A sharp chemical smell pierced my nostrils, jolting me awake. My head felt like it was splitting in half, my throat raw as sandpaper. I tried to move but found myself tied to a freezing metal chair, hands bound behind my back with rough rope that bit into my wrists.
The moment I opened my eyes, I took in a massive abandoned space. Crumbling concrete walls were covered in rust and mold, with rusted hooks and conveyor belt remnants hanging from the ceiling. The air reeked of rust, decay, and blood.
A slaughterhouse. An abandoned slaughterhouse.
Fear crashed over me like ice water, but then another thought slammed into my brain—Sofia!
I looked around frantically. She wasn't here.
That realization pulled me back from pure terror. The kidnappers only wanted me. My daughter was safe—still with Yekaterina, still running a fever, but safe.
I had to get back alive. For Sofia, for Alexander, I had to survive.
Several kidnappers were smoking and chatting in a corner, not bothering to hide anything from their "cargo." A dim bulb swayed overhead, casting twisted shadows on the walls.
I held my breath, forcing myself to stay calm. Years of journalism had taught me how to gather information in dangerous situations. I closed my eyes, pretending to be unconscious, and listened carefully to their conversation.
"Boss says if that Volkov hands over the goods, we get five million," one raspy voice said. "Then we'll be rich. Can go live it up in Miami."
"Five million? How much do we actually get?" another voice scoffed. "Still, stepping on Volkov to climb up—that's worth it. That bastard's been running New York like he owns it for too long. Someone needs to teach him a lesson."
"Exactly. That arrogant Russian thinks he's the king of the East Coast? Tonight he'll learn what despair feels like," a third voice joined in. "Heard he's gone crazy over this woman. Ha! Ironic. Even gangster bosses have weak spots."
They laughed, the sound echoing harshly in the empty space.
Then one of them said smugly, "Speaking of which, that Romanov woman really thought she was clever. Deliberately leaked false intel, trying to lure us to some fake hideout on the west side. She never dreamed we'd already cracked her plan and turned her 'trap' against her."
My heart jumped. Romanov? Tatyana?
"Yeah," another one chimed in mockingly, "she thought she could play us with a fake address, but she actually told us where the person she cares about most would show up. That woman thought she was protecting Volkov's girl, but she pointed us right where we needed to go. We waited near Volkov's woman's friend's place like sitting ducks, and sure enough, this idiot walked right into our hands."
"But you gotta admit, that Romanov woman's something else. Still loves Volkov but helps him protect his wife. Pretty damn stupid."
The words hit me like lightning.
My blood froze in my veins. My breath caught in my throat.
Tatyana wasn't trying to hurt us. She was protecting us in her own way!
That phone call I overheard, all those detailed descriptions about Sofia's routine and appearance, that "witness's daughter"file—it was all fake! She was deliberately feeding them false information, trying to lead these kidnappers away, draw them to a fake address! What I heard about that "safe house," all those details—they were bait she'd designed.
And I, blinded by jealousy, by misunderstanding, by those deep-rooted insecurities, thought she was selling us out!
I'd rejected Alexander's explanation, rejected his protection. I'd left the manor, taken Sofia somewhere he couldn't fully protect us.
I'd destroyed Tatyana's protection plan with my own hands, delivering myself into real danger.
Worse, I'd pushed Alexander away. The man who truly wanted to protect us, who'd been honest about his past, shared his trauma, sworn to guard us—I'd chosen not to trust him, chosen to run.
When he needed my understanding and support most, I'd given him suspicion and betrayal.
Crushing guilt and regret flooded over me like a tide, nearly drowning me. Tears poured out uncontrollably, streaming down my cheeks and dropping onto the dusty floor. I bit down hard to stay silent, but the tears wouldn't stop.
If... if I'd chosen to trust Alexander then, if I hadn't run off so impulsively, if I'd stayed calm and sought the truth...
If I could have set aside those insecurities and believed his "I love you"...
I remembered that night in the car when Alexander told me about his childhood trauma, about losing his parents. His PTSD attack, his vulnerability and fear, when he said, "You and Sofia are the most important people in my life."
