My father steps closer, and I can feel the heat of his presence, the menace of control radiating from him. His cologne, sharp and familiar, makes my stomach turn.
“You’re about to make me so much money,” he says, his voice low and slick with pride, as if he’s talking about a business deal, not his own daughter.
“I’m married!” I spit, venom flooding my throat. “I’m not playing your stupid games.”
He laughs—a deep, cold sound that slices through the air. There’s nothing amused about it. “Married to Roman Rusnak?” he says, eyes gleaming with sick satisfaction. “You think that makes you untouchable?”
He leans in closer, his smile widening. “If anything, it made you more valuable. Men are crawling out of their holes, Elara. They hate him, envy him. And now they all want what he had. To them, you’re not just beautiful—you’re revenge. A trophy taken from the great Roman Rusnak.”
I freeze, bile rising in my throat.
He straightens his suit jacket, casual, almost proud. “You see? You finally did something useful for me.”
I shake my head, tears burning my eyes, fury shaking my chest. “You’re disgusting. You’re not even human.”
He smirks. “Maybe not. But I’m rich. And soon, I’ll be richer.”
He turns to leave, and the sound of his shoes echoes through the empty room like a countdown to hell. The door slams shut, and for a long moment, I just sit there, frozen. My father’s footsteps fade down the hall, but the sound stays lodged in my chest like a thorn. My pulse is racing so hard it hurts.
He’s really going to sell me.
The thought hits me like a punch to the ribs. I can’t even breathe right. No one’s coming for me. No one except maybe Roman—but what if he doesn’t know? What if he’s too late?
Panic rises fast, choking me. I pull at the ropes around my wrists, rough and tight, slicing into my skin. I twist and yankuntil the chair rattles, but it’s useless—it’s bolted to the floor. A dull clink rings out, mocking me.
“Think, Elara. Think,” I whisper to myself, the words breaking.
I scan the room—cracked walls, boarded windows, one thin shaft of light bleeding through the ceiling. Nothing I can use. No sharp edges. No weapons. Just dust, cold air, and my own fear.
My hands are slick with sweat. The harder I pull, the deeper the rope cuts. My breathing turns shallow, erratic.
He’ll do it, I realize, my chest tightening. He’ll actually sell me.
Something in me snaps. I jerk against the ropes again, ignoring the burn, the blood, everything. “You won’t win!” I scream, the sound bouncing off the walls, raw and wild.
But no one answers.
The door bursts open again, and a group of men storms forward. Before I can react, rough hands grab me.
“No! Don’t touch me!” I thrash, but it’s pointless. The ropes bite deeper, my arms screaming in protest.
They drag me down a narrow hallway, my bare feet scraping against the cold floor, until we reach another door. The scent hits me first—expensive cigars, perfume, cologne, sweat. Then the sound—male laughter, low and predatory.
They shove me inside.
I stumble forward, catching myself on my knees. The room is lavish—gold-trimmed walls, velvet chairs, crystal decanters gleaming under chandelier light. And men. At least six of them, all seated like it’s some kind of show.
I recognize some of their faces—foreign buyers. The same ones who used to come to my father’s dinners, laughing over wine, pretending to admire the paintings I’d destroyed.
Now their eyes are on me.
“Well, well,” one of them says, his accent thick. “So this is the girl.”
Another laughs. “Rusnak’s wife. I must say, Roman has excellent taste.”
Their laughter scrapes across my skin like knives.
My stomach twists. I want to throw up, to scream, to disappear. I pull against the ropes even though they’ve already rubbed my wrists raw.
