3. LEIGH
Chapter 3
LEIGH
The cold bites at my skin as I wake, a sharp chill dragging me out of the fog. My head throbs, a relentless drumbeat pounding against my skull. The sound of a heavy door scraping open jolts me fully awake. My heart leaps into my throat as I sit up abruptly on the stiff cot.
A masked figure steps into the dungeon, their presence commanding and unnerving. They’re wheeling a metal trolley toward me, its polished surface glinting faintly under the harsh light. The clatter of wheels echoes off the brick walls, each noise magnified in the oppressive silence. The smell hits me next—warm, rich, and mouthwatering. My stomach growls in response, reminding me just how long it’s been since I last ate.
“Who are you?” My voice is hoarse, scratching against my throat like sandpaper. I try to focus on their features, but the mask obscures everything.
The person doesn’t answer, doesn’t even hesitate. They push the trolley close enough for me to reach it but maintain a safe distance. As I glance at the tray, I see covered dishes, bottles of water, and a steaming mug of coffee. It’s almost... inviting.
“Put the trolley back here when you’re done eating.” The voice startles me, distorted by a modulator. The figure points to a small cross marked on the floor. “And don’t try to be clever about it, or you won’t like the consequences.”
A spark of defiance flares in me. “What could possibly be worse than this?” I snap.
Before the words fully leave my lips, a jolt zaps through my ankle. Pain shoots up my leg, leaving me gasping. I clutch the chain attached to the shackle, the metal biting into my skin. My eyes dart to the figure, and I spot the device in their hand.
“That.” The message is clear, and it makes my stomach churn. I’m not just chained; I’m a dog on a leash, complete with a shock collar.
The masked person tilts their head, almost amused. They say nothing more, retreating as quickly as they arrived. The heavy door closes behind them with a metallic groan. The sound of a bolt sliding into place reminds me that I’m caged, leaving me alone with the trolley and my trembling body.
The smell of the food is too tempting to ignore. My stomach aches with hunger, but questions churn in my mind. Who are they? Why feed me like this? The dishes are covered, the setup meticulous, as if this were a luxury dining experience instead of a dungeon.
I shuffle closer to the trolley, the chain dragging noisily behind me. My hands hover over the tray as I hesitate. What if it’s drugged? But then again, the water wasn’t drugged earlier. If they wanted to incapacitate me, they’d have done it already.
As my stomach growls again, but this time almost painfully, I hear Radomir’s voice whisper in the back of my mind: If you’re pregnant...
I freeze. The thought makes my eyes widen. I stop my first instinct to touch my stomach—I’m being watched, and I would rather my captors not realize I might be with child. I don’t know if I am, but I can’t afford to risk harm—not to my baby or myself. My defenses crumble under the weight of hunger and fear, and I lift the first lid.
Eggs, bacon, toast, and a perfectly cooked hash brown. Everything is plated with care, like it came from a five-star restaurant. A chill runs down my spine. They’ve done their homework as these are all my favorite breakfast foods. My stomach growls again, and I give in.
I move the trolley closer to the table where one chair is pushed beneath it. Pulling it out, I’m surprised to see the seat is padded and offers decent back support. “Huh!” I snort softly, glancing at the hard, cold metal chairs lining the wall beside the door. “A good breakfast and comfortable chair.” My brow furrows as I move the plate of breakfast coffee… “Is that fresh apple juice?” Another of my favorites.
I stop trying to second guess everything as the hunger now almost consumes me and I transfer everything from the trolley to the table. The first bite is heavenly. The food melts in my mouth, and I savor every piece, desperate for the comfort it brings.
But with every bite, my unease grows. Whoever my captor is, they want me alive and well—at least for now. That thought is far from comforting but at least it may give me some time to figure out how to get the fuck out of here.
As I eat, my gaze drifts to the books on the table beside me. The card rests on top, mocking me with its message: Maybe these books will help you remember .
I reach for the books, my hand trembling slightly. “How the fuck are my song books supposed to jog my memory?” I wonder out loud. “I’ve been through each one dozens of times over the past ten years. I’m sure if they were going to…”
My words fade, and my brow furrows deeper. The leather binding feels familiar, but the gold writing on the book – Songbook 1 is familiar. I look for the small gold L at the bottom right-hand corner but it’s nothing but a few gold blobs—the lettering erased over time with wear.
But I’m sure my songbook 1 still had my L on it. My heart pounds, and every nerve in my body goes on high alert as a voice in the back of my mind screams: Stop! Put the book down and back away!
My hand shakes, and my throat suddenly feels dry, but I swallow then force myself to open it, my breath catches.
These aren’t my books .
VV – Book 1 —I go cold, and my eyes shoot to the other two books—these are my mother’s songbooks.
“No,” I whisper, my pulse quickening. “No, no, no.”
