Chapter Three
Serena
Present
I wake up slowly. My eyes feel swollen. My head feels heavier than my entire body.
I blink again and again, trying to force the world into focus. It doesn’t help.
A wave of sickness rushes up from my stomach, violent and unstoppable, and I vomit all over the cold floor. Acid burns my throat. My head spins. The nausea claws up again and I gag a second time, choking on the taste of last night.
I’ve been drunk before. Hungover before. But never like this.
Oh Gosh.
The drugs.
The memory hits me like a slap. The stranger. The drink. The dizziness. The darkness swallowing me whole.
I’ve been drugged.
I try to sit up, gripping the grimy floor with shaky hands.
Panic flares hot beneath my skin. I look around and my stomach drops.
I am in a basement. Or something close to one.
The floor is cold concrete. The walls are stained and cracked.
The air smells like mold and damp wood. The whole place feels ancient, like it hasn’t seen sunlight in a century.
There are no windows. No phone. No escape.
I begin to panic. Hard. My heartbeat stutters in my chest. My breath gets stuck in my throat.
I am trapped.
I might die here.
How stupid could I have been? I replay every reckless choice from last night, each one worse than the last. The drinking. The dancing. The stranger. The drink he handed me. I can barely look at myself. I feel like the stupidest person alive.
I vomit again. My abdomen aches. My throat burns.
What is happening to me?
What am I supposed to do?
A noise outside the door snaps me out of my spiraling thoughts. Footsteps. Heavy. Steady.
The door opens.
A tall man steps in. Dressed in black from head to toe. Black hoodie. Black cargo pants. A balaclava covering his face.
I press myself against the wall, shaking. Please don’t rape me. Please don’t rape me. Kill me instead if you want. Just don’t touch me.
He throws a bag onto the floor in front of me.
“Eat.”
The word lands like a slap.
I stare at the bag, frozen.
My stomach growls angrily, betraying me.
“I am not leaving this room until you eat.” His voice is deep. Rough. Irritated.
My hands shake as I reach for the bag. I open it and find a sandwich and a bottle of water.
I unwrap the sandwich with trembling fingers, bite into it, and swallow despite the taste.
It feels like chewing paper. Tears sting my eyes as I eat.
Fear. Confusion. Hunger. Everything mixes together until it becomes salt on my tongue.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Another man enters. His tone sharp. Accusing.
I flinch.
Hard.
He doesn’t wear a balaclava. He looks young. Too young. But his face is marked with scars, old and angry, like he’s lived through hell.
“Make sure she eats,” the first man replies.
“Why?” The younger one scoffs.
“To make sure she doesn’t die,” the balaclava man growls.
“Who cares?” the young one mutters. “We were told to deliver her and that’s what we’re doing.”
“We were told to deliver her alive. She is useless to us if she is dead.”
Alive.
Delivered.
Someone hired them. Someone paid for this. Someone wants me.
My blood turns to ice.
Am I being trafficked? Am I going to be sold? Is this how my life ends?
I drop the sandwich and vomit again. Pain explodes through my abdomen. My whole body trembles.
“Gross,” the young one mutters with disgust.
I glare at him with whatever strength I still have.
I grab the bottle of water and drink everything in one go. It barely helps. My lips are cracked, my tongue feels like sandpaper, and my head throbs so violently it is hard to think straight.
“Are you okay?” the man in the balaclava asks. His voice is rough but not cruel. At least not compared to the younger one, who looks like he enjoys seeing me struggle.
I nod. It is easier than talking.
Without thinking, without wanting to know the answer, I ask, “What is going to happen to me?” My voice feels small, almost swallowed by the cold room.
“Someone will come to collect you in a minute,” he says. Simple. Final. Like discussing a delivery, not a person.
The words twist inside my stomach. I force myself to swallow.
“How much did I cost?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
He just looks at me, silent.
Fine. If I’m going to die here, I might as well try.
“I’ll give you double to let me go.” My voice sounds steady.
My confidence is fake, but I cling to it anyway.
My father left me everything. Every asset, every investment, every property.
I am most likely the youngest billionaire in the country.
Useless information if they deliver me and I end up dead on some godforsaken road.
