The words hit me harder than a bullet.
I stagger back, the air leaving my lungs.
He isn’t fighting for me. He’s begging me to surrender. I can't believe he’s trading me to save his own skin.
"Dad…" I whisper.
"Just go with him!" he sobs.
Something inside me snaps. The fear evaporates, replaced by a hollow numbness.
The father I was trying to protect died in that crash five years ago, after all. This heap on the floor is a stranger.
Konstantin’s finger tightens on the trigger. He isn’t bluffing. I can see it in the tension of his arm. He will paint the foyer with my father's brains and won't lose a wink of sleep over it.
"Three seconds," Konstantin says. "One."
"Stop!" I hold up my hands.
"Two."
"I'll go!" I scream. "I'll go! Just put the gun down!"
Konstantin pauses. He holds the gun there for a second longer, to let the terror settle, then slowly lowers it.
He uncocks the hammer.
"Wise choice," he says. "Your father sold your soul to save his skin. You're mine now."
He tucks the gun away as casually as if it were a wallet.
He checks his watch. "You have five minutes. Pack a bag. Whatever you can carry."
I stand there, trembling, looking at my father. He’s still on his knees, head bowed, ashamed to look at me. He sold me. To save his own life, he told me to go with the monster.
"I hate you," I whisper to him.
Arthur flinches, but he doesn't speak.
I walk up the stairs, numb.
My life just ended. The Helena Blackwood who ran a shipping empire is dead.
My room is freezing. I grab a small leather duffel bag from under the bed. The zipper sticks, rusty with age, fighting me as I yank it open.
I move to the dresser. My hands move with a mind of their own to grab the essentials. Jeans. Two thick sweaters. Underwear.
I pause at the closet. The door is open, revealing a row of gowns.
My fingers brush against a red dress. I wore it to my nineteenth birthday. My mother was alive then. She had zipped me up and told me I looked like a queen.
I grip the fabric, the velvet soft against my fingertips. I want to take it. I want to pack it to have a piece of that night with me.
But where am I going? A prison? A basement?
Queens don't live in cages.
I let the fabric go. It sways on the hanger. I turn my back on it and shove a pair of heavy boots into the bag instead. Survival gear. That is all I’m allowed now.
