My father looms over me, a cruel sneer curling his lips.
“This is a much better look on you, Naomi. None of that pink crap.”
My jaw tightens. I won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. My glare burns into him, unwavering, until he finally sighs and unties my wrists.
Without another word, he leaves.
And once again, I’m alone.
With nothing but my thoughts.
I sink onto the cot, the metal frame groaning under my weight. My fingers knot in the fabric of my dress, the tightness in my chest threatening to pull me under.
I want to believe this will end. That I’ll get out. That I’ll see Nate again. But hope—it’s dangerous. Hope is a blade, and I’ve been cut too many times.
Taking a breath, shaky but resolute, I force my mind back to the present. The steady thud of my heartbeat fills my ears, grounding me. Relentless. Defiant.
I will survive this. I will get out.
For Nate. For me.
And when I do, my father will regret every second he thought he could keep me caged.
32
She’s Mine Now
Hypothetical Question: If you could live in one of your worst nightmares for a year, but with a twist: everything’s a game show, what would the prize be at the end?
Carina
“Naomi!”myfather’svoicebellows from downstairs, sharp and impatient. “Come down here. Quickly.”
The sound of his command yanks me upright in bed, my heart hammering before I even process what’s happening. My body trembles as dread coils tight in my stomach.What does he want now?
For the past week, I’ve forced myself to appear compliant, adopting an outward calm that hides the storm raging inside me. Every moment I’m not under his watchful eye, I curse his name and dream of the day I’ll find my opening—the day I’ll finally kill him. The day I'll slit his throat and watch him choke on his blood.
I glance down at the silk pyjamas I’ve been given. They’re luxurious but thin, almost indecent. I know he’ll punish me for showing up underdressed, but lateness will bring harsher consequences. His hatred for tardiness is well-known, and I have no intention of provoking his wrath further.
Grabbing a silk dressing gown from the chair beside me, I hastily tie it around my waist. The fabric barely covers me, the hem grazing the tops of my thighs. It’s more ornamental than practical, but it’ll have to do.
I leave the room, forcing my feet to move down the stairs, each step dragging like lead. The house is too quiet. The kind of quiet that warns of something waiting.
At the base of the stairs, I stop. Not by choice. By instinct.
My father isn't alone.
Standing beside him is a man—a stranger whose predatory gaze rakes over me the moment I appear.
His eyes are dark, filled with a hunger that sends a shiver down my spine.
He isn’t unattractive, but that only makes it worse. He’s older, somewhere in my father’s age range, with salt-and-pepper hair styled to perfection and a neatly trimmed beard that lends him an air of sophistication. His build is solid, muscular even, like a man who takes pride in maintaining control—over himself, over others.
And right now, his focus is entirely on me.
The two of them stand just inside the entrance hall, the large wooden front door behind them mocking me with it's pointless existence.
“This is Lucian Moretti,” my father says, his voice oozing with pride as though presenting a prized possession. “Lucian, this is my daughter, Naomi.”