The two men exchange a glance. Relief sparks in my chest. They are thinking about it.
I push forward. “Triple then.” I stand up, ignoring the dizziness. “Do we have a deal?”
Please say yes. Please.
The young one laughs. “That money isn’t worth my life, sweetheart.”
The way he says sweetheart makes my skin crawl.
“We’re not only doing this for money,” he continues. “We’re paying a debt. And we’re dead if we don’t deliver you.”
The panic hits again, sharp and suffocating. I bend forward and vomit, my entire abdomen aching. I don’t understand how there is anything left inside me.
They exchange another look. The one in the balaclava steps toward me, like he wants to say something, but voices echo from the hallway.
“It’s time,” he says.
Both men reach for me.
“No!” I cry out. “Please!”
I push them, twist away, try to break free, but it’s useless. One grips my head, holding it still. The other slides the syringe into my neck. The burn spreads fast. Too fast.
“Please. . .” I try to say again, but the words dissolve as the world fades around me. My vision blurs, my limbs go heavy, and the room melts into darkness.
Then everything goes black.
“Wake up.”
The voice is close, rough, and accompanied by someone shaking my shoulder. I blink, trying to lift the heavy fog inside my head. The room swims into focus.
I am not in the basement anymore.
This new room is huge, almost elegant. A Victorian office. Dark wood, tall bookshelves overflowing with leather-bound books, a polished desk, antique lamps flickering with warm light. It smells like old paper and expensive cologne.
I am on a leather sofa. My limbs feel heavy, my mind dull. Four men stand in suits around the room, their posture rigid. In the center, an older man watches me with strange fascination. Grey hair, grey beard, eyes sharp and calculating.
I blink again, confused.
He smiles.
“Marvelous,” the old man murmurs. “I understand now.”
Understand what?
My skin prickles.
“You are a beautiful creature, Serena,” he says.
A creature? Seriously? I just stare at him. Human, hello? And what exactly does he want? Everything about this man irritates me. Maybe because Lorenzo killed my father. Maybe because I woke up tied and drugged in a basement. Maybe because I am still kidnapped. Probably all of the above.
“Why am I here?” I ask. My voice comes out low, dry.
He steps closer, eyes roaming over my face like I am something he bought at auction. I shift back against the sofa, instinct telling me to keep distance.
“Look at you,” he says softly, and I stiffen. “Those big doe brown eyes. Those full lips. Porcelain skin. And your hair. . .” He touches a strand and my stomach churns violently.
I feel like vomiting again. And I do.
Onto the floor.
“She has been vomiting ever since we collected her,” the man with the balaclava comments. “Might want to check if you prefer her alive.”
At least someone has common sense.
“I can pay you,” I say quickly. My voice is rough, my throat sore. “Tell me how much you want, and it is done.”
The old man raises his brows, amused.
“There are men who would pay more for you than you could ever offer,” he replies. “What I need is not something you can give.”
A wave of anger burns through me.
“Call the doctor,” the old man says. “I want her evaluated. And get someone to clean this mess. My rug is far too exquisite for this.”
He looks at the vomit like it insulted his ancestors.
A doctor arrives. He barely looks at me as he takes blood samples. A woman who seems like a nurse checks my pulse, my blood pressure, my oxygen levels. She keeps making small sounds, little hums, and I raise a brow at her. She gives me an apologetic smile.
The old man talks the entire time. He rambles about patience. The importance of patience. The virtue of patience. If I wasn't tied, I would have walked out. My patience has officially expired.
Then he moves on to his fascination with women. Women are “creatures” again. Women give birth. Women lead. Women endure. Women do what men do, and more. He seems almost enchanted by the concept of femininity. I stare at him blankly, too exhausted to react.
Twenty minutes pass.
Finally, the doctor returns with a sheet of paper. He whispers something into the old man’s ear. The old man looks at me with renewed interest.
“Interesting,” he says.
He snaps his fingers.
His men move immediately.
“Take her to her room.”
I do not fight. I do not argue.
I am exhausted.
Tied.
Drugged.
Drained.
Let them take me.
I am too tired to do anything else.
If I fall asleep, maybe I will wake up somewhere better than this hell.