady. His hand reached out briefly. Who are you? Christina felt Amira tremble. It’s all over. We didn’t make it in time.
We And then Fatima came out from around the corner. There was a knife in her hand. Fatima moved quickly. The knife entered the guard’s neck from the side, under the jaw. He wheezed. The radio fell from my fingers. Fatima caught her before she hit the concrete. “Go,” she whispered to the van. “Now”.
Christina couldn’t move, she looked at the body. A young man, maybe 25 years old, was twitching on the ground. Blood flowed between the tiles. “Go.” Amira’s grip on her neck tightened. Christina, please. They ran. Christina carried Amira across the yard, past shipping containers, past empty falcon cages, past a fountain with the water turned off .
My legs were burning, my lungs were burning, everything was burning. A white van stood at the gate. The driver, a young Arab, saw them and opened the back door. Lie down quickly. It smelled of fish and ice inside. Plastic boxes. Christina placed Amira between them. lay down next to me. The door slammed. Darkness. The engine started. The van started moving.
They drove for an hour or two, Christina didn’t know. Amira lay next to her, holding her hand and not letting go. “You came,” she repeated. “Have you come for me?” I promised. “Nobody ever.” Amire’s voice broke. Christina hugged her. We got out. We got out. We the van stopped. The door opened. Light.
” Get out,” said the driver. I can’t go on any further . This is Sharjah, a construction site. They don’t look there. Christina crawled out and helped make peace. Abandoned building, concrete columns, construction debris. “Wait until the morning,” said the driver. Then go to the road and catch a taxi. Russian Consulate in Dubai.
Remember? Yes. He left. They were left alone. The night was cold. Christina found a corner protected from the wind, sat Amira down, and sat down next to her. “We did it,” Amira whispered. “We” She coughed for a long time, too long. When the coughing stopped, there was blood on her lips. “Amira”. Everything is fine. Amira smiled.
It’s been a long time, just a long time. Christina looked at her. 3 years 4 months. How many of them are without a doctor? We will find a hospital in the morning. Yes. Amira closed her eyes. In the morning she laid her head on Christina’s shoulder. Tell me about snow.
What were you saying through the ventilation about Voronezh, about snow in winter? Tell me more. Christina swallowed. It is white, clean, and when it falls, it is quiet, very quiet, and the whole city seems to fall asleep. Beautiful. Yes, I want to see. You’ll see. Amira didn’t answer. Her breathing became even. “He’s sleeping,” thought Christina.
She sat motionless, looking at the stars. For the first time in 854 days, a real sky. Amira died before dawn. Christina didn’t understand right away, but at some point she noticed that the shoulder under her cheek had become cold and that her chest was no longer rising. Amira. Silence. Amira.
Christina shook her off. Amira. Nothing. She screamed for a long time, then stopped. Rahim found her at 4:47 a.m. Concrete well, 3 m deep. Christina was lying on the bottom, naked, 39 kg, with marks from handcuffs on her wrists. She took off everything and went downstairs. Why, I didn’t remember.
The only thing she said was that Amira wanted to go home. Epilogue. 6 months later. Galina Voronova sat by her daughter’s bed. A private psychiatric clinic near Voronezh. Paid to some fund to help victims of human trafficking. Christina looked out the window. It was snowing outside the window. “ Daughter,” said Galina, “can you hear me?” Christina was silent, then slowly, for the first time in six months, she turned her head.
Mother. Galina started to cry. Sheikh Nasr continued to live in Al-Maqtom Palace. Lena Savchenko disappeared a month after Kristina’s escape. Her body was never found. Fatima was executed quietly, without trial. Farid Al-Mahmoud opened a new agency. The QR code on Christina’s back led to a blank white page.
Domain until 2030. Christina was discharged a year later. She was no longer a model, didn’t use social media, didn’t fly on planes. She worked in a hospice, caring for the dying. Sometimes at night she would wake up and go to the window, look at the snow and whisper: “See, Amira, it really is white.
