Chapter 7 #2
"Ten minutes." Roman released me, whispered in my ear, his glance coldly sweeping Maxim nearby—silent pressure. "Stay here. Don't go anywhere."
I nodded, watching Roman and Danny leave. I picked up a soda water from the bar, trying to calm my racing heart.
But my fingers still shook. Just as the glass reached my lips, my wrist trembled. The glass tilted sharply, cold liquid spilling out, spreading a dark stain across the crimson satin.
"Damn it." I cursed under my breath, grabbed napkins to blot it, but the expensive fabric only got worse.
"Ma'am." Victor stepped forward, hawk eyes scanning the area for threats before frowning at my dress.
"Maybe I should get you a clean towel," he said hesitantly.
"Go ahead, Victor." I forced a weak smile. "There's staff at the end of the bar. I'll stand right here. Won't move. Two minutes. I'll be fine."
Victor's jaw tightened, hesitating. He scanned the VIP area again, confirming the gang members stayed in their booths, then nodded reluctantly.
"I'll be right back. Please don't leave this spot."
He turned and strode toward the service corridor.
But the nightmare didn't pause with Roman's absence. It twisted back, catching me off guard. The second Victor disappeared around the corner—
"Nadia? Nadia Cross? Holy shit, it's really you."
A sleazy, sticky male voice came from behind—a cold snake crawling up my spine.
I turned, nearly dropping my half-full glass.
Trent Vanderbilt.
My breath stopped.
How could it be him? I thought I could pretend to forget. But now I shook so badly I could barely hold the glass. I needed air. Needed to leave.
But his laugh dragged me back ten years—the dark equipment room, cruel laughter, my screams and pleas echoing as I pounded on the door. My entire high school nightmare.
My hands started shaking violently. Stomach churning. Cold sweat drenched my back instantly. I gripped the pathetic glass, gulping air, trying to shake it all out of my head.
"Look who it is." Trent's eyes raked over my crimson dress, landing on the emerald, sneering with malice. "So the girl who got kicked out for 'improper conduct' is now someone's mistress? Guess you finally found a career that fits your talents. Where's your sugar daddy? Let's all meet him."
My brain went blank. Vocal cords filled with lead. Couldn't form a single word of comeback.
All that sharp wit, all that composure I'd shown Morozov—drained completely. I just wanted out.
"Remember how hard you cried that night?
Banging on the door like a lunatic, begging.
" Trent leaned closer, alcohol on his breath hitting my face, voice dropping with vicious pleasure.
"Thought you'd spend your life in a psych ward.
Does the old man you're with know he's sleeping next to a crazy woman who pisses herself in the dark? "
That door from ten years ago—locked tight in my mind—slammed shut again.
The moldy rubber smell of that equipment room, the endless darkness, suffocating fear... crashed over me like an unstoppable tsunami.
"Don't touch me..." I couldn't even hear my own voice. Just shoved him away and turned, stumbling blindly through the crowd on thin heels under garish lights. I needed air. Needed to escape. Escape Trent's face, escape the violent shame and trauma.
I staggered into a dark side corridor, vision blurred by tears. I grabbed an unmarked brass doorknob. Unlocked. I shoved through and dove inside.
The heavy oak door slammed shut behind me.
I leaned against it, hadn't even caught my breath when I heard it—the deadly, despairing click.
The lock jammed. Stuck from inside.
I spun around, frantically twisting the handle. Metal scraped metal—loud in the dead space—but the door wouldn't budge.
No windows. No light. Absolute, pitch-black darkness.
The air reeked of old dust and moldy carpet—perfectly matching that equipment room from ten years ago.
"No... no, open up..."
No windows. No light. Nothing but black.
Old dust and mildew—the same smell as that room ten years ago.
"Let me out! Please—"
The plea I'd buried deep escaped, cracking into a sob. My proud armor shattered completely. The walls in the darkness seemed alive, closing in from all sides like iron, squeezing out the last oxygen.
My lungs burned. Legs gave out. I slid down the cold door, curling into a ball.
As consciousness started slipping into the abyss, my spasming fingers locked onto my left hand.
The emerald ring—cold, hard—shot through the drowning panic like an electric current. The only real anchor in this deathly silence. Its sharp edges dug into my palm. The pain dragged back a thread of clarity.
My mind flashed uncontrollably to two years ago. That elevator.
In that unsteady enclosed space, Roman had given me the most brutal, uncompromising response. His rough claim, scalding heat, aggressive control—a fierce fire that burned through the cold prison holding me.
In this moment, I understood with absolute clarity: I needed him. Needed his burning warmth to chase away this abyssal rot. Needed his unreasonable possessiveness. Needed him to tear through this godforsaken darkness again with that pulverizing force.
I pressed the ringed hand hard against my chest, trembling in the endless black, silently praying to the only man who could pull me from hell.
Find me.
Roman, please.