CHAPTER SEVEN
Avery
I
t’s been weeks—I think—since I promised myself I’d escape, and there hasn’t been a single opportunity to do so. Not one crack in Sarah’s routine. Not one careless mistake. Not one fucking chance.
With no windows in this dungeon, it’s impossible to gauge time except for the number of times I’ve woken up. Even that isn’t reliable. She drugs me often, leaving me unconscious for what could be weeks at a time, only to wake up groggy, weak, and disoriented. The effects are lasting, messing with my perception of reality, my body sluggish, my thoughts dulled.
The only thing keeping me from slipping into despair is the sharp click of the lock before and after she enters. That sound tells me there’s a key. One that I need. One that’s going to be nearly impossible to steal without her noticing. But that’s only one hurdle. The chain around my ankle is another beast entirely. The metal is thick, old but strong, reinforced with a brand-new padlock that holds it in place.
I’ve pulled, yanked, twisted, even tried slipping my foot through it, but it’s too snug around my ankle. The friction has already rubbed my skin raw, the bruises deepening each time I test its limits. Still, I keep trying because it’s the only thing I can do. It’s the only fight I have in me at the moment.
An exasperated huff escapes as I finally give up—for now. Blowing my hair from my face, I glance around the room, searching for something—anything—that could be useful. But I already know the answer. There’s nothing.
Just like the last time I looked.
And the time before that.
Sarah isn’t careless. She isn’t stupid.
My stomach twists as I think about what she’s doing. She’s been using my disappearance as leverage, twisting it into something she can manipulate. She’s not just trying to take my place—she’s trying to erase me. Make the guys lean on her, turn to her for comfort in the wake of my absence.
And the worst part? It could work.
I want to believe that they wouldn’t, that my guys wouldn’t fall for her bullshit. That their love for me is stronger than whatever she’s spinning, but doubt gnaws at me. They were with her for years. I’ve only had a handful of months with them. Weeks have passed. What happens when I’m missing longer than we were ever together?
Would they still hold out for me? Would they still love me?
The thoughts make my chest ache.
I force myself up from the bed, needing to move, needing to do something. My body protests the motion, stiff and sore from lying down too much. I test my balance, stretching my limbs as I pace the small area I have access to, the chain clanking against the floor with every step. I search for anything I can use as a weapon—a loose nail, a broken piece of furniture, anything.
Nothing. Again.
I bite my lip, tamping down the frustration burning inside me. I need to be patient. I need to wait for the right moment.
My stomach growls loudly, reminding me how long it’s been since I’ve physically eaten. Sarah has an obsession with keeping me drugged, putting me under for days at a time and feeding me through a fucking tube. I’ve lost so much weight that my body feels foreign to me. Weaker. Less capable.
She’s keeping me alive for a reason, though. That worries me more than if she’d just planned to kill me outright. If I knew my fate was sealed, I could brace for it. But this? This slow, calculated game? I don’t know what her end goal is, and that terrifies me more than anything.
I glance at the food she left while I was unconscious. It’s basic—chips, a sandwich, a bottle of water. There’s no clear theme for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, making it even harder to track time. But pride is a luxury I can’t afford. I need food. I need energy.
The cellophane crackles as I tear into the bag of chips, popping a few into my mouth as I ration the rest for later. The salty barbeque flavor bursts over my tongue, momentarily distracting me from the hopelessness of my situation.
I refuse to fall apart. If I let myself wallow, I’ll never make it out of here. I have to stay sharp. I have to survive.
Hours pass. The room grows colder, my skin chilled to the bone. I’m not sure if it’s from her presence alone or if she’s deliberately turning down the temperature, waiting for me to beg for those blankets again. She’s taken them more times than I can count, using them as some twisted reward system.
When the lock finally clicks, signaling her return, I barely react. I curl tighter against the mattress, tucking my knees against my chest as the door creaks open.
Sarah stands there, arms full of blankets, her smile plastic and smug. “Here you go,” she sing-songs, placing them on the edge of the bed like she’s being generous. “You were very good today, so as per our agreement, here are your blankets.”
I stare at her for a moment before forcing myself to play along.
“Thank you,” I whisper through chattering teeth.
The look on her face is triumphant, her head tilting as she drinks in my supposed submission. Let her think she’s winning. Let her believe she has control.
“You’re welcome,” she practically purrs before dragging the metal chair just out of my reach and sitting down. She watches me for a long moment, eyes sharp, calculating.
My stomach betrays me with a loud growl.
“Where are my manners?” she coos. “Let me get you something to eat.”
She leaves, locking the door behind her. I listen, tracking the sounds above. Dishes clanking. Footsteps. A distant television hum. The details start forming a map in my mind, giving me a rough idea of the house’s layout.
When she returns, she carries a tray loaded with food.
Potatoes and gravy, meatloaf, green beans, spaghetti, garlic bread. Four bottled waters. My stomach clenches at the sight of it, hunger battling my pride.
“Here you go,” she says, setting the tray on the desk before returning to her chair.
