But the passenger door dug into my spine like a blade. My lungs couldn’t expand–every breath was shallow, wheezing past lips that tasted like blood. and espresso. The bastard had landed that punch well.
I blinked hard. The Maybach’s ceiling warped above me, doubling in soft curves. My vision flickered like bad lighting in a basement casino.
Then I heard it–heels.
Clicking against pavement.
Too sharp to be coincidence. Too familiar to be anyone but her.
Alina.
Of course.
“I know you wanted her,” her voice cooed, syrupy sweet with venom underneath. “Just like I wanted Zacharias back. So why keep fighting it? Let’s make things right.”
I tried to lift my head. It barely moved.
She kept talking like we were in some twisted therapy session instead of an abduction.
“Scarlett for you. Zacharias for me. Balance, Winston.” Her voice lilted upward like she was proposing a toast. “It’s cleaner that way.”
Winston’s response was half–muttered, but I caught it anyway–what mattered.
“…I know you’re still head over heels for Colombo. That’s why I’m taking Scarlett. I just… realized it too late.”
A breath stuttered from my throat. Not a sob. A growl.
You’re both insane.
The door opened.
Cool night air rushed in, mixing with the sweat and copper on my skin. Her perfume followed–that sickly citrus–lavender she drowned herself in like it could hide the rot beneath.
Alina leaned in, perfectly composed. Designer blazer, gleaming nails, lips painted bloodred like she earned it.
She crouched just enough to be eye–level. Tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear like we were sisters again.
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“I used to envy you,” she said softly. “Your power. Your spine. Your name.” Her nail traced the cut on my cheek, slow and deliberate. “But now? I just want peace. And Zacharias brings me peace.”
I spat at her. Weak, mostly blood. It hit her collar. She flinched.
Good.
She wiped it off with one gloved finger, sighing.
“Still a fighter,” she murmured. “That’s what makes this hard.”
Then she leaned closer. Her lips brushed my temple.
“Night–night, sister.”
Darkness dragged me under.
But I wasn’t done.
Not even close.
***
I woke up to silk sheets and the taste of iron.
My wrists were bandaged, not shackled. My wounds tended to. Clothes changed–white linen slip, not mine. Someone had cleaned me up. I smelled like lavender and antiseptic. But everything reeked of control.
That’s how you knew it was Winston.
The walls were cream, the ceiling hand–painted, and the windows sealed with reinforced glass. A gilded cage. And me? The prettiest little bird he ever failed
to tame.
The door creaked open.
A nurse stepped in. Late forties. No nonsense face. Collared uniform. “Good.
You’re awake.”
I blinked at her slowly, made my voice rasp. “Where… am I?”
She didn’t answer. Just checked the IV line running into my arm.
“Winston,” I said next, soft, cracked. “Is he here?”
That made her flinch.
“Mr. Salerno doesn’t like to be provoked,” she said carefully. “You’d do better not to rile him again. You’re lucky he didn’t break more than your ribs.”
I blinked, Let tears pool at the edges of my eyes.
Inside, I was memorizing everything. The way the hinges squeaked. The
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placement of the surveillance dome in the corner. The scent of citrus on her gloves–cleaning solution, maybe limonene–based. One of the windows had the faintest hiss behind it. Likely soundproofed, not bulletproof. I’d test that later.
“Can I… call someone?” I asked, small. “My husband… he must be looking for
me…”
She shook her head. “Your phone was destroyed. And Mr. Salerno told us you were… unstable. That you fled your estate in a fit.”
A beat passed.
“Don’t worry. You’re safe now.”
I almost laughed.
Safe.
Darling, I’m the one men beg for safety from.
The nurse left. I gave it ten seconds, then forced myself upright. Everything screamed. My stomach throbbed from Winston’s punch. My shoulder burned. But I moved.
Weakness was no excuse in this house.
I scanned the room again. Hidden cameras behind the vents. One behind the ornate mirror. Winston’s always been the type to pretend luxury means privacy.
There was a first–aid kit in the bathroom. Glossy white box mounted low. Child–locked. I popped it open with a bobby pin I stole from the hairbrush tray. Inside: antiseptics, gauze, scissors.
And a blade.
Not long. Not fancy.
But sharp enough to open skin or throats.
I slid it into the side of my bra.
Just in case.
Later, I faked a dizzy spell. Collapsed gently into the arms of a housemaid with trembling hands and too many questions. I murmured half–truths. Let her believe I was scared. Let her believe Winston’s story.
Within an hour, I knew the layout of the estate, the name of the chef, and that Alina–my traitor of a sister–was two rooms down.
“She’s helping Mr. Salerno with a press event tomorrow,” the maid whispered.
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“Something about clarifying your mental state. Making sure the family reputation stays clean.”
Of course she was.
Desperate little bitch.
Still clinging to the delusion that if I disappeared, Zacharias would forget me. That he’d ever touched her the way he worshipped me.
I touched the blade in my bra and smiled to myself.
Let them play their games.
I was done bleeding.
Now? Now it was time to cut.
***
ZACHARIAS‘ POV
The envelope was cream.
Heavy paper. My name written in the way only she does–precise, cold, elegant.
Scarlett.
I slit it open with a blade I kept in the desk drawer. The kind I only used when a message mattered. When precision was owed.
Inside–divorce papers. No note. No flourish. Just her signature at the bottom of the page. A slash of ink colder than a bullet.
I sat down.
Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. The glass in my hand trembled slightly, traitorously.
She was alive. That’s what it meant. Somewhere. Somewhere breathing. Somewhere writing this… this performance.
Because that’s what it was. A performance.
Scarlett wasn’t the type to leave without drawing blood.
She wouldn’t have walked away without letting me taste the storm behind her
eyes.
This? This was staged/
I tore the paper clean down the middle.
Then again. Again.
The pieces fluttered to the floor like broken promises.
