I try to track it by the flickering of the light bulb, by the growling of my stomach, by the ache in my shoulders that grows steadily worse. But without any frame of reference, the minutes blur together into one endless stretch of fear and waiting.
I think about Misha. About the way he looked at me before he sealed the safe room door—that fierce intensity, that barely contained emotion he tries so hard to hide. I didn't tell him I loved him. Didn't tell him about the baby. There was always tomorrow, always more time.
Now there might not be.
I think about my father. My brothers. The men who sold me and set this whole nightmare in motion. I used to wonder if they ever felt guilty. Now I know they didn't. I was never a daughter to them. Just an asset.
I think about the baby. This tiny life that depends entirely on me. A life that might never exist if I don't find a way out of this cell.
Your father is coming,I tell it silently.He won't stop until he finds us.
I have to believe that. It's all I have.
***
The third time the door opens, it's Sergei again.
He's different now. There's a tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes that wasn't there before. He's pacing, agitated, his composure cracking at the edges.
Something has changed.
"Your boyfriend is more resourceful than I expected," he says, not looking at me. "It doesn't matter." Sergei stops pacing, fixes me with those cold eyes. "He doesn't know where you are. None of them did—I made sure of that. He's thrashing around in the dark, hoping to get lucky." A thin smile. "Luck runs out."
"Or maybe you're not as smart as you think you are."
His hand moves before I can react—a sharp slap across my face that snaps my head back and fills my mouth with the taste of blood.
"Don't test me, Bianca. I've been patient with you because I find you amusing. But my patience has limits."
I spit blood onto the concrete floor. "So does mine."
For a moment, I think he's going to hit me again. His hand is raised, his eyes blazing with fury. But then he takes a breath, composes himself, and the mask slides back into place.
"You're trying to provoke me. Hoping I'll lose control, make a mistake." He shakes his head. "It won't work. I've waited too long for this. Misha will come for you, and when he does, I'll be ready."
He leaves without another word, the door slamming shut behind him.
I sit in the silence, blood dripping from my split lip, and I smile.
He's afraid. Underneath all that arrogance, all that careful planning—Sergei is afraid.
Because Misha is coming. And deep down, Sergei knows he might not be able to stop him.
***
The hours crawl by.
I force myself to eat more of the bread, drink more of the water. I need my strength. Whatever happens next, I need to be ready.
The nausea comes and goes. I breathe through it, focusing on the rhythm—in through the nose, out through the mouth. The baby is still there, still holding on. That's something. That's everything.
I think about what Sergei said. That Misha is tearing through his operations, killing anyone who might know where I am. I can picture it so clearly—that cold fury, that relentless violence. The monster he becomes when someone threatens what's his.
I used to be afraid of that monster. Now I'm praying for it.
Find me,I think, willing the words to reach him somehow.Please, Misha. Find me.
The light bulb flickers. The water drips somewhere in the darkness beyond the walls. And I wait.