I eye the feast warily. “What’s this for?”
Her smirk widens. “Can’t have my little pet wasting away, can I?”
The words make my blood boil, but I force myself to stay calm. I need to play this right.
Because one way or another, I’m getting out of here.
Sarah shrugs, a smirk plastered across her freaky-ass face. “Had a good day today, so I thought I’d pay it forward.” She reaches into her back pocket, pulling out a cell phone, waving it enticingly like a damn prize on a game show.
Curiosity tugs at me despite every instinct screaming to ignore her. “What’s that for?”
“I recorded something today that I wanted to share with you.” She presses a button on the phone, and soon voices echo in the air. My stomach knots. Sarah’s voice is the first one I recognize, but then a deep, familiar baritone sends a shockwave through me. Jaxton.
My lower lip trembles as I fight back the sob clawing at my throat, but the tears come anyway, hot and stinging. Sarah, the psychotic bitch, beams with delight at my reaction, feeding off my suffering like it’s her morning coffee. “Listen,” she instructs, shushing me as if I’d dare interrupt.
The recording plays.
“How are you doing?” Sarah’s voice is syrupy sweet, drenched in false sincerity.
“Not good,” Jaxton replies, his voice hoarse, heavy with anguish. “I miss her. They still have no leads. No matter how much money and attention we sink into social media or the news, it’s not enough. No one’s seen her.” His voice cracks on the last sentence, and my breath shudders out, hands balling into fists in my lap. He’s suffering. They all are.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Sarah purrs. I can practically hear the smirk in her voice, imagine the way she must be inching closer to him, placing a hand on his arm, perching like a vulture ready to feast.
“You stopping by means a lot,” Jaxton murmurs, and my stomach clenches.
“You know I’ll always be here for you guys. We’ll always be repeatedly drawn back together.”
Then, a sound—a rustling, a shift of movement—before muffled noises turn into something far worse. A moan.
Sarah clicks the stop button and turns to me, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “In case it wasn’t clear, that’s when he leaned over and kissed me.”
My entire body locks up, every muscle seizing. No. No way.
My first instinct is to reject it outright but then doubt slithers in like poison. Would he?
They’ve been together before. They have history. He was the one who caved to her before, sleeping with her at that party weeks before we met. If he was vulnerable, grieving, lost in desperation… could he have gone back to her?
No.
I grit my teeth, shoving the thought away like venom. “They love me. Jaxton loves me. I don’t know what that recording was, but I don’t believe anything you say.”
Sarah’s grin widens, her laughter slicing through me like a rusted blade. “Believe whatever you want,” she coos, “but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s coming around again. He always runs back to me when things get difficult.”
My lips part, but no words come out. I snap them shut, my throat tight with suppressed rage and uncertainty.
“Soo…” She draws out the word as she stands. “If you behave tonight, I’ll bring you a surprise tomorrow.” She practically winks, playing the role of gracious host as if she’s not keeping me prisoner in a damn basement.
I nod once, not trusting myself to speak.
My heart pounds, a lump of sorrow sitting like a stone in my gut. I want to believe in Jaxton. In all of them. But Sarah is planting seeds of doubt, and even though I don’t want them to take root, the fear is there. How can I fight the past? How can I compete with years of history when I’ve only had them for a handful of months? If I tell her she’s won, if I tell her she can have them, would she let me go?
A bitter laugh bubbles up inside me. No. She wouldn’t.
She’s already won.
The panic claws at me, my entire body trembling with the force of fear, rage, and helplessness. I force it down, swallowing the emotion like a poison I refuse to let take me under. I promised myself I’d only allow one moment of weakness. That moment is over. No matter what happens, I will fight.
The chain rattles as I shift on the bed, scissoring my legs as exhaustion drags at my bones. The cold air seeps into my skin, making the blankets on the bed all the more tempting. Sarah is good at psychological warfare—better than I gave her credit for. She wants me to comply, to accept my captivity, to let her win.
But she underestimated me.
I crawl toward the plate of food she left, stomach growling in betrayal. She’s calculated, manipulative, and cunning. That’s what all of this is—the food, the blankets, the surprises.
It’s control.
Well, two can play that game.
I eat every last bite, knowing she’ll take pleasure in it. She’ll think I’m accepting my place, letting her win. That’s fine.
Let her think it.
She’s smart. She’s educated. She’s absolutely fucking unhinged. But she’s also lonely. She wants attention. She wants to be needed. That’s her weakness.
I plan to exploit it.
Becoming her friend, playing into her delusions, might be the only chance I have. She thinks she’s untouchable, that she holds all the power. But if I can get her to let her guard down—if I can make her think I’m broken enough to be compliant—then maybe, just maybe, I can find a way out.
It’ll take time. Patience. Restraint. And every ounce of willpower I have not to rip her throat out with my bare hands.
I settle into the sheets, letting the warmth soak into my bones, staring up at the ceiling with one single thought searing through my mind.
She thinks she’s won.
She has no idea what’s coming.