Chapter 4 #3
I stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door.
Then my knees gave out.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, the expensive mattress dipping slightly under my weight, utterly silent. No creak. No protest.
My hands trembled as I brought them to my face. Dried blood flaked from my knuckles, dusting my skin.
I pressed my palms over my eyes and breathed—slow, shallow breaths, the kind you take when you’re afraid that if you inhale too deeply, everything will collapse.
What was I doing here?
What had my life become?
A street fight. A wedding from hell. A forced marriage to a man who looked at me like I was already dead.
After several long minutes of staring at nothing, my mind finally went blank. I didn’t even remember falling asleep. One moment I was awake, suspended in exhaustion and dread, and the next—I jolted upright, heart racing, lungs dragging in air like I’d been pulled from deep water.
The room felt wrong.
Unfamiliar.
For a split second, panic seized me. My gaze darted around, trying to make sense of my surroundings—the high ceiling, the heavy drapes, the muted light filtering through them. Then it dawned on me.
This was the room Petros had given me.
Mine.
At least, for now.
I wasn’t used to it. And how could I be? Sleeping in enemy territory—Ruslan Baranov’s house of all places—felt unnatural, almost reckless. My nerves buzzed as if danger might crawl out of the walls at any moment.
Before my thoughts could spiral any further, I focused on the one thing I could control. I needed a bath. I felt grimy, wrung out, like the day had soaked into my skin.
I crossed the room and went straight to the wardrobe, already resigned to improvising. I hadn’t brought my luggage with me. I had arrived here with nothing but the clothes on my back and too many fears to count.
I slid the doors open.
They moved soundlessly.
Inside, rows of women’s clothing hung in immaculate order—silk blouses in muted jewel tones, tailored trousers, wool coats arranged by shade, cashmere sweaters folded with almost obsessive precision. Shoes lined the lower shelves, polished and pristine.
Nothing had tags.
A chill traced its way down my spine.
A faint scent of jasmine lingered on the fabric.
Someone had lived here before me.
The realization flickered through my mind, distant and oddly dull. I didn’t ask who she was. Wife? Lover? Ghost?
I didn’t care.
Right now, all I wanted was to wash the day off my skin.
The en-suite bathroom was all marble and glass, cool and immaculate. Twin sinks. A rain shower encased in crystal-clear panels. A deep soaking tub carved from a single slab of stone.
It felt less like a bathroom and more like a private spa—sterile, luxurious, impersonal.
I peeled off the ruined wedding gown slowly.
The fabric stuck in places where blood had dried.
Every movement tugged at my injuries—the split in my lip, the swelling along the bridge of my nose, the deep bruises blooming across my ribs.
When the dress finally pooled at my feet, it looked like a discarded skin.
I raised my eyes to the mirror.
The woman staring back at me barely resembled the person I’d been yesterday.
One eye was already turning a violent shade of purple. My nose sat slightly crooked, swollen and red. My lower lip was split and angry, twice its normal size. Faint abrasions marked my cheek and jaw. I looked like someone who had survived something she wasn’t supposed to.
I stepped into the shower and turned the water as hot as it would go.
The first blast hit my face like needles. I hissed, instinctively arching my back, gripping the tile for balance. Soap burned when it touched broken skin. I let the water run anyway, washing over me, carrying blood and dirt and sweat down the drain.
Tears came without warning, mixing seamlessly with the spray. I didn’t sob. I didn’t make a sound. I just stood there and let the water take it all, because crying loudly felt dangerous in a house like this.
When I finally turned the shower off, my skin was pink and oversensitive, my body trembling—not from cold, but from exhaustion.
I wrapped myself in a thick white towel and stepped back into the bedroom. I paused in front of the mirror once more.
Clean now. Bruised. Broken.
I stared at my reflection and made myself a promise.
Whatever Ruslan Baranov believed about me—whatever he planned—I would survive it.
I always did.
I dressed in the simplest things I could find—soft black long-sleeved top, loose gray lounge pants that didn’t press against my ribs.
I skipped the bra.
Normally, the lack of support would have made my skin crawl, but tonight even fabric felt like an enemy. Everything hurt. Everything rubbed. Everything reminded me that I was still in a body that could be broken.
My stomach chose that moment to growl.
Loud. Sharp. Almost accusatory.
I pressed a hand to my abdomen, surprised by the intensity of the hunger. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday—no time, no appetite, no safety. Now my body was demanding payment, clawing at my ribs from the inside, reminding me that survival required fuel.
