Page 104 of Baby for the Bratva King

A hot sweat breaks out on my skin, causing my breath to run thin. I feel it on my neck, almost burning. I need air. But when I sit up, I realize I don’t have access to that.

I wince, the back of my neck hitting the roof, which only makes me more short of breath.

I go to stretch my hands out, but this area is too confined. The walls are tight. So is the roof.

Panic settles in the pit of my stomach. I have to get the fuck out of here.

I start by attacking the soil, clawing at the muddy walls. Dirt enters my mouth, some going to the back of my throat. I cough, choking, my breath running even fucking thinner.

If I don’t get out of here soon, my lungs will fill with soil, since it’s the only thing available.

Tears stream down my face, my pulse drumming. The panic sends me haywire. I claw at the roof, dirt raining down, but I keep clawing and fighting.

I manage to shoot my hand through the top, fresh air enveloping my skin. I allow myself to relax. There’s a way out. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about living with my father, you can always escape. You just have to give yourself permission to take the leap of faith and get hurt in the process.

Metal suddenly crashes into my hand. Pain explodes. I yelp, massaging my affected wrist.

I hear a scraping sound coming from above, dirt falling.

Adrenaline sends me into full-blown survival mode. My empty lungs can wait. If there’s a chance I can make it out of here, I need to act.

I rise into an awkward sitting position—the ceiling too low for me to sit properly. Channeling my fear into strength, I shove the hand through the muddy ceiling, gritting my teeth. Sweat sticks to my skin, my lungs burning with a life-threatening need for oxygen.

I retract the hand, changing my approach. I kick up, dirt raining down. After two more challenging attempts, I finally get the leg above ground.

Fear settles in as I anticipate more pain, but I persist. I swing the leg back and forth like a windscreen wiper, creating an opening. Left right, left right.

Keep going. Almost there.

I heave, giving my body the same trust I give it on the pole.

I’m always there to catch myself. This situation is no different. Life or death. The same rules apply on the pole if you fuck up. And I never fuck up. Not when it comes to myself.

Darkness separates, and I can finally see the outline of my hand. I shoot it straight through the gap. My foot takes a beating from the metal shovel at the same time, but I use that pain and convert it into strength. Someone is trying to bury me alive, but I’ll put them in their place. I’m good at surviving. If I can survive my father, I can survive anything.

He dressed me up as a doll, and I let it happen. I wanted to make him proud, to be the model daughter—as he called me on TV. But too much has changed. My journey has ended, but it was a transformative one. I now have the strength to create something meaningful… all thanks to Felix.

My father will not stop me from finding my safe haven and creating my own success.

I ignore the pain and keep pushing, anchoring my foot on a nearby rock, and using that as leverage to heave myself up.

One, two, three.

Push.

I grit my teeth, mustering strength out of thin air. I press my head into the ceiling and stand. The soil weighs a ton, but I focus on driving the soles of my feet down, using strength in my legs to thrust up.

I shut my eyes, soil raining down, my lungs burning up.

I push through the last of the soil and gasp, mouth gaping open as I drink in the oxygen.

My breath scratches against my throat, exhaustion falling over me. I collapse beside the grave, my head hitting the stone. Turns out I was using a nearby gravestone to help myself up.

Darkness looms between the trees, drifting through rows of gravestones. The panic may have subsided, but the fear stays with me.

My breath amplifies in my ears as I take in my surroundings. The full moon is the only light source, silver light streaming down between gaps in the trees.

I prop myself up on my elbows—aware I’m lying on someone else’s grave. But my body is lifeless. My muscles need oxygen. So does my baby…