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Only silence. I collapse against the door, sliding to the floor. They've won this round, but the game has just begun. Philippe is out there, looking for me. He'll find me and avenge what this man has done to me and my child.
Alone in the dark, I wonder who he is and what he wants. How did he know I had an uncle? How did he know to put Martin up to that lie?
The questions make my head hurt, and I'm no closer to finding answers.
I look around myself, trying to find an escape. I'm in a basement of some sort. There's a window, but it's too high up. I wonder, can I climb up on something?
I see a table and try to drag it across.
But just then, the door creaks open and my captor saunters in, a knife glinting in his hand. My heart leaps as I scramble back.
"Time for a little fun." His lips curl into a twisted smirk.
I lunge for the knife, but he's too quick, grabbing my arm and twisting it behind my back. I cry out at the bolt of pain shooting through my shoulder.
"Feisty little thing, aren't you?" He presses against me, and I feel the unmistakable bulge in his pants. Revulsion rises in my throat like bile.
I writhe in his grasp, my body trembling with a mixture of fear and disgust. The stench of his breath fills the air, making me want to retch. I can feel the cold steel of the knife against my skin, a chilling reminder of the danger I'm in.
He begins to rip the bodice of my engagement dress. As he leans in closer, his grip tightening on my arm, something within me snaps. A flicker of anger ignites deep within my core, fueling a surge of adrenaline that courses through my veins.
With my free hand, I grope for anything I can use as a weapon. There—my fingers close around a pair of scissors left on a table.
As he reaches for his belt, I whip around and plunge the scissors deep into his groin. He screams, releasing me to clutch at the wound.
He stumbles back, holding on to the scissors still embedded in his flesh.
He glares at me with hatred. "You...bitch..."
"That's for Martin, you son of a bitch."
He shuffles backward until he’s out of the door, blood streaming down his groin. I hear him bolt it shut and start trembling. What have I done? He'll be back with a vengeance.
Terrified, I frantically searched the dungeon for an escape route.
The walls are solid concrete, and there are no windows apart from the one I can't reach. Even if I climb on the table, it’s still too high. I run my hands over every inch of wall and flooring, hoping to find a loose stone or crack to pry open. Nothing.
Exhaustion and despair threaten to overwhelm me. I sink against the wall, drawing my knees up and burying my face in my hands.
How did I get here? One minute, I was getting engaged; the next...
A sob catches in my throat. I can't think about that now. I have to stay focused on escaping this hellhole.
The door crashes open again. I scramble back, raising my fists, praying it's Philippe, but it's not.
A tall, powerfully built man stands silhouetted in the doorway. Half a dozen armed men fan out behind him.
He comes closer, and I know instantly who this is. Vladimir Mikhailov, the future president of Russia.
The man on the billboard outside the airport in Saint Petersburg. The man who congratulated me after my performance at the Mariinsky Theater.
What is he doing here? Did Philippe send him? Is this a rescue? I feel a flicker of hope. But then I remember how he gripped my chin, and my hope is doused instantly.
Vladimir steps forward, icy blue eyes raking over me. A cruel, predatory smile twists his lips. "So you're the one causing trouble for us here." His gaze lingers on my face in a way that makes my skin crawl. "My man should have known not to damage such a...delectable morsel. My apologies."
Revulsion and terror war within me. I flatten myself against the wall, clutching at the rough stones.
Vladimir prowls closer, reaching out to stroke my cheek. I flinch away with a cry.