Panic grips me. How did they get these? My father told me that my mother’s books were packed away in a storage locker waiting for me to get my memories back before I could have them. This isn’t just someone playing a game. They’ve dug deep into my life, into my past.
My mind reels as I remember Nikolas—my father? Confusion sends sharp pinpricks of pain shooting through my skull.
No. Mark is my father. Mark Dalton. I’m Leigh Dalton.
No, Lulu-Petal – you’re not. I can hear Nikolas’s voice echo in my head.
“Yes I am!” I fling the book across the room, scrapping the chair back to push myself to my feet. “I’m Leigh Dalton.”
The room starts to spin, and I grip the back of the chair squeezing my eyes shut to steady myself, forcing air into my lungs in a slow steady rhythm to calm me. A cool, clear head is what I need not panic and dread.
Feeling calmer I open my eyes and go pick up the book. Bringing it back to the table I place it beside me, sit and finish my breakfast while ignoring the books. Instead I concentrate on being pregnant and wondering when is the earliest I’d know if I was.
I pick up the coffee, savoring the taste and another thought hits me— Fuck! Should I be drinking coffee? I’m sure I heard or read somewhere that there is food and things you shouldn’t drink if you’re pregnant. I put the mug down and say out loud. “Not smart, Leigh. You gave up coffee, remember?”
I glance around the room. “If you’re listening. This is not cool. You seem to have done your homework on the foods I like but your data is out of date about what I like to drink. Sure, I love coffee, but I gave it up a week ago as I l realized I liked it a bit too much and my father’s an addict, so I reasoned I’d also have addiction tendency’s, so I gave up coffee.” I push the cup aside. “I’ve replaced it with low to no-caffeine herbal teas. They’re also better for the stress headaches I get and help me sleep better.”
I feel like a complete nut job talking to the room, but I know they’re there somewhere watching and listening to me. I’m like a goldfish in a fucking glass bowl. When I finish eating, I place everything except the water back on the trolley. My movements are mechanical, my mind racing. I wheel the trolley to the marked spot, careful to align it exactly as instructed. If I am pregnant, I won’t risk doing anything that could harm the baby.
I won’t be like my mother, I’ll be better! That thought hits me like a slap, and a sudden ache blooms in my skull. I clutch my head as a sharp pain radiates through it.
“What the fuck!” I exclaim through gritted teeth. “My mother was a good mother…” Fragmented pieces of memory feel like someone flipped a box filled with broken images and scattered them across my brain. Nausea rises and I start to feel giddy. I stagger over to the edge of the cot and sit. “Wasn’t she?”
Rubbing my temples I try to piece the images together. My memory of her in the warm, sunny studio begins to morph, and the room I remember slips away as if it were never there. A mirage covering something darker.
Where are they, you fucking little bitch? A sharp sting blisters the skin on my cheek and my hand flies to it the memory is so real. I would never have had you if it hadn’t been stipulated in that fucking marriage contract. All you are, is my golden key to ensuring I stay living in this life of luxury!
Something warm trickles from my nose. I push myself up and grab some toilet tissue dabbing at it as my nose starts to sting. I look at the tissue—blood.
“Great. A fucking nosebleed.” I grab some more toilet tissue and press it to my nostrils. As I sit back on the cot, trying to stop the bleeding, my mind churns. Just who the hell was my mother really? My brow creases as I try to remember more but the shards of memories pop and disappear just giving me more pain in the head and nose.
Closing my eyes I do some more breathing exercises to try and relax—clear all thought from my mind. But as I begin to relax I feel a twinge behind my eyes right before my memories of mother crack open, splintering like an eggshell. Only the center is rotten—putrid. I see her face—she’s beautiful but I know it masks the ugliness within her.
I can hear her voice—low, seductive, sultry and she sings like an angel only her mouth is venomous as a snake. She loves to slap me in the face delighting at the redness and then basking in any bruising it may have caused—Vivienne wasn’t the warm, happy, loving mother of my broken mind—she’s more evil than the queen in Snow White. Only Vivienne didn’t have poison apples she had poison crossbow bolts.
My eyes shoot open and shoot upright, ignoring the pain slicing through my head. I push the sleeve of the scrubs up to unveil my arm— “It was a bolt that went through the top of your arm. It poisoned your system, sweetheart.”
I run my fingers over the smooth mushroomed flesh of the scar and turn my arm to see where it had gone right through. Fuck, it was a poison arrow that went through my arm. Realization makes my stomach churn as I try to remember who shot me with the arrow. I close my eyes trying to recall what happened, but I’m met with darkness this time.
Frustration coils through me and my hands ball into fists, my nails biting into the soft flesh of my palms. Why is it when I don’t want to remember—bam! They slap me in the face and then when I try it just nothing. A black screen systems failure.
I rub my temples, trying to make sense of the chaos that is my mind. The door slides open, jolting me out of my spiraling thoughts. The masked person enters, their movements quick and purposeful. They place an ice pack and a bottle of aspirin on the table without a word.
