He weeps crocodile tears for the cameras, his shoulders shaking just enough to look convincing. Every second feels like a performance—every tear, every pause, perfectly timed for sympathy.
The reporters eat it up. “Mr. Chang, do you have any proof?” someone asks.
He presses a hand to his chest. “Proof?” His voice cracks. “I don’t need proof to know my daughter would never willingly stay with those people.”
My vision blurs. Heat rushes up my throat.
Those people.
He’s painting Roman as a monster. Me as a helpless, brainwashed girl. And the worst part? The world will believe him.
I grab the remote, ready to throw it, but my hand trembles so badly I can barely keep my grip. I want to scream at him, tell him to stop lying, stop twisting the truth, stop pretending he’s a father who gives a damn.
But all I can do is sit there, heart hammering, watching him cry for the world—while I, the daughter he claims to love so much, sit here trapped between anger and fear.
Roman. Please don’t see this. Please don’t let this make you reckless.
My father keeps talking—spinning lie after lie, his voice heavy with false heartbreak.
“She’s always despised the Russian mafia,” he says, wiping his eyes with a trembling hand. “She told me once she wanted nothing to do with them. That she feared what they’d do if she ever crossed their path. They’re animals, she would say.”
My stomach knots so tight it hurts. I can feel the blood drain from my face, my pulse pounding in my ears.
All lies.
Every word that falls from his mouth is a weapon—each one aimed carefully, methodically, meant to tear down whatever fragile peace I’ve built with Roman. Me, the poor kidnapped daughter. Him, the savage captor. It’s a story the world will love, because my father knows how to play the hero.
The humiliation burns through me first—hot and sharp. Then the fury follows, darker, heavier, curling in my chest like smoke.
He’s weaponized my pain. The same man who controlled, belittled, and broke me has now turned my suffering into his public performance.
I press a hand to my mouth, shaking my head as the cameras flash around him. “You bastard,” I whisper under my breath. “You absolute bastard.”
Tears sting my eyes—not from sadness, but from the sheer rage coursing through me.
“I will never forgive you for this,” I whisper into the empty room, my voice trembling but sure. “Never.”
The words are barely gone when I hear glass shattering. A sharp, violent sound that slices through the stillness of my room. My head jerks toward the window, and my breath catches in my chest.
One of the guards is climbing in. His name is Oleg, or something similar. I don’t really remember, only that I’ve seen him around the halls before—tall, quiet, never meeting my eyes. For a second, I think he’s come to check on me. But then why’s he coming in through the shattered window? He jumps inside.
And that’s when I see them—more men following him.
Figures in black, slipping through the broken window like a swarm of shadows. My scream rips free before I can stop it. The first man lunges at me, and another behind him. I stumble back, knocking over the lamp, my heart pounding so hard I can barely think.
“Help!” I scream, but no one comes.
Hands grab me—cold, gloved, merciless. I twist, kick, and fight with everything in me. One of them curses when I claw at his mask. Another shoves me so hard my shoulder hits the wall.
“Roman!” I cry, desperate, my voice cracking. “Roman!”
I don’t even know why I’m screaming for him. He’s not here.
The guard—the same one who stood by the window—just watches. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat, and the sick truth settles in. He let them in.
“You—” I start, but someone slams a hand over my mouth.
The world turns chaotic. My feet drag across the floor, my breath sharp and ragged. They pull me toward the window, just as they came in. I fight, thrashing and kicking, my nails tearing at fabric and skin, but they don’t stop.
