Chapter 28
Nadia
Chicago's cold rain fell like thousands of icy steel needles, hammering down mercilessly from the pitch-black sky.
I didn't know how I'd managed to crawl up from that muddy patch of dead grass behind the Sokolov manor.
Every bone in my body felt shattered from tumbling down those stairs.
My elbows and knees had gone numb. Worst of all were my hands—to break through that escape window, I'd torn my palms and fingers to shreds on the shatterproof glass.
Deep and shallow gashes curled outward, some places showing glimpses of white bone beneath.
The icy rain washed over my wounds, diluting the thick blood that dripped down my tattered sleeves and splattered onto Chicago's empty pre-dawn streets.
I was like a ghost freshly crawled from its grave, dragging my broken shell through unlit alleys, numb and aimless.
Where could I go?
My mind was hollow, a completely burned-out ruin. That phone call I'd heard in the storage room, that mocking female voice accompanied by wet, intimate sounds—it still coiled in my head like a viper, fangs sinking into my heart again and again.
Roman. The man who'd held me tight in the darkness and said, "Don't be afraid, I'm here." The man who'd told me at thirty thousand feet, "I'll catch you." Right now, he was in another woman's bed, using the cruelest silence to push me toward death.
Cold. So cold.
The chill seeped from my marrow, making my whole body shake violently. My vision blurred with rain and tears. In this massive steel jungle, I was a leaf torn loose by wind, with nowhere to land.
I don't know how long I trudged through the rain—long enough for my legs to go completely numb, moving only on near-instinctual momentum.
When I finally collapsed from exhaustion against a rusted iron gate, I lifted my head and saw where I was.
An old two-story red brick house. The lawn hadn't been mowed in weeks. The porch light flickered on when I fell, casting a dim yellow glow.
The Cross house. My former home.
Somehow, dragging this bloody wreck of a body, I'd walked back to the place I'd once desperately wanted to escape.
But now, staring at that familiar, paint-chipped wooden door, something acid welled up in my dried-out eyes.
When people hit rock bottom, they instinctively retreat to that shell called "home.
" Even if that shell was once filled with favoritism, arguments, and coldness.
Even after the whole world abandoned me, after the man I loved tore me to pieces—I was pathetically, desperately hoping someone would open a door, would pretend to catch my falling soul.
I was so tired. I needed shelter so badly.
I grabbed the porch railing with trembling hands and pulled myself up. Leaning all my weight against the door, I knocked weakly with my elbow.
The sound was faint beneath the thunderstorm. I had no strength left. I slid down the door and closed my eyes in despair.
After what felt like forever, footsteps approached from inside. Then the lock turned.
Blinding light spilled through the opening.
"Oh my God! Who—"
My mother, Eleanor. She wore that old nightgown, still gripping a baseball bat, ready to defend herself. When she looked down and saw it was me lying in blood and mud, she let out a piercing shriek. The bat clattered to the ground.
"Nadia? Good Lord, what happened to you? Richard! Richard, get down here!"
My father Richard rushed down the stairs. When he saw me, he sucked in a sharp breath.
Together they dragged me in from the cold porch. The familiar living room—the worn sofa, the faded family photo on the mantel, the smell of coffee and perfume—everything exactly as before.
"What happened? Aren't you supposed to be in the Sokolov Manor? How did you end up covered in blood?" My father frowned, eyeing the mud I was getting on the sofa. He looked ready to explode, but seeing my hands with bone showing through, he swallowed his words.
I curled up on the couch, shaking like I was having a seizure, unable to speak. Just silent tears.
But then something unexpected happened. After their initial shock, my parents didn't throw me out.
"Enough! Can't you see she's freezing?" My mother actually snapped at my father—something I'd never heard before. Then she turned to me with a tenderness that took me back to childhood. "Nadia, don't be scared. You're home now. You're safe. Let me run you a bath. Get out of those wet clothes."
My father softened too, rubbing his hands together with a sigh. "Yeah. No matter what, you're still our daughter. You got hurt out there, but you're home now. I'll get the first aid kit. Those hands need attention."
Hearing their words, feeling this sudden, long-forgotten sense of family care—it was like a weak current of warmth flowing into my frozen heart.
I was like someone dying in the desert. Even if what I saw was a mirage, I'd throw myself at it, gulping down those phantom drops.