“For the headaches and nosebleeds,” they say, their modulated voice reminiscent of the robotic tones from old sci-fi movies.
They check the trolley, ensuring everything is as it was, then wheel it out. The door slams shut, the bolts sliding into place with a metallic clang.
Frustration and confusion swirl within me, merging into a tidal wave of anger. “Fuck, why all the security?” I snap, glaring at the walls. “You’ve got me chained so I can’t reach the fucking door anyway. Not just chained—chained with a shock shackle. Who do you think I am? Fucking Houdini?”
“Come now, Leigh.” The distorted voice makes me jump. “You must’ve realized by now that we’ve been watching you for a very long time.”
My spine stiffens as their words sink in. “You’ve been watching me?” I demand, my voice rising. “Why?”
“You’re very important to us,” the voice replies calmly.
“Why am I important?” Alarm bells ring in my head, competing with the pounding headache.
“You’re the key to getting us everything we want.”
The voice fades, but their words linger in the air, casting a dark shadow over the room. As silence fills the space, another memory crashes into me. All you are, is my golden key to ensuring I stay living in this life of luxury!
And just like that I’m nearly bowled over by the tsunami of memories that flood my mind:
Images of me screaming at Vivienne: “I hate you, Vivienne. You’re nothing more than a fucking psycho whore!” The memory hits me with the force of a train. Vivienne. I didn’t call her mom. I called her Vivienne.
“Oh, my God! I didn’t love her at all. I hated her!” I whisper to the empty room. My voice trembles, barely audible as I feel the resentment for the woman that birthed me fill my veins.
More memories flood in, disjointed and cruel. Mark’s face appears, kind and patient. I’m younger, laughing as he pushes me on a swing. Push me higher, Uncle Mark!
“Uncle Mark?” I murmur, my voice breaking. “What the fuck?”
My eyes spring open. I stagger over to the table, grab a bottled water, swallow the aspirin, and take the ice back with me back to the cot. Lying back I pull the tissue from my nose and put the ice pack on my head as I will the aspirin to work quickly to dull the now pounding ache in my head.
Before I know it I’m drifting off into my disjointed memories of my past.
I’m twelve, lying on a hard cot just like the one in this cell. My arm burns, the pain excruciating. A man with icy blue eyes looks down at me.
Vivienne’s voice cuts through the memory, sharp and desperate. “You can’t take her without me!”
The man turns, his expression cold. “What the fuck have you done?” His voice was low and dangerous. “Look at this mess.” His eyes glance toward me before they turn back to Vivienne with a look of utter disgust. “Just how low and perverted does a person have to be to do this to their own daughter?”
“I told you, she stole from me and had to be taught a lesson when she refused to give what she took back,” Vivienne hisses . “ You can’t judge me. You forget—I know who you are and what your tastes are.”
“They’re not children!” He says through gritted teeth. “And would certainly never be my children I’d drag into a place like this. So congratulations, Vivienne, you’re not only the world’s worst human being but the world’s worst mother as well.”
“But I’m still a mother,” Vivienne growls back and points behind her toward me. “Her mother. And without me, you’ll never get her!”
“Fortunately, we don’t need you for that anymore, Vivienne.” His cruel laugh echoes in my mind, sending a shiver down my spine . “ It’s always been Leigh that is important to me , ” he says, his voice calm and chilling. “ She’s the key that unlocks everything I’ve ever wanted.” His eyes narrow a bit more. “You? You’re just an obstacle in our way.”
My gaze falls on Vivienne’s purse, and her words echo in my ears : The silver arrow is for the man with your father’s face. The gold one... that’s for the Ice Man.
I snap back to reality, dumped into the present. My mind spins like an out-of-control top. My lips part, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “I shot you with the gold arrow.”
The silence in the dungeon is deafening as I sit and swing my legs over the bed.
“The gold arrow was supposed to kill you,” I say, my voice shaky and rising as the memory becomes clearer making me frown and shake my head. “No, it can’t be you. I shot you. I shot you in the heart with the golden arrow.”
The bolts grind open. My heart stops as a very tall, broad-shouldered man steps into the room. He’s wearing a mask, but his presence is unmistakably menacing, and familiar.
“So, you do remember,” he says, his voice deep and unmodulated.
“No, just pieces,” I reply. My heart races as my fingers dig into the cot. “If you think I remember you, why are you still wearing the mask?”
He pulls it off slowly, and I gasp.
Fear slices through me like a knife.
His icy blue eyes pierce into mine, a stark reminder of every nightmare I’ve ever fought to forget.
The edges of my vision blur, the world tilting as I fight to stay upright. I fight the dizziness overtaking me. But the darkness is too strong and reaches for me, pulling me under.
As the world fades, I utter one word: “Oleksi.”