It hurt. Everything hurt, a dull throb that seemed to extend from the sole of her feet to the very tips of her hair. Could hair even hurt? How ridiculous was it to ask that question in face of the overwhelming evidence? She groaned, only identifying the noise as coming from her own mouth by the taste of blood in her mouth as the dry surface of her lips split under the stretch.
Then she tried to move her hands - and realised they were bound. From a strangely detached position a little corner of her mind noted that this might be the time to panic. The problem was, she was in by far too much pain for that. Opening her eyes only led to my sense of equilibrium adding its protests to the rest of her body. For a moment she just lay there, trying to make sense of what had happened to her.
Her last memory: Friday night. The office. She had been first chair on her first solo case. So it had only been a small issue of petty theft and the kid had been too young to receive more than a slap on the wrist in any case. But it had been her first case and her mentor had smiled at her when he congratulated her. She might only be a baby barrister - but now she at least could call herself one without wincing at the thought. She had been so charged up, so happy, she had wanted to finish all the paperwork that night. When she and realised the clock had already struck nine by the time she was done, she had even been a little proud, thinking she was the last one there. That little joy only dimmed a little when she met Carlisle before the elevator doors. He was a senior partner after all.
"Congratulations, Miss Day." For a moment Jennifer was confused what he meant until she saw the amused glitter in his grey eyes. However he had found out, he clearly did know about her win today - and what it meant to a young barrister in training.
"Than you, Sir." She just hoped her smile was not as foolish as it seemed.
"The first one always matters." His smile turned inwards, wistful, chasing a memory only he could see. In that moment she understood that smile.
"Sir, is it always like that?"
"The win."
"Yeah."
He grinned, the smile almost boyish - and then nodded.
"A little, but that first one will always be the best."
"Is that why you do it?" The moment she asked the question she wanted to bite her lip and take it back. Had she gone crazy? How could she dare to ask him, one of best tax attorneys in London, something so personal. It was rumoured he even served some of the royals. Nervously she pushed one of the long blonde strands of her hair behind her ear and looked at him from below her eyelashes. Was he annoyed at her impertinence? But his smile just stretched.
"Sadly, yes." For a moment he stayed quiet, then he asked: "And you, young Lady - why did you chose this profession over all the others?"
She had been asked that question so often, in interviews, at law-school, in prep - and for a moment one of the thousands of expected answers, acceptable answers, lay on her tongue. But what she said was something completely different, something deeper:
"Because I had to, because I can."
They shared a look, a moment of absolute understanding. She had chosen this profession because the law had gripped her and was unwilling to let her go. It was like a jealous mistress, a God demanding absolute devotion - not in form but in substance. She had never told anyone that, had never put into words something so primal. No one else seemed to share this need, no one but this man. Then the moment broke and she stood, almost embarrassed, before this man, not knowing what to say. He seemed equally lost. The elevator pinged, the heavy steel doors gliding open. She had already turned to them, when his voice stopped her.
"Miss Day, would you join me for a glass of champaign in honour of your victory?"
At no point were there any warning bells. At no point did she feel threatened, not even when her head began to swim and her eyelids drooped heavy, too cumbersome to hold open. A gentle hand had taken the glass from her, had helped her down and a deep voice had whispered into her ear:
"There is no need for alarm, Miss Day. Everything will be alright."
And the next thing she remembered was hurting from head to toe. At least her nausea had subsided and her vision had cleared. She was in a small room without any windows she could see, the walls a generic greenish hue, the furniture in the style considered futuristic in the 1970s, though fortunately without the penchant for orange and brown so favoured by the era. She was laying on something resembling a bed, though its form was rounder than her rational mind considered appropriate for such a piece of furnishing. And her hands were bound. Oh, it was nothing as crude as rope, or steel - but broad cuffs made out of a soft, though surprisingly strong material. It did not budge at all as she pulled on it.
Then she heard a noise from behind her. She turned her head and met
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