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As a key turns in the lock, several truths hit me in the chest.
Roman will die, closely followed by his brothers.
What’s left of my life will be full of degradation and pain.
Tommy will kill the baby for his inheritance.
My chest tightens, and I struggle for air as my mind conjures up new phobias. Panic sets in, threatening to overwhelm my senses. If I can’t conquer these paralyzing fears, Tommy will win, and we’ll all lose our lives.
The mere thought of Tommy sends up a wave of revulsion. My mouth turns sour, and my stomach heaves. I stagger around the bed toward a door I hope leads to a bathroom and fling it open.
Stumbling through the tiled space toward the toilet, I clap a hand over my mouth. I make it a few steps before falling to my knees and throwing up bile. Tears stream from my eyes, and my breath comes in panicked pants.
If I don’t calm down, I’ll inhale my own vomit.
My vision blurs. I clutch the toilet seat, forcing myself to stay upright, but my stomach won’t stop heaving. It’s a mix of hormones and panic and fear.
I need to stop.
I need to take control.
I need to escape and warn Roman.
I need to make sure Tommy never touches my baby.
Minutes pass, and I’m trapped in a cycle of nausea and panic until my body runs out of steam. Eventually, the spasms subside, and I crawl to the sink and force myself up to standing. The room spins, threatening to pull me back to the floor. I cling to the counter, placing my weight on my arms, and turn on the cold tap.
“Come on, girl,” I growl through clenched teeth. “You can do it.”
I move my trembling fingers into the water and splash it on my face. The chill helps me focus and my breathing evens.
“What a mess.”
If I studied what was reflected in the mirror, I would see a woman who allowed herself to break. Mom taught me to be independent and alert, yet I dropped my guard at the first sign of a man offering a helping hand.
Maybe I would have seen through Roman’s bullshit if I had scrutinized every contract as thoroughly as I’d read the first. Then I would have asked what he was doing and worked out an agreement, but I was so dazzled by the promise of selling my art that I signed away my inheritance.
“Stop,” I whisper.
Now’s not the time to ruminate.
Time is running out.
I gather handfuls of water and rinse the sour taste from my mouth. After quenching my thirst, I turn off the tap and walk out of the bathroom.
My gaze darts around what looks to be a master suite, and I take in the thick curtains, heavy furniture, and the locked door before finally settling on a set of patio doors that lead to a balcony.
I’m no longer a four-year-old child trapped in a burning apartment, or the frightened woman held hostage by a violent cop. Those parts of me went away when I became a mother. According to Roman, I’m his wife, which means I’m about to lose my husband to a psycho.
Pacing the room, I psych myself up to climb the window. Who knew I’d find something worse than being imprisoned? I’m shivering at the thought of scaling down a building and endangering the baby.
Pregnancy has fucked up my physical confidence, my coordination, and my center of gravity. If I screw this up, we’re both dead.
Why didn’t Tommy abduct me two months ago, when I was limber and more agile?
I clutch my temples. “Stop spiraling.”
What would Roman do in this situation? He wouldn’t jump out of a window unless he’d exhausted every other option. He’s too cool-headed, too calculating. Instead, he would scan the room for a way to communicate with backup, a tool to unlock the door, or a weapon.
