Then I hear it: the distant hum of a backup generator trying to kick in, failing, trying again.
This is it. This is my chance.
I’ve been watching the security patterns for three days now, memorizing the guards’ rotations, noting the blind spots in the camera coverage.
Marco shadows me everywhere, but even he can’t be in two places at once. And right now, with the power out, those cameras are useless.
My hands shake as I feel my way along the wall, moving toward the servants’ staircase I discovered yesterday.
Elena mentioned it leads down to the wine cellar, where there are old service tunnels that connect to the neighboring properties. Tunnels that might lead to freedom.
I can’t stay here.
I can’t be Mrs. Artyomov.
Can’t be the vessel for Mikhail’s revenge. Can’t let my body betray me again the way it did last night.
The memory of his hands on my skin, his mouth claiming mine, the way I screamed his name as pleasure tore through me makes my cheeks burn with shame even now.
I hate him. I hate what he’s done to me, what he’s turned me into. And I hate myself for wanting more.
The staircase is narrow and steep, the wooden steps creaking under my weight.
I pause every few seconds, listening for footsteps, for voices, for any sign that someone has noticed my absence.
But there’s nothing except the distant shouts of guards trying to restore power.
The wine cellar is colder than I expected, the air thick with the scent of aged oak and fermentation.
I pull out the small flashlight I stole from the kitchen earlier, its weak beam barely cutting through the darkness.
Rows of wine bottles stretch into the shadows, their labels dusty and faded.
There. At the back wall, partially hidden behind a rack of vintage Bordeaux, I spot what looks like a door.
My pulse quickens as I squeeze past the bottles, my fingers finding the iron handle.
It’s locked, but the mechanism is old and corroded. I grab a corkscrew from a nearby table and work it into the lock, twisting, prying, my breath coming in short gasps.
Come on. Come on.
The lock gives with a rusty groan, and the door swings inward, revealing a tunnel that disappears into absolute blackness.
Cold air rushes out, carrying the smell of damp earth and something else. Something that makes my stomach turn.
I should go back. Every instinct screams at me to turn around, to return to my gilded cage before anyone notices I’m gone.
But the thought of Mikhail’s cold green eyes, his possessive touch, the way he looks at me like I’m both his salvation and his damnation, propels me forward.
Rough stone walls scrape my shoulders as I move deeper into the darkness.
My flashlight beam bounces off the uneven surfaces, creating dancing shadows that make my skin crawl.
Water drips somewhere ahead, each drop echoing like a countdown.
I’ve been walking for maybe ten minutes when the tunnel branches.
I shine my light down both passages, but they look identical, stretching into darkness that my weak beam can’t penetrate.
