7. IVY
7
IVY
A dark chuckle of violent disbelief escaped my throat.
To think, for a minute there, Daniel had me going—wondering, at the very least, if what he was saying might be true. About my father. About the reasons Daniel had taken me and intended to kill both me and my mother.
But all of this must have been nothing more than a psychological mindfuck—part of some twisted game. Pretending he felt he had no choice in what he was doing while feeding me lies and watching me squirm as I questioned everyone in my life.
The cold from the cement floor bit into my legs as I sat, bound to the pole, the air smelling of mold and hopelessness, while in the distance, a door shut with an ominous clang.
“You don’t believe me,” he said, noting the change in my face.
“I don’t believe anything you told me.” Not anymore.
“I’m the one that sent Grayson to do it.” Daniel tilted his head, like he was trying to see if I believed him—a man who’d threatened to torture me in front of Grayson.
I have news for you, buddy. I’m well aware torture can come in psychological form, and I’m not going to fall for it.
“And the purpose of telling me Grayson killed my father is what, exactly?” Proof this is all a mind game—that’s what.
“You demanded answers. They might not be the ones you expected , but they’re the truth.”
Sure. “Come up with a more believable story next time.”
“Sometimes, the truth is the hardest to believe.”
Yeah. Okay. Screw you, asshole.
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms.
“You can ask Grayson yourself.”
“I’ll be too busy being dead, in case you forgot,” I snapped.
“I plan to torture you in front of him, in case you forgot. So, you can ask him, then.”
My stomach dropped. Grayson had to stay safe, period.
“I wouldn’t have to ask him.” You imbecile. “If Grayson knew he was the one who’d killed my father, he would’ve told me.” See? You have massive plot holes in your game.
“I doubt Grayson made the connection. Do you not share a different last name from the man you called your father?”
Ice shot into my heart. But I immediately doused it with my angry fire. There was no way Grayson killed my father.
It couldn’t be true.
But a traitorous whisper in the depths of my soul wondered, What if Daniel had manipulated Grayson the same way he had my mother? The possibility was too excruciating to contemplate. If it were true…no. I couldn’t bear it. There would be no coming back from that.
Not that it mattered now. My fate—and my mother’s—had already been written in blood the moment Daniel took me. We were going to die. Grayson would be forced to watch, helpless, as Daniel enacted his sadistic plan, and then the man I loved would blame himself for not protecting me, for every scream that would be ripped from my throat. If only I could tell him one last time that the moments we shared were everything to me, that his love had brought light to my darkest hours.
An ache grew In my chest, sharp-edged and hollowing as I pictured my mother’s face. I’d been so critical of her, never fully forgiving her for the affair that tore our family apart. Only now, staring down the barrel of my mortality, did I realize how foolish I had been to waste our time on anger over a mistake. She had been a victim, too, manipulated by Daniel’s lies and false charm. What I wouldn’t give for one more chance to wrap my arms around her and whisper I’m sorry and I love you.
And Grams…
Sobs threatened to tear me apart as I imagined her confusion and fear, torn from the home that had been her anchor. The devastation in her eyes when she’d realize I was never coming back. Why hadn’t I lingered just a few minutes longer the last time I saw her? To memorize the feel of her paper-thin skin, the way her face lit up when she smiled. To soak in every precious second of her presence, her love.
Tears carved scalding trails down my cheeks as the reality of all I was about to lose crashed over me in relentless waves. The future I’d dreamed of, the moments I’d taken for granted, the people I cherished most—all slipping through my fingers like sand in an hourglass.
Each labored breath felt like a countdown to the end, my muscles seizing with the effort to keep air flowing to lungs that would soon be forever still.
In the oppressive silence, Daniel cleared his throat, the sound as jarring as shattered glass.
“Now,” he said, cold and clinical, like he was finally getting to the point, “I’m going to need you to tell me every person you confided in about your concerns over your father’s death. And your claims of being innocent against the evidence against you.”