Chapter 65 Sima
SIMA
I have to get out of here.
Part of me hates that thought, but what choice do I have? It’s not even me deciding to leave. Petyr already made the decision for me.
I glance around the penthouse. My chest clenches painfully. Until yesterday, I thought we could make a home here. That this would be our blank slate, the place we’d paint our future.
But Petyr had already decided that, too. A cruel future with me as his prisoner. That’s what he was painting.
My throat tightens as I stuff the last couple of things in my getaway bag, but I steel myself and finish packing. I don’t let myself think. If I start wallowing, I’ll never get out, and that’s not an option. For me or my child.
There’s just one tiny inconvenience: Luka. The human padlock with an anxiety problem and pockets full of antacids.
And guns. Don’t forget the guns.
I pace the bedroom. My nerves chew at me as I run through scenarios like I’m pitching bad improv skits to myself.
“Hey, Luka. Wanna see a magic trick? If you turn around and close your eyes for thirty seconds, I promise I can make your job disappear. Your life, too, if Petyr’s mood strikes.”
Yeah, no.
“I gotta head out for a bit. Don’t mind the bag—I’m just taking my laundry to another state.”
Also no.
“Someone just called. They said you won an all-paid vacation to Aruba, but you have to leave now. Like, right now.”
Fuck my life.
I rub my temples. I can’t brute-force this. I need a distraction. Something shiny to throw in Luka’s face while I slip into the elevator like the world’s least graceful magician.
I stop pacing and plant my hands on the dresser. Then I lean forward until my forehead almost touches the mirror. My reflection stares back at me, pale and tight-eyed, but still breathing.
“You got out once,” I murmur. “You can do it again.”
Staying here isn’t an option. I’d lose everything. Petyr would win. He’d get my baby.
And that’s not an option.
So, step one: distract Luka. That’s the first obstacle I have to overcome. The crux of Operation Save My Own Ass.
I walk up to the front door. My hand is clammy on the handle. I have to wipe it on my jeans before I try again.
“Come on,” I hiss to myself. “Get it done. Dad was scarier.”
I pull the door open.
Luka is exactly where he always is. His arms are crossed, his eyes tracking the hall restlessly.
He’s probably self-digesting again. If Petyr told him anything about me, though, his face doesn’t show it.
When his gaze turns to me, there isn’t any more alarm than usual in it.
He doesn’t look at me like I’m the enemy.
Good. I can use that.
My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears. I paste on what I hope is a casual smile and step closer. “Hey,” I manage, voice squeakier than I’d like. “Can you help me with something?”
His brow ticks up. “With what?”
Just my daring escape. Nothing fancy. “There’s… Uhh… A pair of shoes I can’t reach. On the top shelf of the closet.”
His forehead creases. Not a good sign. “Are we heading out?”
“Nope,” I say, too quickly. “I just wanted to try them on. For… you know. Later.” When his face still doesn’t show any sign of computing, I add, “Petyr likes them. Heels. Seeing me in them. Especially, um, around the house.”
Finally, Luka’s cheeks turn the color of ripe peppers. “Oh.”
“Yep.” My stomach is doing backflips, but I somehow manage not to show it. “So, can you…?”
“Yes. Of course.” Luka springs off the wall so fast, I’m surprised there’s no cartoon sound effect. “Which closet?”
I point too quickly toward the bedroom. “That one. Top shelf, left corner. Petyr shoved the box up there, and I—” I pause, force myself to keep breathing. Be cool. Don’t overexplain it. “I just can’t get to it.”
Luka doesn’t ask any more questions. Likely because I’ve already filled his nightmares with answers he did not want.
I close my eyes and send a silent apology to his therapist.
He leans into the walk-in closet. His shoulders bunch as he reaches up and peers towards the top shelf.
Now. This is my chance.
My socked feet pad soundlessly across the carpet. I slip backwards slowly. My heart is slamming against my ribs as I ease the door shut behind me.
Then I grab the belt I stashed at my waist.
My hands shake so hard, I almost drop it. But finally, I manage to get a steady grip and thread it through the double handles.