I needed a home so badly. Needed someone to tell me I wasn't disposable trash.
My mother ran the bath and even helped me out of my blood-soaked, mud-caked clothes. Soaking in the warm water, feeling it envelope my frozen body, tears finally flowed freely into the bathwater.
After, my father rebandaged my hands. His movements were clumsy, even painful, but I still felt it was the warmest touch in the world.
My mother brought me milk and forced it into my hands.
"Drink some milk, honey." She sat beside me, gently stroking my wet hair, her eyes full of love and concern. "Whatever that man did to you, you still have us. Things aren't great here, but we can feed you. Just rest. Don't think about anything."
"Mom..." I held the milk, sobbing.
I was like a small animal craving warmth, resting my head on her shoulder. Even though her nightgown reeked of harsh perfume, in that moment it was the safest smell in the world.
That night, I slept in my old childhood bedroom.
Nothing had changed. The single bed had fresh sheets that smelled like sunshine. Lying there, listening to the rain fade outside, feeling the warmth of the covers, my long-tensed nerves finally relaxed completely.
I fell into deep sleep.
Pain in my hands and fire in my throat woke me. The room was dark. My head spun. I sat up slowly, carefully pushed back the covers, and tiptoed out barefoot, not wanting to wake my parents. I needed water.
The house was silent except for raindrops dripping from the eaves.
I held the wall, my limbs weak, like walking on cotton.
But when I reached the hallway corner near the kitchen, I saw the door was cracked open, a sliver of light escaping.
Then I heard it—hushed voices, suppressed but unable to hide their giddy anticipation.
"...Yes, don't worry. She's here with us. Fast asleep."
My father's voice.
His tone was servile, fawning, even sickening in its eagerness. Nothing like the parental warmth he'd shown me earlier. He seemed to be on the phone with someone mysterious and powerful.
I froze like I'd been paralyzed. My hands and feet went ice-cold. I stopped breathing. I pressed against the wall and put my ear to the crack.
"...Right, right. Her hands are injured, and she seems emotionally unstable. We put something in her milk to help her sleep. She wouldn't wake up if a bomb went off." My mother's voice followed, dripping with greedy urgency. "What you promised on the phone still stands, right?"
The mysterious person on the other end said something I couldn't make out. But my father's next words—his voice jumping up, trembling with excitement—revealed the cruelest truth in the world.
"A million? You're serious? If we just hand her over to your people, you'll give us a million cash?"
My father's voice nearly cracked with excitement. He paced the kitchen, nodding and bowing even though the other person couldn't see him.
"That's wonderful! You're a lifesaver for my family!
That little shit Leon went back to the underground casino a few days ago.
Not only did he blow through everything we'd paid off before, he's down another five hundred grand!
Those loan sharks said if we don't pay by tomorrow, they'll cut off his hands and feet! "
"We had no options left. We were about ready to take our own lives.
Then Nadia delivered herself right to our door.
" My mother chimed in, her voice utterly shameless, even calculating.
"Ma'am, you said you want her sent to the underground auction...
We've heard about that place. Once you go in, you don't come out alive.
We're losing a daughter here. Could you add another two hundred thousand? "
"Right!" My father quickly agreed. "After all, we raised her from childhood. For a million, that's too little..."
Lightning seemed to split the roof and strike me directly in the skull.
My mind went blank. All I could hear was a sharp ringing that threatened to burst my eardrums.
Underground auction.
In Chicago's underworld, that place was ten thousand times more terrifying than any gang's interrogation room.
It was where rich degenerates and monsters went to buy "specialty goods.
" Women sent there were treated like livestock—tagged with prices, subjected to inhuman torture and abuse until they were used up and dead.
Who was on that phone? Who hated me enough to not only destroy me mentally but physically crush me into nothing?
But even worse—my "kind, loving" parents. Knowing exactly what that place was, they were happily, eagerly selling me to the devil for cash. To pay off gambling debts for my worthless brother.
My stomach churned violently. That bowl of milk with sleeping pills—that symbol of "mother's love"—had become the deadliest poison.
"So..."
I bit my lip hard. Tears spilled out, not from fear but from the absurd, heart-wrenching irony of it all.
"So... this is how you help me."