Chapter 3

Dubois led us into a cavernous, poorly lit room. The air was thick with the smell of dust and something else, something metallic and vaguely unpleasant. A single, harsh spotlight illuminated a worn leather couch in the center of the room. A camera on a tripod was pointed at it. My heart, the real one's memory, sank.

"So, the project," Dubois began, rubbing his hands together. "We are calling it 'The Tin Woman's Heart.' It is a poetic exploration of a woman who has lost her humanity, who has become part machine. A tragic figure, beautiful in her brokenness."

He handed me a thin file. I opened it. Inside were not storyboards or interview questions, but a series of disturbing sketches. They depicted a woman, clearly meant to be me, in various states of undress. The focus was always on the scars, the stumps of her legs, the imagined machinery in her chest. It wasn't a documentary. It was exploitation. It was pornography for people who got off on suffering.

I felt a wave of nausea. "What is this?" I asked, my voice shaking with fury. I threw the file onto the grimy floor. "This is disgusting."

"It's art, my dear," Dubois said smoothly, not at all bothered by my reaction.

"This isn't art, it's a freak show!" I shouted, my voice echoing in the large, empty space. "I will not do this."

I tried to turn my wheelchair, to get out of this horrible place, but Mark's hand shot out and grabbed the handle, holding me in place. His grip was like iron.

"Sarah, stop being so emotional," he hissed, his voice low and threatening. The charming mask was gone, replaced by raw, ugly frustration. "This is a great opportunity."

"An opportunity to humiliate me?" I spun to face him, my eyes blazing. "Did you know what this was, Mark? Did you read this? Did you see these drawings?"

He had the decency to look away for a second, a flicker of something-shame, maybe-in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

"I knew it would be... avant-garde," he said, his voice hard. "I knew it would push boundaries. That's what great art does. And frankly, you should be grateful. Who else is going to hire you now? What else can you possibly do?"

The words hit me harder than any physical blow. What else can you possibly do? He saw me as useless. A broken thing to be sold to the highest bidder. My career, my passion, my intelligence-it all meant nothing to him now that my body was no longer perfect.

I looked at his face, the face I had once loved so much it ached. I remembered lazy Sunday mornings in bed, his arm around me, whispering about the future. I remembered the way he looked at me across a crowded gallery opening, a look that I thought was filled with love and pride. It was all a lie. A carefully constructed illusion to get what he wanted. He had never seen me. He had only ever seen a key that could unlock the doors to the world he craved.

The memory was so vivid, so painful, that it made the present even more unbearable. The man who had whispered those sweet promises was the same man holding me captive in this filthy warehouse, trying to sell my broken body to a pervert.

"No," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "I will not be a part of this. Let me go, Mark."

He just tightened his grip on my chair. "Don't be a fool, Sarah. You need this. We need this."

"No," I repeated, looking him straight in the eye. "I would rather die."