Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
LYAH
N ine million? What the heck?
The way I feel about this is entirely jumbled.
It’s not like I have his number or anything.
Or his lawyer's details. Once everything was signed, it was a clean break. I don’t even have the paperwork because I decided to have it couriered to Roisin for safety's sake since it’s too important to risk losing and I don't know where I’m going next.
Anywhere, I guess. I could go anywhere I wanted in the entire world.
And yet all I really want to do is go home to Niko.
Except, it’s not my home anymore, even if Nikolai Radaeva is now legally my husband, after all.
Does that change things? More importantly, do I want it to?
His entire argument was that my marriage to Zack meant his son would be illegitimate and therefore unrecognized as his heir. A child he didn’t even want in the first instance.
Whereas before, I know I would have tried to do everything I could to mitigate the issues, now I’m thinking far more about what I want.
For once.
I take a deep breath, the salty sea air filling my lungs as I gaze out at the horizon, the helicopter that carried me away from Elysium and into an uncertain future, just a speck in the far distance. But for the first time in years, that uncertainty doesn't terrify me.
My hand absently traces the outline of the small, prepaid phone in my pocket, tempted to check the balance again.
Nine million dollars. It's an incomprehensible sum, more money than I've ever dreamed of having, even though it’s a fraction of what Niko is worth.
This money is mine, though. It gives me options and autonomy.
Yet it's not the money that's making me feel so. .. light. Free.
No, this feeling comes from somewhere deeper.
It's like I've shed a skin I didn't even realize I was wearing.
The Lyah who always put others first, who contorted herself to fit into the roles others assigned her - wife, potential mother, pawn in power games - she's gone.
In her place is someone new. Or maybe someone very old, a version of myself I'd forgotten existed.
In my other pocket is my iPhone, sleek, polished and expensive.
A stark contrast to the utilitarian simplicity of the prepaid phone.
It almost reflects the other side of my life to the burner, symbolizing another chapter of my existence entirely.
The iPhone holds my past life, intertwining the threads of all that once was; messages from Niko I once read with a flutter of hope; missed calls from acquaintances who belonged to a world now left behind wanting charity donations; reminders and appointments and social events, which once consumed my days with relentless precision.
Yet today, as I stand by the windswept Miami shoreline, the iPhone feels eerily silent, like an artifact from a life I'm slowly unbinding myself from.
The juxtaposition of these two phones encapsulates the dilemma at hand… one represents freedom and anonymity, promising new beginnings without obligations or expectations. The other is a connection to everything I knew and once believed I needed.
I close my eyes, letting the wind whip through my hair. What do I want? The question echoes in my mind, foreign yet thrilling. For so long, what I wanted didn't matter. But now...
Now I’m at a crossroads, and the choice is mine alone. The thought is more frightening than anyone could imagine.
I pull out the iPhone, its weight suddenly oppressive in my palm. My fingers tighten around it, and for a second I have the urge to launch it into the water and sever all the ties to my old life. But something stops me. Maybe it's not about erasing the past, but about choosing how to move forward.
As I leave the terminal building, I power it on and open my contacts.
Niko's name sits at the top, a star next to it marking him as a favorite.
My heart clenches with a mix of longing and frustration, but I deliberately choose not to taunt myself to see if there are any messages or missed calls from him.
Instead, I delete the message feed and then block his number, erasing all the history the phone holds.
I do the same with Darian, and every other contact I have in the Bratva.
I tell myself I’m erasing them all from my life, even though the truth is far more sad and emotional.
I simply don’t want the proof that he’s thrown me away.
I’m so lost in thought, I barely notice the shift in my surroundings.
The bustling crowds thin out as I wander away from the main thoroughfare, my feet carrying me to a quieter side street.
The sounds of traffic and chatter fade, replaced by an eerie stillness that should set off alarm bells.
But I'm too preoccupied, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions and half-formed plans.
A sleek black van glides to a stop beside me, its engine purring softly. I know a fractional moment of alarm, but before I can react, strong hands grab me from behind.
“I’ll take that,” a thickly accented voice declares, plucking my iPhone from my grasping fingers.