I fumble and tug until the leather bites into my palms. Then I yank it tight, knot it twice, and step back.
That’s when I start to hear movement inside. “Sima?”
My chest is heaving. My eyes won’t leave the tied handles. I gave it my best shot, but it doesn’t look too strong. It won’t hold forever.
But it doesn’t have to. Not if I get out right freaking now.
All I need is a head start.
“Sima?” Luka’s muffled voice repeats, more urgent.
“Sorry,” I whisper under my breath, then spin on my heel and bolt down the hall.
I rush past the hallway and into the elevator. Every nerve is screaming to keep moving, to not look back.
So I don’t look back.
I put on my sneakers in the elevator. My fingers keep shaking the whole way down. When it hits the ground floor, I walk out as fast as I can without running. God knows I don’t need lobby security stopping me.
But no one so much as blinks at me.
I take a step outside, and fresh air hits my lungs.
That’s when I finally start running. Fast, fast, faster, until Petyr’s apartment building is a small dot in the distance behind me.
Time for step two.
My first stop is an ATM. Not exactly glamorous, but survival rarely is.
I duck into the vestibule, hoodie pulled low, and slide Petyr’s black card into the machine. My fingers are shaking so badly I punch in the wrong PIN twice.
Focus, I tell myself through deep breaths. You’ve got this. The hard part is over.
But I know, deep in my heart, that it’s not. Because Petyr might notice my absence any second. Luka might call him—is probably already calling him—and once that happens, my husband will put the city on lockdown.
I have to be long gone by then.
Once I finally enter the right PIN, the machine spits out bills in neat stacks. I take the max, shove the cash into my bag, and repeat the process with my own card. Bank account, credit line—anything I can drain fast, I do.
My chest fills with a mix of urgency and regret. I spent years putting those savings away so that I could start my business. So Jemma and I could live our dream.
Now, I’m going to have to burn through them just so I can disappear once more.
The numbers on the screen make my stomach twist.
Some of it—much of it—is his money, too. A tiny, guilty part of me wants to stop this. Because it’s theft, and no matter how dire things got for me when I was younger, that’s the one line I never crossed.
If it were just me, maybe I’d stop. Walk away with nothing and call it fair.
But it’s not just about me anymore. There’s a heartbeat inside me that doesn’t get a second chance if I don’t do whatever it takes.
Integrity doesn’t feed a baby. Sentiment doesn’t pay for new papers or a bus ticket out of state. And love certainly doesn’t conquer all.
I know that now. I’m not so stupid that I’d ever fall for that lie again.
The machine spits out another pile of cash. I grab it, shove it deep into my bag, and glance over my shoulder. Every second I linger in Petyr’s territory feels like a gamble.
I swallow hard and remind myself I’m not the traitor here. Petyr is. He lied to me. Set me up and threatened to ruin me.
If I stuck around after that, I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the mirror anymore. At least, like this, I’ll still have a soul to piece together.
Every time I think about the way he looked at me, or the cruel things he said, it steels me harder for what I have to do. If Petyr never really trusted me, then I don’t owe him trust, either.
Matter of fact, I don’t owe him a goddamn thing.
I grab the last receipt, crumple it in my fist, and step back out into the night.
One stop down. A thousand more to go.
Next up is Angel’s place.
I take the Q to Coney Island. The urge to jump up every time a passenger comes in a black suit is strong, but I fight it. Instead, I force myself to focus on what I have to do.
I haven’t seen Angel in years. Twelve years, specifically. But I’m desperate enough to pay her a visit, and she’s the only person I can think about.
If you’re in my kind of trouble, she’s the one you go to. Especially if you’re a woman and don’t feel comfortable telling some basement creep that you’re alone in the world, have already been presumed dead, and no one will come looking for you if you disappear.
Angel isn’t exactly a friend, but she’s safe. Safe enough that I know the worst she can do to me is turn me down. And with enough cash on the table, she can bend the world to make room for a new me. Hell, she could probably hack the Pentagon if she cared enough to leave her apartment.
