I stand outside Zoey's hotel room, my termination notice still crumpled in my pocket. When she opens the door, her eyes widen with recognition, then narrow. "You need to leave," she says, but I've already stepped inside, closing the door behind me. The rope coils from my bag before she can reach her phone. Minutes later, she sits bound on the desk, wrists and arms secured behind her, ankles and knees tightly bound, a white gag muffling her protests. Her blouse is wrinkled now, her skirt twisted slightly at the waist. "Enjoy your evening," I say, leaving her alone with the sound of her own breathing. After I'm gone, she slips off the desk, sending her sprawling onto the carpet. One heel, then the other, slips off as she struggles against knots that refuse to yield. Hours pass as she contemplates the moment someone will inevitably discover her.

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