I open my mouth to scream, but a cloth is pressed against my face, the sickly-sweet smell overwhelming my senses. My vision blurs, and through my waning awareness I feel myself being lifted and tossed unceremoniously into the darkness of the van.
As consciousness slips away, my last coherent thought is a bitter irony – after everything, after finally feeling free, I've walked right into another trap.
The van doors slam shut, and I'm plunged into darkness, both literal and metaphorical, as my head cracks against something hard and unforgiving, adding to the effects of the drug.
The darkness swallows me whole, a black void where time becomes fluid and reality blurs at the edges as I drift in and out of consciousness.
I can feel Niko’s hands on me. I’ve missed him so much.
His touch is electric, sending shivers down my spine. I arch into him, craving more contact, more of his intoxicating scent.
“Miy kokhanyy cholovik …” I murmur as his fingers creep closer to where I want them to be.
“What the fuck, dude?” A foreign voice interferes with our lovemaking. “Leave her alone or you’ll be eating a bullet.”
Is someone else here? I struggle to pull myself out of the mire which is dulling my thoughts and responses, because something's not right. The hands exploring my body are rough, but not the right kind of rough. Not the familiar roughness I’m used to.
And the smell is all wrong - cheap cologne instead of Niko's signature blend.
“She’s a live wire, this one. Look at her, she’s begging for it. You think the boss will let me keep her?”
There’s a slap and a grunt. “Why the fuck did you hit me?” the voice says again. “This one’s urging me on in her sleep. What did she say? She wants me, yeah?”
“She said, ‘my dearest husband’, I don’t think she meant you,” another voice deadpans.
Against my better judgement, my eyes snap open, reality crashing back with nauseating force.
I'm not with Niko. I'm in the back of a van with my wrists bound, and there’s a man hovering above me, his face thankfully turned away.
Panic claws at my throat, but I force it down. Focus, Lyah. Assess. Survive.
Clawing my way back to full awareness, my head throbbing with a dull ache from the aftereffects of the chloroform, I make a mental note of anything and everything that might help me.
The van's moving, but not at high speed. We're still in the city. A city, at least. I have no idea how long I’ve been out.
Two men are in the back with me, and another is driving. They're speaking in English, and understand Ukrainian, but their accents are off.
I slam my eyes closed again, feigning unconsciousness while I frantically cycle through my options. I haven’t been blindfolded. It’s always been drummed into me how bad that is. If I see them, I can identify them. It slashes my chances of survival.
Gradually I realize there must be two men in the front seats, since they’re conversing in low tones. Their language isn't one I recognize, but the cadence is unmistakably Eastern European.
A hand crawls up my leg again, and I fight hard not to flinch and give myself away.
“Don’t touch her again,” comes a command from the front of the van, and this time it’s the relief that’s almost my undoing. I know I can't keep up the charade any longer.
"She's waking up," one of the men in the back mutters, his voice low and gruff. “Put a sack over her head.”
The panic when they do that is real. "Help!” I call.
“What are you doing? Where am I?" It all comes out as half legible croaks since my throat is so dry and scratchy.
All I see is a sliver of skin on one of their wrists as my face is covered, and I try to make out the symbol I can see tattooed on it, like I was always taught, but the terror makes it hard. “Who are you people?"
The man closest to me, the one with wandering hands, laughs at me. "Don't worry, sweetheart. You'll find out soon enough."
I force myself to stay calm, channeling every ounce of training my mother drilled into me for situations like this. Assess. Adapt. Survive.
I guess some of those lessons I believed stemmed from paranoia were useful after all.
I curl into a ball and allow them to believe I’m appropriately cowed, while I wait for the opportunity to collect more information. Maybe find out where I am and if I can get away while I attempt to memorize what could possibly be an identifying mark.
It’s not long before I hear the change of terrain underneath the wheels of the vehicle. It sounds like we’re off-road now. I’m not sure that’s such a good thing.
The van lurches to a stop, and I hear the crunch of gravel under boots as the men exit. My heart races as the back doors swing open. Rough hands grab me, hauling me out. I stumble, disoriented by the darkness of the hood, but I push it away and attune my senses.