Back then, she gave me everything I needed: fake papers, a name that wasn’t mine. Even tips on how to survive on my lonesome. How to keep hidden.
Without her, I don’t even know if I’d still be alive.
The building looks exactly like I remember it: crooked shutters, windows covered in grime, and layers of peeling paint everywhere. The only sign of life is the faint glow leaking through the blinds.
My stomach knots as I walk around to the backdoor. I stop, take a shaky breath, and knock three times.
There’s a pause in the noises coming from inside. Then a voice, flat and muffled: “Password.”
My brain blanks. “Rainbow six?” I try.
“That’s an old one. Wrong.”
“Uhh… Blue phoenix?”
“Still in the wrong decade, buddy.”
I groan. My forehead drops against the door.
“Angel, it’s me. Sima. Open up, please.” My voice comes out more desperate than I want it to.
Silence stretches, long enough that I wonder if she’s already walked away. Tears gather at the corners of my eyes. Without new papers, I’m done. Lost.
Then, finally, I hear the scrape of metal bolts sliding one after the other.
The door cracks open.
She looks the same. Twelve years older, but the rest is unchanged. Thick round glasses, messy curls piled into a gravity-defying knot. Her black hoodie is still covered in crumbs, though hopefully not the same ones as last time.
Her expression, too, hasn’t changed one bit. She’s still bored, unimpressed, like the world is an inconvenience she barely tolerates.
“Well?” she demands, hands on her hips. “Are you waiting for an e-vite?”
I slip in fast before she has a chance to change her mind. The stale pizza air hits me right away, but somehow, it’s comforting. A piece of my past I didn’t know I remembered.
This is where Sammi Banks was born.
“I need your help.” I take out a fat stack of bills and put it on the table. “To make me disappear. Again.”
Angel gives me a critical once-over. “I take it Sammi Banks has run her course?”
I blink. “You… remember?”
Her mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “You were twelve, kiddo. That’s hard to forget. Stubborn as hell, too. Kept saying you weren’t going back no matter what.”
Sadness knots my stomach. That girl feels like another lifetime. I could use some of her determination right now. Remember how it felt to have nothing to lose.
“Yeah.” I force myself to nod. “Sammi’s done.”
Angel doesn’t argue. Just fires up her laptop and starts typing.
I hover nearby, arms wrapped tight around myself.
Finally, after what feels like ages but is probably around ten minutes, she slides a laminated card across her desk. “Here.”
I pick it up with trembling fingers. “‘Felicity Bennet’?”
“Figured you could use a well-wish.”
She shrugs like it’s nothing. But it’s not nothing to me.
I stare at the name. My chest fills with warmth. Felicity. Happiness. The one thing I couldn’t have as Sammi.
Perhaps, Miss Bennet will have better luck.
For the first time tonight, I feel a flicker of hope.
More papers follow. Everything I need to start my new life. “I’ll set up a trail,” Angel explains. “That’ll take me a few days, though. Don’t go setting up bank accounts until then.”
“Thank you,” I choke out.
When the night air hits my face again, it feels sweeter. Lighter. I can taste it already—my freedom.
The closest bus station is only ten minutes away. I decide to walk there, not test my luck on public transport. By now, Petyr will have realized I’m gone.
The thought fills me with an ache I don’t want to name.
After what feels like years, the bus station finally looms ahead. Lights buzz; people drift in and out with luggage and backpacks. I no longer look out of place like this, with my big duffel and tired eyes.
I find the counter. “One ticket, please. First bus out.”
The clerk barely glances at me. Just taps a few keys, prints the stub, and slides it across.
I fold the ticket into my palm. The edges dig into my skin. For the first time since this horrible night began, I feel like I’ve got something to hold on to.
While I’m waiting for the bus, I walk up to the railing. The river churns a few feet down, calm and quiet. When I’m sure no one’s looking my way, I lift my old ID to the moonlight.
“Goodbye, Sammi Banks,” I whisper, a bittersweet taste in my mouth. “Goodbye, Sima Danilo. May you both find a peace in death that you never really found in life.”
Then I toss it into the water.