I couldn’t stay locked in this room forever.
Whatever Ruslan Baranov intended for me, hiding would only delay it. Delay had never saved anyone for long.
I opened the door and stepped into the hallway.
The house looked different at dusk—softer, more dangerous.
Recessed lights glowed along the baseboards, casting warm shadows across the white marble.
I walked slowly, barefoot, taking in the details I’d missed earlier
The décor wasn’t accidental. It was a statement.
I was so absorbed that I nearly missed the edge of the staircase.
My foot slipped over nothing.
For one terrifying second, gravity claimed me. I caught the railing at the last instant, fingers screaming as they clenched cold metal. My heart slammed so hard it stole my breath.
“Easy, ma’am.”
The voice came from below.
I looked up.
Petros stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching me with that same unreadable calm. He’d changed since earlier.
Gone was the neutral black suit. Now he wore deep crimson—tailored, immaculate, the color rich and deliberate.
The color of fresh blood.
“I was just about to call your room,” he said evenly.
I forced myself to straighten, then descended carefully, each step deliberate. I wouldn’t give this house the satisfaction of seeing me fall again.
“What is it?” I asked, my voice still rough, cords aching.
“Mr. Ruslan has requested your presence for dinner,” Petros said. “As newlyweds, he thought the first meal should be... special.”
The word landed wrong.
Special had teeth.
“Where?” I asked.
Petros didn’t hesitate. “The Labyrinth. In East Compton.”
My stomach dropped so hard I thought I might actually be sick.
The Labyrinth.
Everyone knew it. Even people who pretended not to. A no-man’s-land carved into the heart of one of California’s most dangerous zones—an abandoned industrial district turned shadow city.
Warehouses converted into black-market bazaars. Underground fight clubs where bones snapped for cash. Weapons caches. Gambling dens. Brothels that didn’t ask names.
Police didn’t go there.
Not patrol. Not SWAT.
It was mafia territory—neutral ground where every family had a stake, but none claimed ownership. A place where deals were sealed in blood and bodies vanished without paperwork or noise.
Of all the restaurants in California—of all the ocean-view terraces, Michelin stars, celebrity chefs and safe, glittering places—he had chosen that.
I swallowed hard.
“Okay,” I said, because refusing hadn’t saved me yet.
Petros inclined his head and led me outside.
The night air was cool against my bruised skin. The circular drive glowed under discreet lighting, and at its center waited a blood-red Ferrari, engine idling with a low, predatory purr.
The same crimson as Petros’s suit.
The color scheme was starting to feel less like coincidence and more like a calling card.
I slid into the passenger seat. The leather was cool and unyielding against my back. Petros closed the door with quiet finality, then walked around and took the driver’s seat.
The car pulled away smoothly, gliding through the gates and into the night.
I watched Newport Beach slip past the window—perfect streets, glowing storefronts, people laughing over dinners that didn’t come with body counts. Then the lights thinned. The freeway stretched dark and endless ahead of us.
My thoughts spiraled.
I couldn’t die on my wedding day.
Could I?
The question looped relentlessly, each mile tightening the knot in my chest. I folded my hands tightly in my lap, fingers interlaced, nails biting into skin so Petros wouldn’t see them shake.
Survival had always been my only skill.
Tonight, riding toward the darkest corner of California—to a place designed to erase people—I would need every last drop of it.
And the man waiting for me there?
He already owned my name.
He might decide he wanted the rest of me too.
The red Ferrari cut through the night like a wound, leaving a streak of menace against the darkness.
Every mile we traveled seemed to thicken the air around me. My pulse throbbed in time with the vibrations of the car, a warning drumbeat that refused to be ignored.
I couldn’t keep the question inside any longer. The silence between Petros and me had stretched taut, heavy enough to press against my ribs like stone. I had to know.
“I’ve lived in California my wh-whole life,” I said, voice rough from the screaming, the fighting, the adrenaline still rasping through my throat. “I know exactly how deadly The Labyrinth is. No street lights. No cops. No r-rules. No mercy. Does he... does Ruslan plan to hurt me there?”
Petros didn’t flinch, didn’t glance my way. Hands steady on the wheel, eyes scanning the freeway ahead. “I wouldn’t know, ma’am,” he said, tone clipped, professional, as though emotion was a weakness he had long ago discarded.